“A huge, friggin 'huge bomb. Boom.”

  Old Jenkins spread out his hands in a sudden movement, making several of the honor guards flinch. The Baron and his delegates looked ready to slap their foreheads, but protocol kept them stoic. Chuckles could be heard from over the wall of the town, though some voices from the palisade sounded more considerate.

  He pulled on the leash. “Oh, and me Maggie here is volunteering to be the bait.”

  Adarin bit his lip. “I do like plans that involve very large explosions.”

  Old Jenkins smiled in understanding before his face set into a mask of confusion and happiness. “Whaaa?”

  Several chuckles were choked off on the wall as the tension mounted in the following silence. Adarin nodded to himself. The locals think the town eccentric is gonna piss off the invaders.

  Francesco turned to him as Adarin contemplated the situation. “Are you seriously considering using a goat sitting on a bomb to hunt a dragon?”

  He turned to the young magus. “Well, why not? What do you think, Duchess?”

  Viola seemed to try very hard to suppress a groan. “I don't think it will work. A single goat might not be attractive enough. Wyverns hunt, yes, but they prefer carrion. My childhood alchemist taught me rotten meat is easier to digest.”

  The townsfolk were listening in rapt attention, and Liora turned to the Duchess. “You mentioned before that wyverns are attracted to carrion.” She touched Francesco’s forearm. “Francesco, we created those rot pits when we made the Hollow Ones. Do you think the smell might attract wyverns?”

  The Duchess and the town delegates looked confused, and horrified murmurs about necromancers and the undead rippled alongside the wall.

  Adarin considered. We’ll need a stench strong enough to draw them quickly. I don’t want to be stuck here for days.

  He reached out over the noospheric link to their resident alchemist, Gavin. He described the situation to the goblin, and the noises he got in response grew ever more excited.

  ‘Can you build a huge stink bomb?’

  ‘Of course I can. Who do you think I am? I love building stink bombs! We need the mages to levitate it. An airburst is going to be more efficient for distribution. Can we get the raw materials from the town?’

  The conversation had continued without Adarin, and he interrupted by clearing his throat. “Gavin thinks he can build a stink bomb large enough to attract the wyverns. He needs materials.” He relayed the list and the whispers of the townsfolk grew ever more hushed. “We’ll need five barrels of innards, seven of blood, three of vinegar, one of fish oil, and two of potash.”

  Thoughtful murmurs erupted all around him, and the Baron turned to the remaining member of the delegation, a slightly fat man who had observed the proceedings with a hawkish expression. “That could be arranged.” But he looked to the side and hesitated. The faces of the delegation began to turn fearful. The murmurers shared the mood.

  Francesco made a small gesture to Adarin and smiled winningly. “But wouldn’t such a ritual of dark magic taint the town? You mean to ask? Do not worry. It will merely be a large stink, like a garbage pit the size of a field. No dark magic involved.”

  The Baron sighed out loud. “Very well. If you can get rid of the wyverns plaguing our lands, we’ll bend the knee.”

  The Duchess lowered her head. “I thank you, Baron. You will not be disappointed by the services of the Order.”

  Adarin stepped forward. “Baron, how many men do you have under arms? I would suggest for the battle that you bring all the townsfolk that do not bear arms into deep cellars. Do you have those?”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The Baron nodded while the merchant went off to the townsfolk, who had begun an eager discussion. Apparently not everyone was happy about the idea of bending the knee. However, the merchant was busy corralling the guards to deliver the requested products and the fear of the wyverns overwhelmed concerns about new overlords. The militia’s archers were prepared, and a third of the musketeers were allowed into town to reinforce alongside some mages and pike skeletons for defense against aerial dives.

  Adarin walked back to the ships alongside three wagons delivering the barrels of already smelly substances. Devon and Gavin—dour and giddy—awaited him at the beach where they had landed.

  “So we are doing it?”

  Adarin affirmed with a private smile and a wide gesture. “We are doing it.”

  Both of them were standing around Old Jenkins, and the wizened old man bore a wide grin. Gavin was alternating between running in a circle and petting the goat.

