The King of the Crags

by Stephen Deas

  “Sometimes,” she whispered, “when I’m alone in the dark, I see the red rider. I don’t mean Hyrkallan or Semian or whoever is out there in the Spur now. I mean the real one. The unjustly murdered knight, risen from the dead, with eyes that burn red with blood.”

  “You have a guilty conscience,” murmured Jehal.

  “He stands there, in the darkness, looking at me. He doesn’t move, he doesn’t speak. He just looks. I don’t see his dragon but I know it’s out there, white and dead like a drowned beast.”

  Jehal whispered in her ear. “The red rider is a myth, my lover. You have nothing to fear from a story.”

  She didn’t move, didn’t even twitch a muscle, yet he felt her withdraw from him. “I’m sure you’re right.” A moment later she rolled away from him and sat up. Jehal stayed where he was, admiring the light of the sunset spilling through the windows onto her breasts. He smiled. She could be magnificent when she wanted to be, but she could be magnificent quite by accident too. That, he thought, was probably her greatest charm.

  She must have felt his eyes on her. She turned sharply. Her eyes narrowed, and Jehal knew exactly what was coming. She had that look in her face again. She opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it and lay down beside him again, twirling his hair with her fingers.

  Jehal gently stroked her throat. “Lystra. I will see to it.” I will see to one of you. No balancing between you. Not anymore.

  She sighed again. “No need for that. I’m sure your Meteroa will have done what needs to be done. He’s had your letter for nearly a month and he seems very resourceful. I’m sure he’ll find a way. I’m really quite surprised not to have heard anything already. I thought he was quick. The sort who would jump to obey.”

  “What?” Jehal froze. “You sent it? But I hadn’t sealed it! Meteroa will never believe it.” No, but the words are mine. Meteroa will know my hand. Shit!

  “Yes, Jehal, I sent it weeks ago. Once I heard you were going to live. Best to get it done, I thought. Before I let you out and make you into a king.” She looked at him askance. “Are you offended, Jehal? You did write it, after all. And you did mean it, didn’t you? Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it.”

  Somehow he kept his voice under control. “As you say, my uncle is very resourceful. Although I would have preferred to have killed her myself.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “That’s better. I love you, Jehal. I always will.”

  “I know.” He had to force the words between his teeth. A black cloud filled his head, urging him to be reckless. “You make me a king tomorrow and I’ll rid you of the Red Riders. When I’m done with them, I’ll go south. Straight south. I’ll return with my dragons and we’ll put an end to this. And yes, Lystra too if Meteroa hasn’t found a way to be rid of her. Then you and I will rule the world.” And then one of us will most likely murder the other, because that’s the way we are. And you know what? I can’t wait.

  “Yes!” She sighed beneath him. “Yes. Together. Now show me you’re still a man.”

  He gave a bark of laughter. “No. Not while Lystra lives. That’ll be my sign to you. Until then . . . well . . . Your Night Watchman was kind enough to supply me with an olisbos. His idea of a joke, I think.” As he spoke, he slid it inside her and felt her tremor. “And a little strap so I could wear it, but I think we’ll pass on that.” He pushed it deeper and bit her throat. “I can’t say I appreciate his sense of humor, but it’s a very fine piece of craftsmanship and it would be a shame to waste it. Wood, I think, but smooth as glass. You can have the real thing, I promise, but only when I return with my dragons.”

  He took her, brutal and selfish this time, filled with dark thoughts and violence. It seemed she liked it.

  FOUR

  JUSTICE AND VENGEANCE

  38

  VIOROS

  Vioros was at the top of Hyram’s Tor on Drotan’s Top, squatting on the uneven stone roof. The view was spectacular. To the north the ground fell away, faster and faster until it plunged into the depths of the Gliding Dragon Gorge and River Fury, and then rose again, a dozen miles away, rolling and twisting up into the canyons of the Maze and the distant peaks of the Purple Spur. To the south and west, sharp hills and valleys tumbled together, shrouded in a cloak of dark and misty forest, the Raksheh. To the east, the same forest gave way to the vast heights of the Worldspine, looming over everything.

