“Screch? Skrar!”
The sound of the waking dragons rose to meet me in the early morning air. They sounded normal, and I realized that perhaps I was on edge, worried after my night away. Perhaps they’ve found something to celebrate, I thought, as we crested the rise, and held a hand over my eyes to stare into the distant spaces around the mountain. But what if it was Zaxx? Has he been sighted? I suddenly thought in terror, my stomach clenching in fear and worry. Maybe it was too late to enact my plan; to encourage us to disband the monastery entire, and to allow the dragons to be finally, truthfully, free. Maybe Zaxx has come to attack us before we could flee! I thought.
But it wasn’t Zaxx, though there was a large shape on the horizon.
It was a dark smudge on the road, still many leagues away in the grey and green of the early morning, but I could tell it would be an impressive size when it finally made its way here. There was already a haze of smoke and dust hanging around it, making it hard for my eyes to pierce the gloom.
They must have marched all night, I thought, realizing that I was looking at a sizeable army, approaching out of the north east, and I knew no matter how much I wanted to be Neill Shaar-Torvald, this morning, today, I had to be Neill Malos-Torvald.
“Who is it?” I called out to the wall scouts as I galloped back into the monastery gates, Stamper whinnying in excitement at the early morning exuberance.
“Neill? Thank the stars that you’re back!” Sigrid, who was even now waving her long and slender arms at me from the front wall to get my attention, shouted.
I wasn’t particularly gone that long, I thought. Only one night, and last year I traveled with Paxala for weeks at a time to the Northern realm! But I guessed that the differences between the Neill of last year and the Neill that they were trying to turn me into were only too clear. Gone were the times that I could just leave the monastery and trust it would go on fine without me, that decisions could be made in my stead. The thought of that awesome responsibility brought me back to Uncle Lett’s advice. Did I even want to stay here? But this was not the time for such questions.
“What’s going on?” I said, dismounting and handing Stamper over to one of the stable monks, who immediately and warily fed him some dried apple. I was halfway up the stone stairs towards Sigrid as she beckoned me into the guard house that overlooked the main gates and down the road to the lands below. In this simple stone room, we also stored the spears, short and long bows, old suits of leather armor, flags and pennants, and the ocular devices that the scouts had told me were the wonders of the modern world.
“Here.” Sigrid selected one of the ocular devices – long tubes of wood, with glass at either end – and affixed to one of the floor mounted stands. She checked it to make sure it was in position, and then took a step back so I could look through.
The road, hills, ditches and hedges were suddenly clear, though my vision was not so sharp as to make out individual birds, or the types of trees that stood here and there, but clear enough to tell the difference between tree and road, between stone wall and field.
And then I saw it, the dark shape I’d seen from the ridge, now visible as a morass of people marching, carrying long pikes and banners. By carefully moving the stand, I could look up and down the long, tramping column of men and women. There could easily be thousands there, followed by caravans and wagons, carts and even ornate carriages moving near the center and the back of the marching horde. There were mounted knights and horses, as well as line after line of marching people, with smaller runners moving up and down the line with many skins of wine or water. This was a well-organized campaign on the move, and it was coming here.
“It’s not the Sons of Torvald,” I said as an aside to Sigrid – although I didn’t know whether she saw that as a good thing or not. At least my brothers I might have been able to reason with, but these were not them. No, these soldiers wore dark burgundy that indicated that they were of Middle Kingdom allegiance and they were well equipped.
And then, when the middle of the column finally came into focus, I saw what it was that I had been looking for, what some deep part of me had known all along from the moment I spotted the army from the ridge, from the moment I’d heard the dragon horn and my mind had begun shouting, You’re too late! You can’t leave now! You’ll be trapped here!
Fluttering over the very center of the column, over an ornate wooden carriage pulled by a team of magnificent stallions was a singular pennant, black and purple, edged in gold.
“It’s him. Prince Vincent,” I said, my mouth drying up.
The Dark Prince Vincent had come to the center of his kingdom, either to demand that I turn over the Dragon Monastery to him, or to raze it to the ground.
“Neill?” said a voice.
I turned from the eye device and felt a wash of conflicting emotions—shame, happiness, excitement and worry—as I looked upon Char’s worried face. Your girl, Uncle Lett had called her, and it had seemed right. But there was no time for that now, no time to tell her my plan, to tell her I wanted us to leave this place. No time to apologize for having left her to deal with the council meeting and everything else last night. Would Char ever agree to come with me? Or was she too tied now to these stone halls?
Not when she sees that all this monastery brings is violence and bloodshed! I thought, as Char went on in a careful voice.
“I’m glad you’re back. Who’s it out there?”
“Prince Vincent,” I said quickly. “I thought he was fighting your father to the north, Prince Lander.”
“So did I…” Char’s brows beetled and she pursed her lips. I knew when she was worried; she became frustrated and angry – and now she looked incandescent. “Oh stars, I hope this doesn’t mean that he’s won!” I could see the fear in her eyes, no matter how much distance there now was between Char and her father, the mountain princess was still close to her brother, the bear of a young man called Wurgan, and general of their father’s forces.