  Poor Maggie. Adarin shook his head. Her sacrifice shall be remembered.

  The afternoon and the night passed in preparations. Downwind of the ships, Gavin had started his distillery. It produced essence of putrefaction resulting in five medium-sized barrels of rot. Each of the stink bombs was a large barrel filled with a pitchy black substance that stank of death incarnate, with a smaller gunpowder barrel at the bottom. Devon was putting the finishing touches with some levitation runes, inscribing symbols on the barrels.

  And then it was time. The cannons had loaded grapeshot. Archers and musketeers—nearly 600 men, mages, and women—manned the city wall. The rest of the musketeers were distributed alongside the pikemen across the ships, which had turned into bristling porcupines of skeletal pikes. Settlers and sailors all held pikes as well. If a wyvern was allowed to land on a vessel, the results would be devastating. And apparently no one wanted to be left out of the looming disaster.

  Francesco was standing within the Magnolia’s ritual circle, preparing an illusion spell to cover both the town and the ships with a light distraction and complete invisibility respectively. The Dray River gurgled against the vessels as they strained against their anchor chains. The morning sun was rising, painting the world in orange light.

  Four pits had been dug in a square, each loaded with half a ton of gunpowder. Sharp rock fragments had been layered over the barrels. The resulting airburst would be vicious, as the earth would create a primitive gun barrel like God’s own mortar.

  The poor goat Maggie was bound to a wooden stick in the middle of the square, bleating in ever-increasing uncertainty and agony. Poor animal has figured out that something’s up. Well, she probably won’t know what will hit her.

  Several dugouts had been created near the beach, holding most of the remaining mages, a few cannons, and anyone who could hold their own against the wyverns in a small-unit fight.

  Adarin couldn’t quite shake a grin from his face. Dragon hunting? With a suicide-goat? Well… not the strangest thing this month.

  He took a long breath. Then he gestured to Liora and Devon, who were standing on both sides of the ritual circle. The five barrels had each gotten their own ritual circle arranged around the goat, but within the bomb trap square.

  The first barrel began floating up, wobbling but steady. It made it up twenty meters. Forty. Sixty.

  Adarin gave the command. “Blow it.”

  All the men had been equipped with masks stained in alcohol and spices in the hopes that the bait wouldn’t incapacitate their own troops. A sharp sputtering crack created a mushroom cloud booming up to nearly 100 meters in height and 200 meters in diameter of black putrid fog. Within seconds, the wind picked it up and started blowing it away. The sharp sterile tang of alcohol and spices mixed with the gag-inducing stench of a corpse spewing rotten eggs.

  “Next barrel.”

  Barrel by barrel, the smell grew more intense. Men began making faces, and a few gagged. Adarin felt the tension in the hot and tight dugout. The smell of men at the eve of battle became a third note in their fascinating symphony of fragrances.

  We are stinking up an entire region. I guess that’s an item I didn’t know I wanted to cross off my bucket list.

  Tense minutes turned into a tense hour. A second hour. Murmurings about whether the plan was working began.

  Just before Adarin wanted to order a water-break, the excited voice of a young female mage reached out over the noospheric link to Adarin.

  “Sir Adarin, the diviners have caught something on the horizon. We think it’s a flock…” The young mage swallowed. “Sir. There are fourteen of them.”

  Adarin choked. Fourteen. His mind skipped to the recriminations of Commodore Ashfield. They had assumed the entire flock had attacked Ashfurth, and the townsfolk had only told them they had seen half a dozen together at most. But it made a terrible kind of sense. People wouldn’t want to look too close at a monster that was slaughtering without compunctions. And what reason would a group of apex predators have to build too large a flock?

  Adarin pinged the general channel. “Attention, everyone. The wyverns have been spotted. We’ve got fourteen incoming.”

  Gasps, chokes, and panicked murmurs filled the channel, and Adarin raised his voice. “There will be communication discipline here. Fourteen or one, we deal with what's incoming. We stick to the plan. We kill them all—for the glory of the Republic.”