Lords of the Sky

by Angus Wells

  I said, “I’d see no more blood spilled, can we avoid it.”

  Bellek looked, I thought, disappointed. His pale eyes glistened in the afternoon sun, and there was an excitement expressed in his stance; like the restless flexing of the bulls. I wondered then, even when my blood knew it, how close Dragonmaster grew to dragon, and how much humanity was left after that bonding was complete.

  I said, “Do we send heralds in and ask that the Lord Protector and the regent attend us?”

  And Bellek laughed and called a bull forward who—before any of us had opportunity to disagree—rose on his hindlimbs and tore the door that barred our passage from its hinges.

  Wood lay in splinters before us as a Changed servant came out, the yellow rag of submission waving on a pole that trembled in his shaking hands. In the hallway behind him I saw a squad of crossbow men.

  Rwyan moved to speak, but I sprang before her: I’d not see my love slain now.

  I shouted, “We’d speak with the Lord Protector, Taerl; and with the regent, Jareth. There need not be more bloodshed.”

  The frightened Changed sprang back, and a moment later a commur appeared. His plaid was immaculate, his armor polished. He’d not seen battle yet, but still his sword was steady in his hand, and his voice was firm as the steel. At his back the archers held their crossbows leveled on my chest. I felt a great desire to be elsewhere.

  The commur demanded, “Who are you to ask this?”

  I could not see his face behind his helmet, only his eyes, but they were indignant. I studied him a moment and saw that his plaid was not Kherbryn’s but that of Mardbrecht: Jareth’s man.

  I heard Bellek say, “Let the dragons have him.”

  And Rwyan, “No! We come to parley, not to slay.”

  I said again, “We’d speak with the Lord Protector.”

  The commur eyed me past the bars of his helm. I saw his gaze move on to the awful beasts surrounding me, to those upon the walls and those in the sky above. It is difficult to read the body language of an armored man, but under his pauldrons I thought I saw his shoulders droop a fraction. I said, “We need fight no more. But do you choose it, then these dragons will tear Kherbryn apart. Do you doubt they can do that?”

  His eyes gave me answer first, and then his voice: “No. Do you wait here?”

  I said, “A while.”

  He ducked his head and turned away. The archers remained. I could see their faces clear. I could see the terror there. I applauded their courage, for none ran or lowered their weapons.

  We waited in that yard baked hot by the magic of the Attul-ki, and I had time to see what that had wrought. I saw dead plants and dried fountains, wilted vines and withered trees. There was an aura of despair, of sun-dried hope; flagstones were cracked, weeds climbing up, even they yellow and enervated. The dragons luxuriated in the heat. I shed my furs and still felt sweat mask my body.

  Then horns sounded and a herald appeared. His hair was lank, and droplets of perspiration trickled down his face. His tabard was stained, but his voice was loud: “The regent Jareth grants you audience. Do you follow me?”

  I said—it seemed I was for the moment appointed spokesman—“No. Do you bring the Lord Protector Taerl and the regent here.”

  I did not envy him. He swallowed hard and stared harder at the dragons, then ducked his head and said, “I shall convey your message.”

  I said, “Do that. And also, that if they fail to appear before”—I glanced up and found a bull perched atop the wreckage of a pergola—“before the sun touches that dragon’s head, I shall send him and all his kin to find them.”

  Power corrupts: I enjoyed the paling of the herald’s face. I heard Bellek chuckling as the luckless fellow went scuttling away. I was still aware of the crossbows aimed at my chest. I did my best not to stare at them.

  Then Taerl and Jareth appeared.

  The Lord Protector, for all he was not that much younger than I, seemed an innocent child. He wore a soldier’s armor, but not easily. He seemed, clumsy in the steel, and the sword belted on his waist seemed somehow an embarrassment, awkward and more likely to trip him than be drawn. He carried his helm under his arm, so I could see his face clear. It was a young bland face, unlined for all it was creased in worry. His hair was fair and long, as I’d heard Gahan’s was, and his eyes were large and blue, opening in naked wonder as he surveyed the dragons. I liked that: that he showed not terror, but wonder.

