Kallia forced a smile to her lips. The smile came with effort. She remembered how he had violated her, preparing her for the dark wizard’s rape. “No, to demand your surrender. Throw down your arms and I will permit you safe passage to the Tothian Way and instruct none to raise sword against you until you stand on your own lands.”
“Yes, I believe that.” He let out a harsh laugh. He no longer looked as powerful and confident as he had a few hours earlier. She had tricked him and pinned him between a raging fire and men thirsting for his blood. “And tell me, oh wisest of queens, why I should trust you?”
“You don’t have to trust me. You can cook in the fire if you prefer. I’ll build another palace. But I have made a promise, and I keep my oaths.”
Mol Khah shook his head. “I have no need to surrender, whether you promise me safe passage or not. You are the one in the weak position, woman.”
“Yes? How so? I would be interested in hearing.”
“Consider,” Mol Khah said. “Even now, dragon wasps fly west to tell the master of your treachery. When he hears, he will burn Balsalom to the ground. No two stones will be left standing on top of each other. Your very name, Kallia, will be a curse word for five hundred years.”
“Perhaps,” Kallia said, fighting the chill his words gave her, “Although I doubt that the dark wizard will return to find us unprepared. But tell me, favored pasha of the evil one, how will this help you? You will be dead.”
“We can hold out for weeks. You even lack the forces to take Cragyn’s Hammer, if my ears tell true. And if you can’t take the Hammer, I know I can sit and wait for my master to come.” He grinned, and this time, he did not appear to be bluffing. “And all the while, I will poison your water.”
Kallia had not considered this. The Nye ran through the palace gardens, providing it fresh water before it supplied the fields beyond the walls. Poisoning it would severely punish the city.
She shrugged. “We have wells.”
“Ah, but how will you replace the hostages we hold?”
Mol Khah turned and made a gesture to someone behind him. A woman screamed in the palace courtyard, begging for mercy. Kallia stared in alarm at Mol Khah, who watched the scene impassively. A moment later, something flew through the darkness, catapulted over the palace walls. The woman, still alive and flailing her arms.
She sailed over the heads of the Balsalomian forces, landing hard on the paving stones. Men rushed over to help, some turning away ashen-faced when they saw the result. Kallia pushed her way through the crowd.
“Chloye,” she whispered. The girl who had lied about the palace fire for her sake. The impact had killed her instantly. Kallia turned back to Mol Khah, wondering what could turn a man into this monster, with no feelings of mercy whatsoever.
Mol Khah saw her reaction and drew obvious pleasure from it. “A fitting punishment for a slave who burned your palace to the ground. I thought you would be grateful. Or do you have a confession to make, woman?”
Kallia said, “You have sealed your own doom. Prepare your soul for the Harvester. Tonight we destroy you.”
* * *
After Darik and Whelan left Daria, they had made their way through the Tombs of the Kings into the city even as the battle raged for Balsalom. But by the time they reached the Grand Bazaar, men and women, slaves, and wealthy merchants all came into the streets, shouting in joy and praising the khalifa.
Relief washed Whelan’s face. “Let’s go to the palace. I have to find the khalifa.”
“You go,” Darik said. “I’ll meet you there.”
Whelan raised an eyebrow. “Be careful. Graiyan will still think you a slave.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Darik made his way to the Bakers’ Corner to look for Kaya. A fire burned from two of the bakeries. Thick flour dust hung suspended like mist outside Graiyan’s house. Sacks of flour lay in front of the open doors to the kitchens, covered with hoof prints and mud and spilling their contents onto the ground. He hadn’t meant to come this close, as he was still a runaway slave after all. But worry about Kaya overcame his fear, and he walked through the doors, mouth dry.
Darik didn’t find dead bodies strewn about the house, as he’d feared, but neither did he find anyone inside. Indeed, the entire Baker’s Corner was deserted, save for a pack of beggar children he chased away from looting one house. The fighting had driven everyone away, and he guessed they would return soon. But he couldn’t dare wait any longer.
