The King of the Crags

by Stephen Deas

  He glanced up, suddenly uneasy. Several Red Rider dragons were circling overhead, keeping watch. They were looking for other dragons though, and were too high to see him, slumped where he was and covered in dust. Some Red Riders were moving through the remains of the tower below, but they weren’t looking up. Occasionally they’d stop and pick something up out of the rubble. More than once, he saw a sword flash as they put some crippled survivor out of their misery. Vioros shrank away from the edge when he saw that and huddled out of sight. Finally the riders on the landing fields finished their work and called the others away. Vioros didn’t know how many dragons they’d had when they arrived, but they were leaving with exactly five more. Which, at a rough guess, would increase their numbers by half and make them about twice as dangerous as they’d been a few hours ago. He pursed his lips and hoped for a moment that the eyrie-master had died in the attack. If he hadn’t, he’d wish he had when the speaker got hold of him.

  There will be cages for all of us.

  One by one, the dragons took to the air. They circled once, setting fire to the last of the wooden barns and outbuildings that surrounded the eyrie, and then flew leisurely away. Vioros dimly watched them go. All his euphoria at the simple fact of being alive had gone now. He felt miserable and sick and yet still he couldn’t stop himself from laughing. At least he didn’t need to make up some story about the speaker’s farscope anymore.

  If he’d still had it, and if he’d looked in exactly the right place, he might have seen another dragon fly off out of the ruins in careful pursuit. He would have seen that it was no bigger than his hand, that it was made of metal with glittering ruby eyes, and was, in all respects, immeasurably more interesting than the farscope.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he curled up amid the thickening smoke, whimpering in pain, and waited for someone to come.

  39

  JUSTICE

  Jehal watched Drotan’s Top burn. If I’ d been really careful and really clever, I suppose I might have been able to save it. But as it is, Zafir loses an eyrie and five dragons. And what she loses, I gain. He took off the silk around his eyes, raised his arm and shouted, “To the skies!” Wraithwing responded at once, surging forward, leaping into the air with an eagerness that matched Jehal’s own. They’d been waiting here in the Maze all through the night and they were restless. You feel it, don’t you? You know we’re going to fight.

  It was exactly four weeks to the day since Kithyr had come to him.

  Around him another fifty dragons followed his lead. The Red Riders were coming almost right to him. They were flying low, racing across Gliding Dragon Gorge, dropping low for the valleys and canyons of the Maze that would take them to the safety of the Worldspine and the Spur. Looking for cover before Zafir spots you. But you’re too late for that. He flipped through Prince Lai’s Principles in his mind one last time. Fifty-one dragons against seventeen, if he’d counted right. An ideal advantage. In a perfect world he’d have a reserve circling above, just inside the clouds, waiting to be called to chase down any runaways.

  He glanced up. He didn’t have a reserve and there wasn’t any cloud. Perfection would have to wait. Have you read Principles, Rider Semian? I hope you have because then you’ ll know you’re beaten before the fighting even begins. Prince Lai would have called this a skirmish, not a battle. People forget skirmishes. In the old days, before Vishmir and the War of Thorns, they wouldn’t have even called it that. A scrap. A trivial disagreement. Maybe a simple matter of honor. They certainly wouldn’t have called it anything more. And that’s how it’s going to end. In something too small to even have a name. A little annotation in the short history of Zafir’s rule of the realms. There’ ll be plenty of battles bigger than this soon enough, and I’ ll be there and you won’t. Will you be thinking about that as I destroy you?

  He put the silk across his eyes one more time, checking the distance that the Red Riders had covered. Timing was everything. Most of their dragons were hunters, most of his were war-dragons. Which gave him the advantages of endurance and speed over long distances. The Red Riders, on the other hand, would have the advantages of agility and sprint speed. If he gave himself away too soon, while they were still over the gorge, they might scatter and turn and make it back past Drotan’s Top into the mess of mist and cloud and valleys that was the Raksheh. If he delayed too long then some would break past him and into the maze of canyons and tributaries that led into the Purple Spur. He had to take them when they were over relatively open ground in the middle of the gorge. So he kept his own dragons low, down between the dead stone walls of the canyons, snaking in a long line at the bottom of their valley, following the rushing tumble of some nameless river racing for the Fury. A height advantage would have been been nice. But in the end it won’t make any difference.