  Jareth was a different matter. He was tall and thin, wide-shouldered under armor more resplendent than the Lord Protector’s, all gleaming silver plate and gold-etched rococo. He wore such a helm as aeldors wear, but grander: crested with a rolling comb and decorations at the temples in resemblance of eagles’ wings. It had a visor shaped in facsimile of a lion’s snarling face, lifted up so that I could see his own arrogant visage. That held no wonder but only spiteful anger, as if he found our dragonish intrusion tiresome. His nose was thin, the nostrils flaring as he scented the air—which, I must admit, was noisome with the stench of spilled blood and dragons’ breath (and be I honest, the emptying of their bowels). But still I thought he had no right to assume that arrogance. I looked at his eyes and found them cold and dismissive. I liked him not at all.

  From Deburah I felt a surge of anger: she felt my distaste and sent it back, augmented by her own. I felt a great desire to draw my blade and cut this strutting charlatan down.

  Rwyan said (aware of that unspoken conversation betwixt dragons and Dragonmasters), “Easy, Daviot! No more bloodshed, eh?”

  I said silently, knowing it should be sent back to her, No; save he force us to it.

  I looked at his arrogant face and almost I hoped he should.

  He said, “I am Jareth, regent of Dharbek. What do you ask of me?”

  I said, “Nothing. I’d speak with the Lord Protector of Dharbek.”

  Jareth’s nostrils flared afresh at that, and I saw clear the outrage burning in his eyes. I held his gaze and prayed he’d not be so foolish as to order his archers open fire, not unleash the slaughter that should inevitably follow. Taerl seemed embarrassed. He shifted inside his armor and dragged his gaze from the dragons to me. I looked past him and saw that the archers were now augmented with sorcerers. There were nine of them.

  Inside my head Rwyan told me, They are Adepts, Daviot I doubt I can defeat them all

  I gave her back, All well, you’ll not need to. But ward yourself.

  And you, she asked. Shall you survive?

  I looked at the sorcerers and the archers and wondered if I should. But I had no choice anymore; no other way to go than forward. So I looked the Lord Protector in the eye and told him, “I’d speak with you, Lord Taerl; with you alone. About the future.”

  Jareth said, “I speak for the Lord Protector. Have you demands, put them to me.”

  I sent a message to Deburah then, and she came strutting forward across the yard, letting her wings loft idly and her jaws drop wide. She halted at my back, looking over my head. She spread her wings, and the regent sprang back.

  Power corrupts, but its usage can be most enjoyable. Certainly, I enjoyed the sight of Jareth sprawling, armored buttocks over head, across the flags as I took Taerl’s arm—I think that had I not, he would have stood marveling at the dragons until we quit Kherbryn—and took him a little way aside.

  I heard someone shout an order then, and Taerl turned and raised a placatory hand and called, “No harm! Hold your fire!”

  That was the moment I decided he might be a suitable successor to his father.

  I decided!

  And who was I to pick and choose from the nobility of Dharbek who should rule and who should not? But then again, why should I not? I thought Jareth was not fit, and I knew from all my wanderings that I was not alone in that notion. I knew that good decent folk—aeldors like Sarun, and more besides—shared that feeling. So why should I not express it?

  Especially when I had dragons to enforce my opinion.

  I told the Lo
rd Protector of our design; all of it. All we planned and all we’d do. Rwyan came to join me and then Urt and Tezdal. Bellek stayed back, more accustomed now to communion with the dragons than with Truemen. And as well he did, for Jareth must have sensed the drift of our talk and looked to protect his own interests.

  I cannot be sure.

  All I know for sure is that I heard Bellek shout and Deburah shrill a warning, and I looked back in time to see crossbow bolts glitter in the sun as they hurtled toward us.

  I had no thought for Taerl then: only for Rwyan—I threw myself at her bodily, driving her down onto the flagstones of the yard. She screamed, and as we fell I smelled the vomit that discolored her leathers. I had no thought but that bolts might hit her, and I could protect her with my body.

  I did not see Tezdal fling the Lord Protector down, nor Urt cover Taerl’s body with his own.

  I did see Deburah and Kathanria snarl and take Jareth between their jaws. And then Anryäle and Peliane contest the prey. I did see the archers loose useless bolts that only bounced off the hard hides of the dragons. I did see Jareth’s ravaged body torn in pieces, and the archers die under the talons and the fangs of the vengeful dragons. I did hear Bellek laugh.