“Both Wurgan and Prince Lander are tough men. I’m certain they yet live,” I said, hoping that what I said was true.
“We parlay,” Char said immediately, not pausing as she searched for an answer to the situation. “Either Prince Vincent has won the border war and now he wants this place, or he’s come asking for help in defeating my father….”
“None of those things are going to happen,” I said. I had no intention of staying around long enough to start getting mixed up in other men’s wars.
“No, of course not. What does Prince Vincent think, that we’re just going to roll over and give him access to the dragons?” Char shook her head. “So, we parlay instead. Negotiate with him.”
“Negotiate?” I spluttered. “The guy is a madman. A psychopathic madman!” I felt a thread of panic running through me. The last time that I had any dealings with Prince Vincent, he had encouraged the Abbot to leave me to freeze half to death on the top of Mount Hammal. If it hadn’t been for Jodreth and Uncle Lett, I might never have made it down alive at all. Jodreth was gone now, but so was the Abbot, and I had Char, the dragons, and my uncle at my side.
A growl escaped my clenched teeth as I remembered the prince’s snide and self-important look of disdain. I wasn’t going to bend a knee to him, I thought.
“Get Paxala, Morax, and Socolia on the front walls,” I said, decisive.
If I were thinking like my father, I would pull everyone back. I would make it seem that we were an easy pushover, and then surprise him with dragons.
But I am not my father, am I? I am Neill Shaar-Torvald. And one of a Gypsies’ great gifts has always been showmanship. Showmanship and cunning. “If we can show them early on that we have dragons that are willing to fight with us”—even if it were only three dragons— “then the prince might be a lot warier about attacking us.” After all, it had only taken one dragon–Paxala–with me on her back to discourage the warbands of my brothers. What could three dragons do?
“I’ll ask them,” Char said pointed
ly, giving me an annoyed look before turning and leaving.
“I need to go to Socolia,” Sigrid said, a little awkwardly. The stocky Green Socolia had only showed an interest in Sigrid so far, and so Sigrid had to fly solo, without a partner – which made it difficult for her to pass on suggestions to her dragon, with only her will working with the much larger instincts of the large Green. It made them a less effective team. Well, it would just have to do, I shrugged. These were our best riders. Me and Char on Paxala, and then Terrence and Lila on the Blue Morax, and now Socolia and Sigrid. All of the rest of the students hadn’t managed to find their dragons yet, and we were still working out how to get them to bond.
“Go,” I nodded, knowing that it would take the armies of the Middle Kingdom more than a few hours to reach the monastery. In the meantime, I would try to make the front gates look as defended as possible.
The dragon horn continuously blared above my head as I worked, calling up several students to position the old wagons the monks had used to haul hay and provisions, to the rear of the monastery grounds, effectively plugging the gaps made by the tumble-down wall.
I had only just finished explaining when Dorf ran towards me, wearing an oversized leather cap and greaves he had only barely tied together. He looked as confused about what to do as I felt, but in his hands, he held a pile of different materials.
“Neill?” he said. “I’ve an idea!”
“Flags?” I said, remembering how Monk Feodor had showed them to me before the confrontation with the Sons of Torvald.
“Yes!” Dorf said, showing me the different colors, although the greatest number of them were a deep crimson red. “I don’t know if I told you this, but when you went to the Northlands to help Char, Monk Feodor shared with me some of his ideas about flags, and how to use them. I thought that we could hang the red banners from the gate, to make us look more impressive.”
“Excellent idea, Dorf!” I said, feeling happy for my friend but also a twinge of sadness at the time that he had shared with Feodor, one of the few monks here who had been nice to me at all. The Monk Feodor had been a soldier before becoming a monk, and, in fact, had only been asked to become a Draconis Monk after the Abbot had seen the man’s skill with animals.
“Yes, the flags were an idea he brought with him from his soldiering days. Units and scouts can signal to each other over long distances just by waving the right flag…” Dorf explained. I had to refrain from saying, I know, Dorf – my dad was a professional soldier! Dorf’s clear enthusiasm for the task was not something that I would wish to diminish. “We have red, yellow, blue, green… I thought that we could use them for the different dragons maybe, when we want them to fly, and where to…”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? I wondered, marveling at Dorf’s ingenuity. Hadn’t my own father used flags with his troops?
“And we can use the terrain, too…” Dorf explained, gesturing to the wide mountain track that turned into a causeway, with deep gullies on either side.
“You’re right!” I saw his plan immediately. “The faster dragons can fly down the causeway and harry them if they start attacking, and the larger, slower dragons can fly unseen in the gullies…” Dorf was getting remarkably good at these flying tactics, I thought. “You know what, Dorf,” I said to him. “I know that you love books and reading, but you should try your hand at the scouting.”
“Navigating,” Dorf corrected. “I’m good at navigating, and I love maps anyway… now if only my eyesight were better!”
The ocular devices! I thought, telling him to grab a few of the different ranged telescopes and use them. “You could be like our head navigator,” I said, indicating the top of the wall. “Go on, start telling the other students and monks how to use the flags, and when you want them used – this is great!”
