by Mike Brooks
It huffed out another great breath and a new cloud of dragon-stink enveloped her, tinged with notes of rotting vegetation.
“Saddle up Bastion,” Blackcreek ordered his man. He looked over his shoulder at her. “And find armour for Chief Sattistutar.”
“Bastion will be restless, Lord,” Tavi replied, rising from his bow. “He has not been exercised recently.” Saana had seen him watching when she’d nearly punched Ganalel, and Zhanna had mentioned him in passing, although she hadn’t realised they were the same man. He had deep-set, serious eyes and the first streaks of grey in his dark hair, but only the faintest of lines on his brow and at the corners of his eyes. He was half a head shorter than Saana and Blackcreek, but his short-sleeved jerkin was tight across his chest and showed arms corded with muscle. That didn’t surprise Saana: everything in the stable seemed of a scale to match its occupants, and Tavi would need to be strong to move much of it around.
“Yes,” Blackcreek nodded in response to Tavi’s words, “but he is the least likely to balk at the scent of razorclaws.”
“Razorclaws? So early?” Tavi grimaced and spat on the floor. “Nari save us.” He raised his voice. “Faaz! Abbatane! Saddle Bastion for His Lordship!”
There was a scuffling further down the stable and two youths appeared, one male and one female, vaulting over the gate of another stall. They paused momentarily to sketch a hasty bow to Blackcreek, then scuttled off to a wooden frame nearly as tall as them atop which sat a construction of polished leather. A dragon saddle, Saana decided uneasily, eyeing the straps for the riders’ feet and the alarmingly small pommels she assumed were for holding onto.
“As for armour…” Tavi continued, rubbing his chin as he studied Saana. His eyes travelled up and down her, then he looked back to his lord. Something about it struck her as odd. “It will have to be yours, Lord. She’s too tall for your father’s, or your brother’s.”
“So be it,” Blackcreek said, heading towards another rack where the strange Naridan armour hung. “She can have this lord’s old suit.”
That was the difference, Saana realised. The stablemaster hadn’t looked at her like Naridan looking at a Raider. He’d simply looked at her as a person for whom he’d been told to find armour. So far as Tavi was concerned, Saana could have been anyone. It was refreshing, yet also slightly disappointing.
She followed them to the far end of the stable and hauled off her fur outer tunic. Blackcreek echoed her movements, but when he unbelted his thick robe and allowed it to fall away he was wearing nothing beneath it save his leggings. He reached for a tunic hanging over a wooden beam and Saana saw the muscles shifting beneath his skin: Daimon Blackcreek might not have the same bulk as Tavi, but there was little spare flesh on him.
“Lord, you dishonour yourself!” Tavi protested, and for a moment Saana thought the groom was shocked at Blackcreek’s disrobing in front of her. She was about to stifle a snicker—she had a daughter, it wasn’t like she hadn’t seen a man’s chest before—but then saw Tavi’s concern appeared to be for the robe itself, which he snatched up off the stable’s dirty floor.
“This lord has no time to stand on honour,” Blackcreek replied. “The robe can be washed, Tavi.” He reached up to pull the tunic on over his head, an action that set the muscles of his stomach rippling. “See to Sattistutar.”
The groom turned to Saana with a grunt, then eyed her once more. “Huh. S’man was mistaken. His Lordship’s old armour would be too small for you. It wouldn’t fasten properly across the chest.”
Saana looked down at herself, then over at Blackcreek. It wasn’t like she had Ada’s figure, but it was fair to say she was more heavily built than her Naridan counterpart.
“You’ll have to take Lord Darel’s hunting armour instead,” Tavi continued, pulling a coat of nails off the rack. It didn’t have the same brilliantly worked designs as the one Blackcreek’s law-brother had worn on the salt marsh, being green and brown with the nail heads themselves apparently blackened, presumably to be less noticeable. “It’ll be too short on your legs, but it’ll save you being opened across the belly.”
“These creatures sound fearsome,” Saana said, trying to sound composed.