  Then it was over. There was only a horrid smearing of blood and mangled flesh strewn across the palace yard, sad relics of ambitious men. None others looked to oppose us further, but only stood, awed.

  Urt and Tezdal helped the Lord Protector Taerl to his feet. He was shaken. His face was white as he surveyed the yard. He said, “What would you have me do?”

  I said, “Build a new world. It’s begun in Ur-Dharbek now, and soon we shall carry it to Ahn-feshang.”

  Taerl said, “Tell me.”

  And through all the slaughter, I found hope.

  Taerl offered no resistance to our suggestions; indeed, he offered some of his own, which told me two things about him. That he could adapt so swiftly to such dramatically changed circumstances told me he was his father’s son; that he accepted so readily told me he was not overly happy with his position. He seemed to welcome our suggestion (which, in light of the creatures stalking Kherbryn’s walls, was not really a suggestion at all) that from henceforth the Lord Protector should govern under advisement of a Council of Aeldors, together with the chosen representatives of the sorcerers and the Mnemonikos. He was somewhat taken aback by our suggestion (our demand!) that the Changed of Dharbek be no longer indentured servants but enjoy the rights and privileges of free Truemen. But as that long night paled toward dawn and we told him what we knew and all we’d learned—and what might be the outcome did he refuse—he agreed those bonds should be struck away. His advisers were less ready to accept, but the word of the Lord Protector and the unspoken threat of dragonish retribution brought them around, to lip service at the least. I knew there must be factions within Taerl’s court, those who’d argue our design in the cities and the holds, but such dissent was not an immediate concern. For now it was enough that Taerl heeded us and smoothed our way. I knew there should be difficulties later as surely as I knew my mouth was dry from talking and my belly began to rumble; but it was begun. There should be much work for we new Dragonmasters in the days to come, but the first steps were taken and our world shoved in a new direction. For now we could do no more—save that one last thing that should likely prove the hardest of all.

  That we discussed as food was brought, and we fell on it like the dragons on prey. There was no thought of etiquette: there was no time for such niceties.

  Taerl perhaps lacked the stern fiber of his sire and surely the ambition, but he had all Gahan’s wisdom. He it was broached that final matter. He said, “Do we instigate all we’ve agreed, then well and good—I think it shall likely make Dharbek a happier land. But what of the Sky Lords?”

  The sun was risen now, though it had no right to climb so high so early in the year. The chamber was already hot, even with opened windows, through which we heard the calling of the dragons. I feared they might grow hungry and set to hunting the streets.

  Bellek had the same thought, for he wiped a careless hand across his mouth and pushed back his chair. “We know what we shall do,” he said, rising, “and these are details you discuss. I’ll leave you to them and take the flock ahunting.”

  I nodded my grateful agreement, but it was to Urt the silver-haired Dragonmaster turned and asked, “May I ride Kathanria?”

  Urt (who was already somewhat uncomfortable in this assembly) was taken aback. “You ask my permission?” he said.

  Bellek nodded gravely and returned him, “She’s yours now, my friend. I can ride her only by your leave.”

  Urt frowned and said, “You have it.”

  I thought he’d sooner go with Bellek, but he made no move, and I watched the ancient Dragonmaster offer him a formal bow and walk away. I could not interpret Bellek’s expression, but I thought it strange.

  As he left, Rwyan called, “You’ll choose your hunting ground with care, eh, Bellek?”

  He laughed and told her, “Aye, lady. I’d not tear down what you’ve built. Not now.”

  His laughter seemed to hang in the hot room. But I’d no time to muse on that: Taerl had asked a most pertinent question.

  I glanced at Tezdal, who sat silent and somber, and said, “When we Dhar first came down into Kellambek, we slew the Ahn or made them slaves. That was wrong.”

  Taerl nodded. “Hindsight would suggest it so. But are we guilty of our fathers’ sins?”

  I said, “Do we not right them, yes.”

  Taerl nodded again and allowed me the point: “So what do you … suggest?”

  I said, “We drove the Ahn from their homeland, and it was that began the Comings. Save we make reparation, the Comings shall continue.”