  Vioros was squinting through a metal tube with glass ends. The Taiytakei had brought a dozen of them to Speaker Zafir as a gift to mark her ascension to the Adamantine Palace all those months ago. They called them farscopes. Some idiot at the palace had decided that they must be magical. Probably the same idiot had then decided that meant they fell into the domain of the Order of the Scales and its alchemists. Which wouldn’t have been so bad if they hadn’t whispered in the speaker’s ear and left her thinking that farscopes would somehow transform the art of dragon-war, that Prince Lai’s Principles could now be torn up and thrown away.

  But he had, and so here Vioros was in the eyrie at Drotan’s Top, where he’d been for the last month, wasting his time with the stupid thing when he should have been at the palace eyrie, supervising the administration of potions and generally being in charge of the place. Drotan’s Top had never been meant to support more than a dozen dragons, even then only for a few days, maybe a week. Now it had twice that number, all out hunting for the Red Riders. The dragons had been here for as long as he had and the eyrie was creaking at the seams. There wasn’t enough of anything to go around. They’d had next to nothing to do too, which meant everyone was doubly irritable. The Red Riders had been making a nuisance of themselves on the other side of the Spur of late.

  He turned his attention back to the farscope, peering through the eyepiece. He’d never seen anything like it but he didn’t find it particularly interesting. True, it did make faraway things appear closer, but the picture was blurred and contorted. If the device was magical at all, which Vioros doubted, then the magic was hopelessly poor. He hadn’t the first idea how one of these would help with flushing the idiot renegades out of the mountains. Or with putting them to death, preferably very slowly and publicly.

  The work of a blundering apprentice. Vioros sniggered to himself. We all have one of those, eh?

  He tried looking at the mountains of the Purple Spur off to the north. There was a wheel on the side of the metal tube. You were supposed to turn it, he knew, if the picture in the tube was blurry. He tried, and the mountains dissolved into featureless gray blobs. He turned it back and forth. The best he could do was to make the mountains look like mountains, but they were still so warped that looking at them gave him a headache.

  With a sigh, he gave up. The farscope was supposed to help them look out for the Red Riders. Well, let one of the soldiers stand up here all day with it giving himself a migraine. The Red Riders were hardly likely to attack Drotan’s Top again, especially now so many dragons were based there. No no, his biggest worry was how to tell Speaker Zafir that her Taiytakei presents were useless junk. Now that was going to require a great deal of thought and care. Telling the speaker anything she didn’t like to hear was becoming distinctly hazardous. He snorted and stretched and looked up at the sky. It would probably be best, he decided, if they suffered some catastrophic misfortune. Something for which someone else could be blamed.

  He shouldn’t even be here. Where he ought to be was with Jeiros and the other master alchemists, trying to work out where the rogue dragon had gone.

  No. He corrected himself. There were four rogue dragons now if the whispers from Valmeyan’s eyries were to be believed. Four, and they’d flown out to sea. There was nothing out past the southern tip of the Worldspine except sea, sea and more sea. The dragons were welcome to it but they’d grow hungry. Sooner or later they’d be back. The realms had to be ready.

  Or maybe it was all lies. Valmeyan was being far too coy. Getting news out of his eyries was even harder than usual, and that was hard enough
. The King of the Crags was up to something.

  Vioros blinked, squinted and shaded his eyes. There were specks in the sky, close to the sun.

  Dragons?

  Of course they were dragons. He shook his head at himself. What else could they be?

  Well, that’s odd then, isn’t it?

  Well, not really, because this was an eyrie and dragons came and went all the time. He shook his head, trying to make the other voice go away so that he could go back to thinking about how he might let Zafir down gently about the farscopes. That was his priority for now.

  Well, yes really, because nearly all Zafir’s dragons are out hunting for the Red Riders and you’re not expecting any of them back at this time of day.