“Fearsome? Hah!” Tavi spat into the straw again. “If s’man didn’t know that Lord Nari had driven the demons out of this land, he’d suspect the razorclaws of being them. Foul beasts, they are. Do your people have nightmares, Raider?” He saw the confusion on her face. “When you sleep? You wake up, scared of things you saw when you slept?”
“Oh.” Saana nodded. “Yes.” What a strange question. Didn’t everyone have those?
“Think of the most terrifying thing you saw in a dream,” Tavi advised her. “Be prepared for it, because that’s what a razorclaw is.” He gestured with his finger. “Arms out.”
“This man can put this on herself,” Saana told him, taking the coat and plunging one arm into a sleeve. It was heavy, but not as heavy as she’d feared.
“Suit yourself,” Tavi replied, crouching down. As Saana reached behind her and found the other sleeve she felt a pressure on her leg and looked down to see the groom buckling a greave around her shin.
“What are you—”
“His Lordship wants you armoured,” Tavi replied, reaching around her. His face was very close to her crotch, but he seemed intent on his task. “There’s no point giving you Lord Darel’s coat if you’re going to lose a leg.”
Saana pulled the coat closed and fiddled with the front. It overlapped, with hooks on one side that fastened into eyelets on the other to leave no part of her upper body uncovered. However, she realised the armoured panels intended to protect her thighs did indeed look too short, stopping a way above her knees.
“A word of advice,” Tavi said in a low voice, finishing with the second greave and straightening up to pick up a large gauntlet from the rack. “If you hurt Bastion in any way, or cause him to come to harm, you’ll be wishing you’d given yourself to the razorclaws instead of returning.”
Saana blinked in surprise as he slipped the gauntlet on her unresisting right hand. “This man would have expected you to warn her against harming your lord.”
“Lord Daimon is not s’man’s responsibility,” Tavi replied soberly, tugging the gauntlet into place. “His father’s war-dragon is.” He picked up the left-handed one. “Arm out, please.”
Saana obeyed, uncertain whether to laugh. She quickly decided against it, since Tavi seemed completely serious. He pulled the second gauntlet into place and she flexed her fingers experimentally. They were thick, and somewhat clumsy, but were much thinner on the palm and the insides of the fingers, presumably to make gripping a weapon easier. Certainly, the sars never seemed to have any trouble wielding their longblades when similarly protected.
“Put this on,” Blackcreek said, tossing a helmet at her without looking. She caught it awkwardly, and fumbled it around. It lacked the impressive dragon plumes of a sar’s war armour, but otherwise looked to be in good condition. “This lord’s brother’s will likely be too small for your head.”
Saana placed her head in it and let it settle over her. The armoured panels reached to her shoulders, and the weight of it was far greater than her own helm, but at least it felt reassuringly solid if she was to go into a forest containing creatures from bad dreams.
“This man cannot understand how you sars can fight wearing this,” she said to Blackcreek as Tavi stepped in to tighten the helmet’s strap. “And yet you still move so fast!”
“It is not so much about moving fast as moving well,” Blackcreek said. He’d armoured himself with quick, expert motions and now turned towards her, his own helmet in place and his gauntlets held in one hand. Whatever he’d been about to say died on his lips. and he simply looked at her for a few moments, his expression unreadable.
“Lord?” Tavi said quietly, as the silence got awkward.
“A strange sight indeed,” Blackcreek muttered, looking away from her. “Tavi, is Bastion sa
ddled?”
“Your servant will have their hides if he’s not,” Tavi replied. He strode towards the stall into which the two youths had disappeared, making clucking noises with his tongue that could have been to do with dragon handling, or might have been impatience or displeasure.
“We will need weapons,” Blackcreek said, pointing past Saana. “Spears are best.”
Saana turned and studied the selection of edged implements. “You do not favour your sword?”
“Against dragons?” Blackcreek stepped up beside her. “Not as first choice. This lord’s longblade is sharp, but he prefers something with more weight.” He reached past her and selected two broad-bladed spears. “Or something to keep them at a distance. If this lord can reach a razorclaw with his longblade, it can nearly reach him.”