He had found Whelan waiting for him outside the palace gates. Whelan led him to the guildmaster’s house where they met with the khalifa and her viziers. Darik was awed by Kallia’s presence. He’d seen her before, when his father was invited to celebrate the Harvest Festival at the palace. But then he had been too young to recognize the wisdom and beauty that made her the greatest ruler in all the khalifates.
Darik had spent enough time with Whelan to recognize the struggle raging through the man while the viziers and guild representatives spoke with the khalifa. Whelan was overjoyed that she was alive, and would have given his own life to protect her, but his duty to the Brotherhood and King Daniel was greater. Darik found it inconceivable that something could command a man’s loyalties more than the khalifa.
Darik had carefully avoided Fenerath, the guildmaster, afraid that his rage would undo him in front of Whelan and Khalifa. Instead, he had suffered the man’s presence, swearing to himself that he would regain his family honor. Then, he told himself, he would return to Balsalom and demand Fenerath’s apology.
After the conference ended at the guildmaster’s house, he and Whelan slept, then made their way through the Gates of the Dead at dawn, into the Tombs of the Kings, turning south away from the Veyrian encampment. A ring of people slumped on sharpened stakes about the city, crows and vultures feeding on the dead bodies. Darik avoided this carnage, afraid to find his sister among the dead.
“Remember this when your resolve fails,” Whelan said. “If the dark wizard wins, he will line the Tothian Way for a thousand miles with such victims.”
They made their way through the tombs, looking for Flockheart and Daria. “Can I ask you a question?” Whelan said. “What did you think of Mol Khah?”
The question surprised Darik. “My impressions? I don’t like him, of course.” He shook his head, stomach turning at the memory of the girl thrown through the air to die when she hit the street. “But that’s not what you mean, is it? Mol Khah had an arrogant self-confidence, given the situation. I thought it strange.”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. Why so confident? He might have been acting, but I don’t think so. No, he knows something, or thinks he does. But what?”
Darik shrugged. “No secret wizardry or weapon, or else he would have used it. He must expect something or someone to rescue him before Kallia overthrows the palace.”
“You might be right. But here—” he said, changing the subject. “Isn’t this where we left Daria and Flockheart?”
Darik looked around. They stood between two facing mausoleums. “I think so.”
“Darik! Whelan!” Daria called behind them. She stood at the entrance to one of the tombs, its front eroded. Darik caught movement in the darkness of the tomb. Griffins?
They embraced her in turn. “The griffins,” Whelan said. “We need them.”
“Oh,” Daria said. “My father saw some antelope and went to snare one for the griffins. He didn’t dare fly them.”
“How long ago?” Whelan asked.
“Two hours. He said it might be mid-morning before he returned.”
“Ah,” Whelan groaned. “Mid-morning? That’s too long. I’ll have to get along by myself. Stay here with Darik and tell your father where I’ve gone.”
“I can fly,” Daria protested. “I fought at Montcrag.”
Whelan’s voice was gentle, but firm. “I know you can. But without your father, I can’t risk your life.”
Daria was just as sure. “But the griffins are in my care. I won
’t let you fly Joffa unless I come.” Her lips tightened.
Whelan sighed, and Darik could see him wavering. “Very well. Darik, stay and tell Flockheart when he returns.”
“I’m coming too,” Darik said.
“Two men on one griffin? No,” Whelan said.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Darik said. “I’d ride the third griffin.”
“Oh, no,” Whelan said. “You can’t ride.”
“He can ride Brasson,” Daria said. “Brasson has survived more battles than any man. I’ve seen Darik ride. Averial trusted him well enough. Brasson will trust him, too.”
Whelan sighed again, looking from Darik to Daria. “Very well. Don’t get yourselves killed. If either of you or the griffins are wounded, fly away. Be careful. We are mostly a distraction.”
Whelan lifted his finger. “Ah, I know.” He pulled a carved wooden whistle from a string around his neck and gave it a short blast. It let out a high, shrieking sound, not unlike the cry of a wounded bird. The griffins cocked their heads and eyed him quizzically. Whelan handed the whistle to Darik.
“What’s this for?” Darik asked.