  He took the silk off for the last time and raised his hand again. He could see the Red Riders with his own eyes now, hurtling toward him.

  It’s time.

  He swept his hand down. In perfect response, a third of the dragons behind him started to climb. Jehal stayed low. He’d had plenty of time to think about this. He knew exactly what he planned to do. They should see the numbers arrayed against them and scatter, but in case they don’t . . .

  The Red Riders finally saw him but they didn’t turn or scatter; if anything they drew closer to each other. The two formations of dragons crashed together; Jehal plunged into the middle of the battle and everything went mad. A dragon shot past Wraithwing’s nose, so close they almost collided. Wraithwing lunged forward, snapping at the other dragon’s tail. He missed. Jehal didn’t even know whether the dragon was one of Semian’s or his own. He looked around. There were dragons everywhere. From above the battle might seem to have some order to it; from within, it was chaos. The Red Riders showed no signs of breaking; in fact, if anything, they were coming back for more.

  Does he see some advantage in being so badly outnumbered? Or is he simply mad? Wraithwing twisted in the air and shot up between two hunting-dragons. He lashed at the nearest and then Jehal found himself in clear air. He turned back into the fight. Running wouldn’t do them any good now. I outnumber you here by two to one, even with a third of my force high above. You should have run when you could.

  In front of him a hunting-dragon ripped a rider out of his saddle and hurled him away, then almost collided with another dragon. The hunter swerved right across Wraithwing. Jehal caught a glimpse of a red cape before Wraithwing engulfed rider and dragon in fire. When the flames cleared, the cape was gone and the rider was slumped in his harness. The dragon flew aimlessly away. Jehal watched. One of the dragons overhead peeled away and dived after it. My dragon now.

  A scorpion hit Wraithwing in the neck. The dragon shuddered with anger and veered sideways, intent on retribution. Jehal couldn’t see where the bolt had come from. That’s the northern way, Semian. The cowards’ way we call it in the south. Did you know that? Even if we invented the idea, you’ ll not find any dragons with scorpions on their backs in Clifftop. Tooth and claw and tail and fire, Rider Semian. I had thought better of you.

  Another thought couldn’t quite keep itself quiet. Some of the riders he’d brought with him didn’t come from Furymouth; a few served Zafir, and Zafir’s dragons most certainly did carry scorpions. Is it possible that they have some extra orders, orders that I don’t know about?

  Wraithwing veered again as one of the more agile hunting-dragons dived toward him. The hunter twisted and snapped its jaws, then unleashed a blast of fire that missed Jehal. The two dragons almost collided as they passed. Wraithwing tore a piece out of the hunter’s wing, but as the hunter sped down, its long whiplike tail shot out. The very tip of it caught Jehal a glancing blow on the shoulder, knocking him forward, almost senseless. Then that dragon was gone and there was another, coming straight at him. Jehal caught a flash of red—one of Semian’s riders—yet even as he started to turn Wraithwing away, one of his own hunters passed overhead. A tail coiled around Semian�
�s man. Both dragons jerked. The straps and harnesses that held rider and dragon together tore apart and snapped as though they were made of cheap twine. With a flick, the hunting-dragon hurled the Red Rider screaming into the air.

  Jehal scanned the melee for the dark bulk of Semian’s war-dragon. We’re not winning. We’re not losing either, but we’re not winning. Not yet. He saw two of Semian’s hunters chase one of his war-dragons until they caught the rider between them and ripped him from his saddle. They turned back into the swarming chaos.