Saana took two spears of her own, then, after a moment’s consideration, an axe as well. She gave it a couple of swings, testing the weight and balance. It wasn’t blackstone, but it felt comfortable in her hand, and the edge looked wicked. She nodded in satisfaction and tucked it into her belt.
“Do you know how to use that?” Blackcreek asked her.
“It will be the only thing this man is familiar with,” Saana told him dryly, biting back a more acerbic response. Something of her impulse must have leaked through, however, since Blackcreek pursed his lips slightly.
“This lord meant no disrespect. You had a sword on the day you arrived.”
“The sword was this man’s father’s,” Saana told him flatly. “She took it then only because she knew Flatlander lords favoured swords. She hoped it would make you more likely to think a woman could be a chief.”
Blackcreek didn’t say anything to that. They stood in silence for another moment, then he turned away. “Tavi?”
“Ready, lord.”
The gate of Bastion’s stall began to swing open with a clank of metal, pushed by the stable boy. Saana’s heart sped up as another thunderous snort sounded, and Tavi backed into view with a thick leather strap in his hand.
On the other end of the leather, and clearly not being led by anything other than his own will, was Bastion the war-dragon.
He seemed even bigger out of his stall, as though he’d expanded now no longer enclosed. Each of his titanic legs must surely have weighed as much as a large man, and Saana’s outstretched arms wouldn’t have reached around half of his dun-feathered body. The final thirds of his mighty horns were now sheathed in metal, and even his tail was armed with four bony spurs.
All in all, Bastion was the most terrifying sight she’d ever seen. And she was expected to ride him.
“Down!” Tavi raised his hand, palm out. Bastion gave another mighty snort, but to Saana’s amazement he slowly sank to his knees.
“Give this lord those spears,” Blackcreek instructed her, holding his hand out. Saana passed them to him and the sar approached the war-dragon confidently, then slotted the weapons into long, apparently hollow cylindrical lengths of pale wood attached to the side of the saddle. He then patted the dragon on the neck while speaking in a low, calming tone, put one foot into a stirrup, and vaulted easily up into the frontmost of the two seats.
It almost looked easy, until Bastion let out a tectonic rumble and lurched up to his feet.
“Whoah!” Tavi barked, holding out his hand again. “Down! Down!”
Bastion had other ideas. The huge war-dragon shook his massive head and began to shuffle in a circle to his right until he was facing Saana. His nostrils flared as he inhaled, and he took a step forward.
Saana’s mind whirled. Did she smell different from Naridans? Did the dragon know the scent of the people against whom he’d been ridden into war, time and again? Did he immediately consider her an enemy?
“Open the stable doors!” Blackcreek shouted at Tavi.
“Lord?”
“Just do it, man!” Blackcreek barked. Tavi had thrown him the leather strap connected to a bit in the dragon’s mouth, but the sar’s attempts to haul Bastion around by his head obviously weren’t working, and he’d now produced a short pole with a hook on the end. Tavi and his youths threw themselves at the huge wooden doors that were all that stood between Bastion and the outside world.
“You’ve got one shot at this, Saana!” Blackcreek yelled. The doors began to creak open, and he hooked his pole into the left side of Bastion’s mouth and pulled.
It looked like it should be incredibly painful, but the dragon just grunted. He did, however, swing his head to the left to lessen the pressure in his mouth, which not only got his horns pointing away from Saana but directed his eyes and nose towards the door. The dragon took another deep breath, sampling the fresh air now flooding in, and gave an excited rumble.
“Now!” Blackcreek shouted at her. Bastion was heading for the doors. For a couple of moments he was presenting his flank to her instead of his horned head or his spiked tail. If she waited at all he would be outside, and who knew if Blackcreek would be able to rein him in? It was now or never.
It’s just like jumping onto a ship sliding into the water, Saana told herself as she ran forwards, not quite able to believe what she was doing. Just a large, scaly ship that could kill me…
She leapt at the saddle.
“Fuck!”
