Page 560 - Fourth Wing

strapping my thighs in after I secure my pack behind the seat. It’s time.

“Find a good hiding place, Andarna. I can’t stand the thought of you being
hurt.”

“Go for the throat,” she says, walking into the abandoned outpost.

Sgaeyl launches to my right, and I hold the pommels tight when Tairn
springs skyward with great, heavy beats of his wings.

“There’s something in that trading post. We all feel it,” Tairn says as he

banks with Sgaeyl, plummeting from the ridgeline into a steep dive that
leaves my stomach behind. The saddle straps dig into my thighs, but they

do their job and keep me seated as I lower my riding goggles to shield my

eyes from the wind. We fly into the shade, the sun sinking behind the Cliffs
of Dralor and throwing the afternoon into shadow.

Another explosion hits, this time taking out a chunk of the post’s high
stone walls as Tairn pulls up, narrowly missing a gryphon rider and

bringing us level across the post, flying too fast to hear anything more than

the screams of townspeople as they run through the streets, fleeing for the
exodus at the post gates.

“Where did the wyvern go?” I ask Tairn.
“Retreated into the valley. Don’t worry—it will come back.”

Oh. Joy.

My gaze sweeps the rooftops of the little post until I see it—him—
whatever. There’s a figure standing at the top of a wooden clock tower,

wearing purple floor-length robes that billow in the wind while he hurls

blue flames like daggers at the civilians below.
He’s more terrifying than any illustrator could have depicted, rivers of red

veins fanning in every direction around soulless eyes consumed by magic.

His face is gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and thin lips, a gnarled hand
gripping a long red cane made of some misshapen wood.

“Tairn!”
“Yes, let’s.” Tairn banks away from Sgaeyl, pulling us in a hard turn and