  He groaned. More riders from the palace to overload their meager supplies? Reluctantly, he put the farscope down. More, and they didn’t even bother to tell me they’re coming. There were a good few of them too. Half a dozen at least. The farscope would definitely have to wait. Does Zafir know how short our supplies are? Does she care? Have they brought any potion with them? Of course they haven’t! How am I supposed to—

  The dragons were coming out of the sun, formed up in line ahead, nose to tail, almost as if they were trying to hide their numbers. Almost as if they were trying to—

  Oh.

  Vioros ran to the edge of the roof and screamed his lungs out. “Riders! Riders coming! Out of the sun!” Shouting it over and over again, until someone heard him. What was it you were thinking to yourself about blundering apprentices?

  That wasn’t helpful. Down below they seemed to have got the message. Scales and riders were running about, trying to ready the nearest dragons. As he watched them, a sickening realization blossomed in the pit of his stomach. They weren’t going to be quick enough. The incoming riders would be on top of them in less than a minute. The dragons below weren’t nearly ready to fly. Most weren’t even harnessed.

  See. Even if you’d started shouting five seconds sooner, it wouldn’t have helped, would it? So stop berating yourself. Besides, he had other things to worry about. Like having less than a minute to get from the exposed top of the tower to one of the deep underground tunnels where he’d be reasonably safe. Which was impossible, unless he jumped off the top and somehow sprouted wings.

  I’m going to die. He dived down the trapdoor and practically fell down the ladder to the uppermost story of the tower, twisting an ankle as he landed. The pain barely registered as he made for the stairs. He had to get at least to the bottom of the tower before the dragons arrived. It occurred to him that he was going to feel immensely stupid if these new riders did turn out to be reinforcements from the palace. Better than being dead if they weren’t though.

  He half ran, half hobbled down the spiral stairs as fast as he dared. To his surprise, there were still people in the tower, looking at him as though he was mad. For some reason he’d assumed he’d be the last one out, that everyone would have heard his shouts, dropped everything and run as fast as they could, but clearly not. He shouted at them to get out of the way, that dragons were coming, but that only made matters worse. They got in his way instead of stepping aside, shouting things back. They didn’t understand, or if they did, they either froze in stupid panic or simply didn’t know what to do. He could almost feel the dragons outside, bearing down on them.

  Vioros barged a woman out of his way. I’m the speaker’s senior alchemist. Queen Zafir gave me my orders in person. I’m supposed to be the most important person here, even above the eyrie-master. Not that any of the riders would acknowledge that, but still I could show some dignity. His limbs begged to differ. Two servants ran out of a door onto the stairs front of him. They looked at him, wide-eyed, before he crashed through them, knocking one to the ground. “Run!” he shouted as they hurled curses after him. “Run or burn, you witless fools!” There. How about that for some leadership. Now get out of my way!

  All the way down he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Even if there hadn’t been other people on the stairs, he’d never have reached the bottom in time without breaking his neck. He was two-thirds of the way when the tower gave an almighty shudder. The stairs shook, sending him sprawling, tumbling on downward in a tangle of bruises and snapping bones. The walls spun crazily around him. Part of the staircase above his head collapsed and slid down after him. His wrist hit something and exploded in pain. Something else struck his head, knocking him almost senseless. He felt himself sliding on, bumping, every impact making his wrist shriek even more, then his shoulder slammed into a solid wall and he crunched to a halt.

  The world was filled with a rushing, roaring noise. His head was agony. For a second he didn’t move, didn’t dare even twitch. Then a tide of rubble and broken staircase tumbled onto him, crushing the breath out of his lungs, and he couldn’t have moved even if he wanted to. His face was pressed into a slab of stone. He couldn’t see. He was trapped—everything except for one hand sticking out through the rubble. The hand with the wrist that still worked.

  He had another moment to think about his situation, to start to guess how broken he was, and then a silent thunderclap shook what was left of the tower. His ears popped and everything sounded suddenly muffled; then, a moment later, a searing wind filled with blistering heat howled around him. It singed the hair and scorched the skin on the back of his good hand. After that everything fell quiet.

