I raised an eyebrow at him. “Go on then.”.
Gabby held up two fingers in front of his face and made that obscene licking gesture that signified, the universe over, eating a girl out. He waggled his eyebrows at me in a way that I interpreted to mean, “When in doubt, munch them out.”
“Very helpful,” I said. I swept the legs out from under our squad’s tracker and sharpshooter with such force that he turned a neat somersault in the air before crashing down on his front in the dust.
The blur of movement in the corner of my vision, a slight scuffing that came to my heightened ears, told me that Rupert Dyer was trying to do a sneaky on me. I ducked and whirled about as Rupert’s blunted knife hissed over my head. After relinquishing the element of surprise, Rupert came at me with his usual lack of technique, attacking in the same manner that a rabid junkyard dog might when confronted by a brightly dressed mailman.
His knife flicked from hand to hand, zipping in and out in thrust after thrust. The man had no rhythm to his fighting style, which made him extremely difficult to predict. He did, however, have a scientist’s knowledge for the body and knew exactly what tendon or artery to nick or slice at any given time.
The blunted practice knife swept in low toward my groin, before Rupert changed his mind in mid-strike and brought it up toward my chin. I clapped my hands on each side of his wrist, making him drop the blade. Before that knife had even hit the deck, Rupert had whisked another one from his sleeve and was driving it toward my exposed armpit. With dragon-enhanced speed, I twisted and jumped forward, pinning his arm under mine. With my other hand, I gripped our ingenious, tweaked-out medic by the front of his armor and lifted him easily off the ground so that his feet were dangling uselessly.
“What about you, Rupert?” I asked. “You got anything even mildly helpful before I dive headfirst down the aisle?”
Rupert kicked me in the stomach with a booted foot. He connected with my abdominals and let out a little whimper. Kicking a dragonmancer was like kicking a wall.
“Uh, well, I’ve heard that a way t-t-to keep them interested is, when they write to you or send you a messenger drake, to wait three days before you send a drake back,” he said.
I sighed.
“Excellent,” I said, and dropped Rupert at my feet. “Remind me to never come to any of you for advice on women ever. Unless I’m in the market for a divorce, maybe.”
* * *
The wedding ceremony was held in the largest hall of the Academy and was a magnificent and grand affair. It was clearly also a bit of a public relations exercise on behalf of the Martial Council, and not just a celebration of all things romantic.
Evidently, the Martial Council wanted to show the dragonmancers, particularly the new recruits, that they looked after and supported them in ways other than military. It was a slightly clumsy, but good-natured, attempt to show that we were all one big, happy family. A family that fought for one another. A family that came to celebrate life’s joyous moments, even as they put their lives on the line to protect the Empire.
The hall was a huge, sweeping space, filled with carved wooden pews. Enormous stained-glass windows encircled the top quarter of the building, from the roof to the balcony area that ran around the hall. The floor was polished white marble, veined with gold and silver. Above us, the ceiling was covered by an enormous and intricate mosaic crafted out of gemstones, depicting an armored dragonmancer flying across a mauve mountain range.
As far as decorations went, the hall was a confection for the eyes to feast on. Flowers festooned the surfaces, lush vines and colorful creepers ran up the pillars in the central aisle, and messenger drakes swept around and through the rafters overhead, occasionally letting off bursts of colorful flames.
The congregation was made up of dragonmancers mostly, with the Martial Council and the Overseer taking up pride of place at the very front. There were also, of course, a few coteries present. Those belonging to me, Elenari and Saya, as well as some of the squads of our closer friends. I couldn’t have cared less who was allowed to come to the wedding—the more the merrier was my policy. However, the Martial Council had decided, as politicians and bureaucrats do, that it would serve the Empire to make the occasion a select sort of affair. It was important, or so they said, to emphasize the importance of the dragonmancers and, indirectly, the importance of the mission to save their line. The way they achieved this was by by restricting the guest list to only a couple of dozen of of higher-ranking members of the regular army in attendance.
I was attired in my usual dragonmancer combat gear, as there was no other raiment deemed more honorable than the clothes worn by the most elite troops in the Mystocean Empire. In honor of the occasion though, my armor had been polished to a mirror sheen, my chainmail freshly oiled, my boots buffed until every last molecule of dirt had been removed, and my shirt and breeches were newly tailored from the finest cloth.
As I walked down the aisle, I caught sight of those people who I had come to view as my best and closest friends in this world.
There were the lads, of course; my coterie of dangerous and loyal misfits. Rupert, Gabby, and Bjorn all looked somewhat awkward in their finest clothes. As I walked past them, Gabby gave me a thumbs-up, Rupert doffed his ridiculous Robin Hood-style hat, and Bjorn