  War-dragons. Jehal grimaced. We’re riding war-dragons. Big, clumsy, war-dragons. Semian has mainly hunters. He tried to count the numbers of each, but it was impossible. Several dragons had gone to ground though. A dozen maybe, which meant a dozen riders ripped out of their saddles. Which is how hunters fight. I could lose this fight if I really tried. There have to be ways . . . For a moment, he pulled Wraithwing back up above the mass of spiraling dragons. He tried to think. Prince Lai would have written it down somewhere. Battles were supposed to be fought by riders on war-dragons. Hunters were for mopping up survivors, scouting, relaying messages and so forth. They weren’t supposed to be the core of a fighting force. Zafir’s riders wouldn’t know how to fight them and nor would his, but there had to be some tactic or strategy in Principles for a battle like this. What can war-dragons do that hunting-dragons can’t? A hunter can accelerate harder, turn more tightly. They have long necks and even longer tails and can snatch their prey with either. So why do we fight with war-dragons and not hunters? Why am I on Wraithwing and not some hunter?

  He had the Red Riders pinned at least. If they run, everything collapses to a series of chases. War-dragons against hunters, two or three against one each time. If they run, they lose. But how do I make them run?

  The Red Riders were all too preoccupied to come after him, and yet he felt as though he was on the brink of defeat, not victory. What do war-dragons do better? They’re stronger. More robust. Faster once they get going. But what can you do with that? How do you make that win a battle? Come on, Lai, where are you when I need you? Shit shit shit. This is what you get from a generation of peace among the realms. No one knows how to fight anymore.

  The answer, when it came to him, seemed to come from outside, as though the thought wasn’t his own. Of course that couldn’t be right—it had to be his—but he felt strangely detached from it. As though the old master of war was whispering in his ear. And with the thought came a vision, of dragons arrowing out of the sky, plunging straight down from the clouds into the midst of the melee. Of dragons colliding and knocking each other bodily out of the air, of forcing the enemy to the ground.

  The Carpenter. That’s what Prince Lai had called it. That’s what war-dragons were for. With one hand the carpenter holds the nail firmly in place. With the other he strikes blow after blow with his hammer, and the nail is driven into the wood. The enemy is the nail and the ground is the wood. He could see it in his head: dragons raining down in an endless torrent. And then he looked up and saw it for real. The dragons that he’d sent high to circle and pick up any of the Red Riders who fled were coming, wings tucked in, down like giant winged harpoons. Jehal closed his eyes as they rained past him. “The hunters,” he shouted, not that anyone would hear him. “Go for the hunters.”

  Dragons smashed into other dragons. Some hunters dodged away, others were knocked almost clear out of the sky, and then Jehal’s dragons were spreading out, chasing the ones they’d hit, the stunned, the injured, the broken. He saw two dragons crash to the ground, wings broken, three more riders torn or burned off their dazed mounts. All of them Semian’s. In a stroke he’d destroyed a third of his enemy. Half of the Red Riders were dead now. They’d barely been a nuisance in the end. He shook his head in disbelief, wondering how he could ever have doubted his victory.

  Still, I think I’ ll stay up here out of the way. I wouldn’t put it past Semian and his gang to launch some suicidal last charge if they realized I was here. And it would be such a shame to catch an errant scorpion bolt with the battle already won . . .

  Semian rode a dark gray war-dragon. Jehal knew that from watching the attack on Drotan’s Top. He scanned the melee below. The battle was breaking up. The Red Riders were spiraling apart and scattering, clearly hoping that one or two of them might get away. As Jehal watched, he saw what he was looking for—a dark gray war-dragon bolting for the Maze. He tipped Wraithwing toward the ground and dived. The wind around him picked up. The river was hurtling up, the fighting dragons, what was left of them, racing toward him. Even through his visor, his eyes began to water. He could barely see. When he tried to lift a hand, the air snatched it and almost tore his arm from his shoulder. They shot in among the other dragons and all he could see were flashing shapes. “The gray war-dragon!” he shouted at Wraithwing, not that the dragon could possibly hear him. “Go for that one. A dragon you don’t know.” He closed his eyes and prayed. Wraithwing shuddered and he felt himself almost wrenched out of his harness. They’d hit something, and the wind was so fierce that he couldn’t even seen what it was. A moment later he pitched helplessly forward as Wraithwing spread out his wings and almost stopped in the air. The force of it shook him as though he was a rag doll. His head smacked into the dragon’s shoulders while his stomach tried to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth. He felt the straps and buckles of his harness creak and groan. For a moment everything went red. There was a bad smell and he suddenly couldn’t breathe.