  For a while Vioros lay very still, wondering what would happen next. There were still sounds, bad sounds of roaring and shouting and fire, but they seemed very far away. As far as he could tell, he wasn’t bleeding too much. He could still breathe. His legs, unlike the rest of him, still seemed to be in perfect working order. He felt a strange urge to giggle.

  I’m alive! They burned the tower and I’m still alive! And I was right, and they weren’t reinforcements from Speaker Zafir, and I don’t have to feel stupid for shouting and screaming at everyone.

  He checked himself. He was half trapped in a heap of rubble and surrounded by hostile dragons and riders; feeling smug about being right was something to be saved for later. Instead he tried to move. He didn’t have any expectation that it would work, since it felt like he had the weight of a small mountain resting on him. He tried because he thought he ought to, and then, when he found that he could, he kept on trying more out of duty than out of any desire to get free. Apart from his legs everything hurt unless he lay perfectly still, and anyway what was the point of hauling himself out only to be killed by the Red Riders?

  Best to stay exactly where I am and wait for them to go away. Except that didn’t work either. What if they didn’t go away? He ought to at least try to see what was going on. He didn’t have to do anything, after all. He was an alchemist of the Order, not a soldier. The Order was neutral, always neutral. The Order kept the dragons in check, nothing else. Never anything else. Even the Red Riders knew that. Didn’t they spare alchemists and Scales?

  Most of the stones, it turned out, had landed around him and on each other, rather than on top of him. They’d trapped him in a little rocky nest. By bracing with his head and kicking with his legs, he managed to push the rest of the rubble out of the way. A minute of excruciating wriggling and squirming later and he’d pushed himself backward up the stairs, or what was left of them, and out of the pile. He was free.

  He stood up and felt an immense sense of victory. His left wrist was twisted at a horrible angle and badly swollen. His left ankle hurt but worked. He was bruised from his knees upward, and his left shoulder twinged horribly whenever he moved it. So did several ribs. In fact, his whole left side was a bit of a mess. His head throbbed.

  But he was alive. And he could stand. At a pinch he could even run.

  There wasn’t much point trying to go any further down the stairs. They were blocked with rubble and the remains of the people who’d been ahead of him. He limped laboriously up instead. The air around him smelled unusually fresh; even though the stairs were in the middle of the tower, bright daylight poured
down the steps. It took Vioros what felt like an hour to climb each step, but in the end he was back at the top of the tower.

  Or what was left of it. The bottom half was still standing. The rest was lying, mangled and broken, on the ground below. In his head Vioros could see exactly how it must have happened. A war-dragon had lashed the tower with its tail. Maybe more than one, knocking chunks out of it, until the tower had given up and toppled over. And then another dragon, most likely a long-necked hunter, had poured fire into the broken stump.

  On the ground below, he could see people lying still, scattered among the rubble, limbs twisted, black and burned. The urge to burst out into hysterical laughter ambushed him again. He peered out at the rest of the eyrie. The forest was still there, sweeping away from the slopes of the hill. The mountains, the chasm of the gorge, they were all exactly as they were, basking in the sunlight. But everything else . . . Everything around the tower that hadn’t been burned the last time was burning now. The landing fields were too far away to make out any details but the gist was clear enough. Any fighting that had happened was already over. There were several dragons down on the ground who hadn’t been there before.

  They’re doing it again. They’re stealing our dragons! The realization hit him as surely as one of the stone slabs from the staircase. No. They’re stealing the speaker’s dragons. The gates to the Adamantine Palace still had the remains of one of the speaker’s cousins dangling nearby, stinking in his cage. He’d lost some dragons too, hadn’t he? There. Now you’re a part of a moment of history. Someone will write about this one day, and when they do, they’ ll say that Vioros the alchemist was there and saw it all. The Theft of the Speaker’s Dragons. The Slaughter of Drotan’s Top . . . Perhaps I can console myself with that when I’m swinging in one of the speaker’s cages and the crows are pecking out my eyes.