Hitting Bastion with her ribs was like diving belly-first into the sea, and nearly knocked the breath clean out of her. She’d managed to grab the pommel and cantle, but her foot had missed the stirrup and she was hanging off the dragon’s flank, her legs kicking wildly as she tried to find it. Bastion was lurching forwards, and she didn’t dare put her foot down in case it dragged or caught on something and wrenched her clean off. She was sure she was going to lose her grip any moment and fall off to be trampled to death, but the main thought flashing incongruously through her head was a desperate hope that Zhanna wasn’t watching from somewhere…
Someone grabbed her leg, placed one hand on her arse and shoved her upwards. It wasn’t much of a boost, but it was just enough for her to lever herself up with her arms and swing one leg over the dragon’s broad back to settle into place behind Blackcreek. She looked over her shoulder and saw Tavi stumbling to a halt just past the stable doorway, having thrown himself off-balance helping her. She gave him a grateful wave, then faced forward again.
Bastion thundered under her, letting out a cry that throbbed through his massive body, and set off at a run.
“Are you on?” Blackcreek shouted back to her.
“Yes!” Saana replied through gritted teeth, trying to make sure she was telling the truth. She gripped the pommel with both hands to prevent herself being thrown off by the dragon’s lurching gait, but she’d quickly wear her arms out if that was all she had. She took a quick look at how Blackcreek had arranged his legs and tried to copy him: Bastion’s body was too wide to just let her legs hang down on either side of him, so she had to tuck them up into a half-kneeling position, resting her boots on pegs sticking out of the side of the saddle. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, and she still needed to hold on with her hands, but it was manageable.
What didn’t seem to be manageable, on the other hand, was Bastion’s headlong charge.
“Is this normal?” she shouted in Blackcreek’s ear as the gate and bridge between the castle’s second and first courtyards rapidly approached.
“No!” the Naridan called back to her, doing something ineffective with the reins. “It is as Tavi said, he is restless after his winter sleep!”
The gate loomed up. Bastion had far too much sense to run into a wall, at least, and the mighty dragon thundered over the bridge that spanned the internal moat. Saana caught a brief glimpse of water stretching away in both directions, and then they were through into the first courtyard.
“Lower the bridge!” Blackcreek bellowed. “Now!” Sagel scrambled into the guard tower, leaving the gate wide open behind him. Blackcreek hauled back on the reins and Bastion began to slow: Saana suspected the dragon remembered what came next, since he trotted into the g
uard tower and turned towards the main gate with little guidance from his rider. The portcullis was still clanking into the ceiling and the wooden drawbridge had just hit the stone beneath it as Bastion accelerated again, thundering out into the town.
It was the fastest Saana had ever moved. It was hard to tell exactly how fast a ship could go, out on the ocean with nothing solid to mark its passage against, but surely even a ship under full sail and a strong following wind couldn’t match this. It was certainly faster than she could run, and the tales she’d heard of warriors ridden down by mounted sars abruptly took on a new level of horror.
A strange sound came to her on the wind, over the thunder and spatter of Bastion’s footfalls on the flagstones and through the puddles. It wasn’t loud, and it took her a few moments to realise what it was. Blackcreek was laughing, the pure, joyous laugh of a young man who’d almost forgotten how much he enjoyed doing something.
It was infectious. And, as Bastion turned his mighty head towards the main gate of the town and the road that led out towards the mighty forest to the north, Saana realised that despite her discomfort and residual fear, she’d started laughing too.
RIKKUT
THE DARK FATHER heard their challenge, and sent one of his storms screaming out of the south to collect their souls.
It was a rolling wall of stone-dark thunderheads riding on the backs of great wind-spirits that snapped at the sails to taunt the crews, and gathered up the salt water to spit it at them. That was just the beginning: sweeping closer over the ocean, darkening the very air as it came, was a curtain of rain that would not just spit, it would drench them to the bone. From the safety of land, it was a storm to send the wise running for cover. Out amongst the waves, farther west than any of them had been before, it was a sight to chill the heart.
