Free The Assassin Princess (Lamb & Castle Book 2) by J.M. Sanford

each of them. They flew faster than Sharvesh , and the skyship would never evade the attackers by outmanoeuvring them, not without throwing her passengers overboard. Bryn cowered: his claws and fangs, so fearsome to a human opponent, were no match for enemies composed almost entirely of blades. Greyfell, seeking better reach than his sword would offer, had grabbed a docking pole and hit one of the attackers with all his strength. The creature blew apart, shrapnel littering the deck, scraps of dirty gauze and paper flying away in the wind. Bessie gathered her wits, summoned fire and took aim, dispatching the second of the creatures easily. The third, if it learned anything from the demise of the first two, remained hell-bent on attacking Sharvesh' s passengers, and Bessie soon scored her second hit.
    “Elizabeth, are you hurt?” Greyfell asked her, still scanning the skies for more assailants.
    Bessie shook her head: a few little cuts, but nothing serious. Greyfell himself had taken the worst of it when that first one had exploded so close to him, but luckily the padded coat he wore afforded him good protection, and he'd been quick enough to guard himself. Between them, their quick action had protected Bryn, too. Most of the blood had been shed by the strange bird creatures. Bloodstained gauze littered the deck, and scraps of parchment marked with sharp stark strokes of black ink. Bessie picked one of them up, but couldn't read what it said.
    Greyfell snatched it out of her hand, crumpling it up and tossing it overboard. “Don't waste your time with that.”
    “But –”
    “You've no business learning that sort of magic. Far too advanced for you anyway.”
    “Yes, Master Greyfell,” Bessie grumbled. She was good at written magic – better than anyone else in her class – but she didn’t want to accumulate more lines of punishment for whenever she next had access to her exercise book. Greyfell was old-fashioned enough to believe that proper ladies had no place writing magic, and should keep to the more feminine arts of potions and gesture magic.
    Bryn had fetched clean bandages and a jar of ointment, and was trying to tend to Greyfell's wounds. Greyfell brushed him off irritably, until the Argean reminded him of the danger of what he called 'blood plagues'. Who knew what diseases those filthy razorbird creatures might spread? Then and only then did Greyfell permit Bryn to dab the ointment onto the cuts and scratches he'd sustained during the attack.
    “What were those creatures?” Bessie asked, offering her own cheek for the cleansing ointment.
    “Thanks to your impressive marksmanship, we shall never know,” said Greyfell. “Still, those were no creations of nature. I’m certain they were mage-made, and I've no doubt they were sent by the dragon prince.” They weren't quite sure how the old Archmage summoned the cursed dragon prince, but they avoided using his name aloud, just to be on the safe side. “None of them escaped to report back to him, at least.”
    Bessie didn't think it mattered much: the very fact that they'd run into mage-made enemies suggested to her that they'd lost the element of surprise. Even though they’d destroyed the plague-ridden razorbirds, she had a horrible suspicion that the blond gentlemen from the docks had somehow survived their fall from the Flying City. After all, hadn't Greyfell said he'd killed them twice before?
    ~
    As Sharvesh reached the fog-shrouded coast, she drifted to a halt.
    “What now?” Greyfell demanded.
    Bryn stood at the helm, staring out into the distance, his whiskers twitching. He turned to his passengers. “I'm very sorry, sir, but Sharvesh scents hostile skies ahead. She's afraid to spring the next trap.” He hesitated. “I am only a humble skysailor, and no strategician, but the fog may offer enough cover for us to continue our journey in safety, low to the ground.” He immediately saw and understood the looks of doubt on his passengers' faces –