“I use it when I’ve lost Scree in the trees. It’s his signal to return to my fist. If you’re in trouble, blow it. The whistle will be easier to hear than a shout in the chaos of battle.”
He turned toward the tombs. Darik put the whistle around his neck. Daria gave him instructions.
“It’s different flying a griffin in battle. Brasson knows what to do better than you do. Once you close or decide to flee, give him his lead. He’ll know when to attack and when he’s overpowered. However, if there is something in the sky, and that is unlikely today, he may get anxious to make battle. If you see that you are overwhelmed, don’t engage, but fly. A full grown griffin, Brasson especially, can outrun anything but the swiftest bird.” She smiled. “Not many birds will attack a griffin.”
They climbed on the back of the griffins, leaving the saddlebags behind. It felt much different sitting alone and Darik had a moment of panic, remembering the lurch of the animal beneath him, but imagining himself alone and in battle, swinging his sword about like an oaf. He tied himself to the tether.
Whelan told Daria the plan, again warning her about unnecessary danger. And then they were off, soaring north, with the sun rising to their right. Balsalom stretched below them. Smoke churned from the palace on the far side of the city. Cloud castles gathered overhead.
Darik tried to steer, but Brasson ignored him, following Whelan and Daria. Brasson was even larger than Averial, with powerful muscles and an effortless wing stroke.
Mol Khah’s garrison entrenched itself amongst the tombs just west of the Gates of the Dead, with Cragyn’s hammer pointed at the city walls. Even from the sky the Hammer was impressive, a metal tube stained black from fire. Men scurried about the opening, packing sacks down its mouth. He could see the damage in the city walls where the bombard pounded. A few more shots would open a breach.
Kallia’s men gathered behind the Gates of the Dead, ready to surge out when they got the signal from the walls. There weren’t as many Balsalomians as Darik hoped. The Veyrians, however, looked at least three hundred in number, and had positioned themselves behind a wall of broken stones gathered from the tombs.
The griffins made two passes over the enemy camp to draw the enemy’s attention. A few Veyrians launched arrows into the air that fell well short.
Whelan raised his arm and brought it down on the third pass, giving the signal. They dove from the sky, griffins screaming. Darik held on in sheer terror, fighting the urge to squint his eyes shut. He reached one hand for his sword, then thought better of it and simply hung on.
Whelan and Daria scattered men in front of them, then swooped back in the air. But Brasson, under less guidance, dipped lower. Darik felt a lurch and heard a scream and then Brasson rose and followed the others. Darik looked down and saw Brasson with a man in its talons, one gripping the man by his neck, the other clenching a leg. Back paws scratched at the man’s armor.
With the extra weight, Brasson took longer to gain altitude. Arrows whizzed by, one of them sliding over Darik’s shoulder. The man struggled, making the griffin lurch to one side. At fifty feet, Brasson dropped the man, who fell screaming to the ground.
Whelan wheeled around and shouted. “Not so low!” He gave the order to attack again.
Darik nodded, but he noticed that the enemy scattered more quickly this time. He looked over his shoulder and saw the Gates of the Dead open and the khalifa’s army pour out. The enemy did not yet see this new threat.
The griffins rose back into the sky, and as they did, Darik saw a cloud of dust north of the city. Darik pointed to the north. Whelan frowned, then gestured for the others to follow him to investigate.
Their work below had done its job. Kallia’s men rushed from the gates, driving into the disorganized Veyrians. Balsalomians scrambled over the barriers, scattering the enemy. Darik turned back to the commotion north of the city.
An army marched along the Way. Darik thought at first they might be from one of the other cities revolting against Cragyn. But no, there was no way that they could have heard already and sent aid. But neither could Mol Khah have sent for help so quickly. The grand vizier’s spies had spotted an army several days away, making its way west. But nothing so close. Perhaps Cragyn’s march through the Western Khalifates had disrupted Saldibar’s spy network, or some of his spies had turned.
They flew in low, and Darik saw his fears confirmed. They wore the black and scarlet of Veyre in the front, while rows of camels lumbered further back in the army, ridden by men in gray robes with black and gold bands about their heads: Kratian nomads. No wonder Saldibar’s spies had failed: the Kratia lived on the southern deserts. They wouldn’t have reached the Tothian Way until earlier this morning.