  From amongst the dignitaries assembled along the table, a man said, “With such allies as your dragons, we can defeat the Sky Lords.” I noticed he wore Mardbrecht’s colors.

  I saw Tezdal stiffen, and Rwyan’s hand drop to his wrist, where his own gripped his swordhilt. Quickly, I said, “With our dragons we could ravage all Dharbek. But we’d sooner not. We’d sooner see peace—an end to the Comings; an end to war.”

  Taerl raised a hand before the man could speak again. “I’d put my seal on that,” he said. And then demonstrated a fine quickness of wit. “Should that not be a great monument to us all, my lords? That we be the architects of such a peace? Think on it! The Great Coming defeat—” He bit back the word, giving Tezdal an apologetic smile. “No longer a threat; neither any Comings. Daviot’s College should mark our names for that, I think, and tell such tales of us as must live on down the years.”

  I smiled. I could not, because the sun was bright, be certain, but I thought the Lord Protector winked at me then. He said, “So tell us how this peace shall be won.”

  I said, “We must give back the Sky Lords’ homeland.”

  I had expected outrage at that, and it came. Voices rose in dissent, screaming that we Dhar had bought that land with blood; that to return it to the Ahn should betray our forefathers. I feared Tezdal would take offense and draw his sword.

  Taerl impressed me again then. He took his wine cup and hammered it so hard against the table, the gold was bent. I saw a gem fall loose, unnoticed as the wine that stained the Lord Protector’s sleeve. When he had silence, he said, “We shall hear Daviot out. Do you stay silent, and only listen. Or would you contest the argument with his dragons?”

  He’d not the voice of an orator. Rather it was somewhat soft, but he affected so imperious a manner that he stilled them.

  I murmured thanks and said, “Blood has been spilled down longer ages than any here can count. Ahn blood was spilled first, when we Dhar took the land. Then our fathers gave their lives against the Sky Lords, against the Comings. The right and the wrong of it both lie in the past—the future is ours to decide. Shall we perpetuate ancient wrongs? Or look to set them right? I think there is only one way to achieve that aim; and save we do, the Comings s
hall not end, but go on and on and on.”

  The same dissenter muttered, “Save you take your dragons and destroy them. As any true Dhar would.”

  It was Rwyan who answered, putting in plain words what I began to know, and (I think, then) feared: “We are no longer true Dhar, neither Daviot nor I. Nor is Urt any longer only a Changed servant gone wild. Nor Tezdal now only a Sky Lord. We are Dragonmasters now, and not like you. We are become different—we see this world through the eyes of our dragons, and they do not look out through the eyes of Truemen or Changed or Sky Lords. They see it different, and so do we. And we shall make it different! And you shall not prevent us! You cannot!”

  She had not moved from her seat. Neither had she bathed nor changed her soiled clothing. She had run fingers carelessly through her hair, but no more than that. Her cheeks were dirty; blood dried brown on her shirt, and speckles clung to her cheeks. Her tan was paled by the weeks passed in the winter-bound Dragoncastle. Her blind eyes blazed fierce as emeralds held to fire, but the fire there came from within. I felt my love for her blaze even higher. I saw that Taerl watched her with awestruck eyes. That did not surprise me: she was magnificent, impressive. I was surprised by the expression on Tezdal’s face: it was one of pure devotion.

  Someone said, “Do you threaten us, lady?”

  And Rwyan smiled like some messenger sent by the Pale Friend and lowered her head once, a single gesture of confirmation that required no words to drive home its import.

  Someone else said. “This is too much.”

  I thought then we perhaps went too far. This was a delicate path we trod and better not sown with anger’s dissent but weeded clean from the start. So I asked, “Too much?” And pointed to the windows. “Is this heat too much? How are Kherbryn’s granaries? Or Durbrecht’s? Or those anywhere in Dharbek now? Are they filled? Are the cisterns and the reservoirs filled? Or do the streams run dry and the cattle die in the fields? Are the people hungry or fed well? Listen—I’m a fisherman’s son”—someone muttered, “I’m not surprised,” but I ignored so cheap a sally—“and some time ago I went home. The catches were poor then—how are they now? Does Dharbek prosper, or suffer famine? And drought?”