  Wraithwing leveled out, skimming the ground. Jehal still couldn’t breathe; it was only when he tore off his helmet that he realized that he’d been sick. Behind him, when he looked, the gray war-dragon was going to ground, its rider torn clean off its back. Wraithwing let out a triumphant shriek. Jehal couldn’t help himself. He started to laugh. “You ate him,” he spluttered. “You weren’t supposed to eat him! Zafir wanted him brought back, dead or alive.” He shook his head. His eyes were blind with tears, partly from the wind but mostly from the laughter that just wouldn’t stop. Truth was, he had no idea whether he’d just killed Rider Semian or some other rider, and right at that moment, he didn’t much care. Back above him, the melee had broken up. Some of his dragons were climbing again ready to make a second dive if needed, but the damage had been done. The Red Riders, what was left of them, had scattered, Jehal’s dragons in pursuit.

  He leaned forward. “Time for some orders. Let Zafir’s riders hunt down the runners. I want the dragons. We’re going to take them with us. They’re going to be mine.” Which Zafir’s riders wouldn’t like, but they’d just have to live with it. He could always pretend that he’d drop a few off at the Pinnacles on his way south. And then, when they were gone and on their way back to the Adamantine Palace, he would go south.

  To arm his dragons for war.

  40

  THE WORDS OF THE DEAD

  They walked through the damp and musty tunnels under the Glass Cathedral. A shiver ran up the Night Watchman’s spine. He’d been here before of course. Under many different circumstances.

  “Well,” asked Zafir, “what do you think?”

  “I do not think, Your Holiness.” I think I should be following behind you, not walking beside you. I think I shouldn’t be here at all.

  “Now would be a good time to start, Night Watchman.”

  “Adamantine Men obey, Your Holiness. That is what we do. Speaker after speaker has understood this. If we were to start thinking, Your Holiness, there is no telling where it might end.”

  “Fie on tradition! You did enough thinking to let Shezira murder Hyram, and then you gave her a crossbow so that she could have a go at Jehal.” She glanced at him with an amused half-smile that meant either that he was destined to hang in a cage next to the men and women he’d executed or else that she had no intention of doing anything at all. Even Vale, who spent more time than most watching faces, hadn’t learned to tell the difference. “What, did you think I didn’t know?”

  I am not going to grovel. I
am not going to justify myself. I did what I did. She only knows this through Jehal, and who knows for how much longer he will be back in favor? I will pray to our ancestors it is not for long.

  He took a deep breath. “I think it’s remarkable.” He bowed, trying to shake the sense of foreboding away. “Miraculous almost, that any of the rebel riders survived. I’d have thought they would have all plunged to their deaths or been crushed by their own dragons.”

  Zafir gave a coy smile. “There, you see. Was that so hard? Don’t pretend you’re a fool, Vale,”

  “I could not be what I am and be a fool, Your Holiness. I am, however, very much a servant.”

  She snorted. “So is Jeiros, or at least I think that’s supposed to be how it works. You wouldn’t know from the way he talks, would you?”

  That’s because his concerns are greater than yours. He, at least, has the good of the realms in his heart. Now there’s a man who would make a most excellent speaker, although he’d never wish for it.

  “I shall take your silence for agreement, Night Watchman, but only this once. You can go back to being terse and uncommunicative as soon as we’re outside again. Right here I want both your advice and your ears. You were wondering about the prisoners. Well, they’re not in the best of shape,” she admitted. The truth, which of course she didn’t want to tell him, was that they had all fallen to their dooms, and that she’d brought the bodies back to the palace for her pet blood-mage to play with. But he imagined that he wasn’t supposed to know about Kithyr.

  They passed a body lying on a table. A dead rider, still in his dragon-scale armor. Half of his head was missing and his chest and one arm had been shattered and crushed. Vale raised an eyebrow. “Well that one certainly isn’t.”

  “A few of them escaped, you know,” she said, idly playing with her hair. “Apparently Jehal’s dragon ate the ringleader. Although other indications are that he escaped.”