Sinuous shapes rose from the army to meet the griffin riders. Dragon wasps. Fifteen or twenty of them. The dragon wasps rushed to attack.
Whelan and Daria spotted them at the same time, and turned to flee. The griffins could fly fast, but it took them longer to bank and turn than the wasps. By the time they turned around, the griffins had flown completely over the new army, and were surrounded by dragon wasps.
13
Three dragon wasps set upon Darik and Brasson, dragon kin on their backs. Brasson leaned to one side, but one of the dragon kin jabbed his spear as it flew past. A sharp pain bit Darik in the shoulder.
Brasson lurched to one side, and grabbed the wasp by the neck with its talons. The creature struggled to free itself while the kin pulled his spear around to jab into Brasson’s underbelly. Darik drew his sword, leaned over with one hand on the tether, and knocked the spear away. The man snarled and jabbed his spear at Darik instead. Darik ducked away. The spear jabbed his shoulder.
The pain in his shoulder throbbed when Darik twisted away. He released the tether and grabbed at the spear to wrench it from the other man.
The dragon kin had only a tenuous grip on its mount and Darik’s pull wrenched him from his saddle. The man struggled with the spear, while Darik tried to let it go, hanging half way over the saddle. Darik grabbed for the tether, both the spear and his new sword falling to the ground. He hung upside down beneath Brasson, only the tether holding him in place.
Also no longer holding on, the dragon kin grabbed at the wasp’s head. It snarled and snapped its jaws, still trying to free itself from Brasson’s talon’s. The man fell to the ground with a cry.
Darik didn’t see where he fell. He was fighting for his life, trying to get himself back on top of Brasson, but he flailed underneath. His face scraped against the griffin’s back claws. The tether held his waist, but it wrapped his chest and cut his air. He tried to pull himself up, but the tether spun around and pinched his hand.
Brasson fought his own battles. The griffin cast away the dragon wasp, the creature crippled by talon, claw, and beak, then turned hard to avoid two more wasps at his haunch
es. Brasson dropped twice to get Darik back on its back, but there were too many attackers.
At last Darik gripped the tether with both hands where it crossed over Brasson’s back and pulled himself up until he sat in the saddle. Brasson sped away, outdistancing the dragon wasps. Darik looked over his shoulder.
Whelan and Daria were in trouble. Whelan’s mount was younger and not as powerful as the others; three dragon wasps clung to its back and side. Whelan had killed or dismounted all three riders and slashed at one of the wasps, but his griffin dropped under the weight of its attackers. He fell into the city, and friendly troops ran to finish the wasps when he landed.
Daria, however, had been driven north of Balsalom and the Tothian Way, and was beset by a dozen dragon wasps. She tried to gain open space where Averial could spread her wings, but the wasps drove her this way and that. Instead of fleeing for the city, she tried to climb higher, into the clouds.
“Ska!” Darik shouted, digging his heels into Brasson’s flanks. Brasson saw Averial under attack and screamed in rage. Dragon wasps snaked their necks in surprise at this new threat, then raced to intercept him.
A wasp met them head on, but Brasson cast it out of the way with its beak. The dragon kin on its back threw his spear, but it flew wide.
“Darik!” Daria cried.
Blood stained her face and ugly gashes marred Averial’s flanks. She pointed in the sky and he could see why she was climbing. Floating overhead was a cluster of cloud castles, each standing atop a single, massive cloud. From this close, some of them looked strikingly like Montcrag perched on the edge of the cliff.
Racing to protect his mate, Brasson scattered wasps in front of him. Freed momentarily, the two griffins climbed; Daria swung her sword, striking one wasp across its leathery wing. Below, a dozen wasps gave chase. Their only hope was the cloud castle.
Giant windmills on the end of the cloud churned a strong wind, and when the griffins flew into this current, they fought to fly straight, while wasps tore at their flanks. At last, however, the winds grew too fierce for the smaller wasps and the griffins continued alone; the wasps circled below, waiting for them to come down again. The two humans ducked their heads and hung on tight.
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