Dragon navigators and dragon warriors, I thought, thinking that it had a nice ring to it as I picked up my pace, stopping to help students get their armor and equipment on, and organizing shifts at the wall.
At midday, the dragon horn rang out three times, just as we’d planned, and I nodded to Dorf standing on the far wall, who waved his crimson red ‘Academy’ flag to signal to the operators in the Astrographer’s Tower to cease. The Dark Prince was here, and the message had been sent.
“Are you okay?” I asked Char who sat atop Paxala. It had been her idea to have Paxala right here, perched on top of the gatehouse, and with the Blue Morax further to the northern wall (holding Terence and Lila) and Socolia the stocky Green (bearing Sigrid) on the southern.
“I will be when we find out what they want,” Char said, looking pale but determined. Her glare at the mass below softened just a little as she looked down at me. “I’m glad that you’re here with us, Neill,” she said, and it was like I had been sucker punched.
When have I not been here? I thought. But I knew what she meant. Last night. The council meeting. And even though I’d been physically present during dragon training, my mind had been elsewhere. Since getting back from my father’s Fort, in fact, I had been distant from Char and Paxala, and I saw now how much I’d let them down.
“Srech-ech-ech…” The Crimson Red made a soft wittering, almost a purring noise at me as if she could sense my thoughts. Probably she could.
“Char… About what’s been happening…” I said uneasily, feeling ashamed. I still hadn’t told her about my decision to disband the academy, to leave this place and ask her and Paxala to come with me.
“Not now, Neill,” Char muttered to me, but her eyes were kind. “We need to talk, but not now…”
“You’re right,” I nodded, looking at what we now faced. Down below us, it looked as though the entire eastern flank of the mountain had been flooded by a dark sea and there was the distant roar of hubbub and busyness, even the knocking sounds of people setting up animal pens and fences.
Defenses, I thought. They’re building defenses against a counter-attack.
Our little academy of five or six hundred humans had no chance against such a force, even given what my father had always said: “It takes five times attackers to defenders to take a town, ten times attackers to defenders to take a castle.” What did this rundown, half destroyed stone monastery count as, I thought? These forward walls that we stood or perched upon were easily as strong as any castle fortification, but the walls at the north and to the west had gaping holes forced through them. And the prince’s troops easily numbered a few thousand.
But right now, we didn’t have to worry about several thousand attackers, just the ornate black carriage, pulled by a team of four stallions making its way up the mountain road, surrounded by a phalanx of mounted knights, as Prince Vincent himself came to parlay.
The carriage pulled to a stop in the wide, stony area outside the front gatehouse, and I watched as the phalanx of knights kept a protective avenue around it as first a servant in black and purple disembarked, and then the Dark Prince himself.
“It’s easy to see why they call him the Dark Prince,” Char muttered above me, and I agreed. Prince Vincent was tall, even handsome, I guess, with skin that was almost as pale as Char’s, but long, straight black hair that he wore loose down his back. His clothes were a velvety darkness: tight-fitting, finely-tailored brocade made up his jerkin, with a collection of gold chains around his throat, and a golden coronet atop his head. He stood on the steps of his carriage as the servant attached to his belt a long-handled sword (its scabbard a gem-encrusted black leather, of course). This was all for show. Prince Vincent was clearly visible to both the guards on the tower, and his own men, and he wore no armor on at all.
He wants to prove he’s not afraid of arrows or spears, I realized. But what about dragons?
“There’s the scoundrel!” I was startled to hear my Uncle Lett hiss as he mounted the gatehouse landing with long strides. He stayed back from the gates, clearly cautious about being in this environment of generals and armies. I knew that it must be an effort for him to even stay here, as he had already m
ade plain his intention to leave.
“Uncle,” I greeted him.
“I swore an oath to avenge myself against that man who insulted you,” Lett growled, scowling at the elaborate show that Vincent was giving, dismissing his servant with the nonchalant wave of a hand.
“You might have time for your vengeance yet, uncle,” I said, suddenly worried Lett’s famous quick temper would prove the worse for all of us.
Vincent signaled to the man who must be his captain or general; a figure astride the tallest horse, with a high, conical helm and a thick red beard. The mounted figure spurred his horse forward, straight to our gates.
“Dragon Monastery!” the man bellowed, with the loud sort of rough voice that I had heard in the throats of my father’s war captains and sergeants. “Open your doors for the ruler of the Middle Kingdom, the Prince Vincent!”
“What do we do?” Char asked, and all eyes on the wall turned to me, standing at the side of the red dragon.
What do we do? I thought. My earlier decisiveness was gone. I felt awkward and unsure again, and wished that I had found something a little grander to wear. As it was, I had on my black cloak with the fur stole of my Torvald heritage over my normal, weather-stained jerkin and trousers. Nothing fancy, and only a short sword and knife at my belt. No gold finery, no flags.
“Let him stew out there,” Lett said with a chuckle. “I bet his high and mighty doesn’t like being kept waiting…”
Although it wasn’t a bad idea, and one that would please me immensely considering he had left me to ‘wait’ in the freezing cold of Mount Hammal, I knew that this was not a time for acts of small vengeance. “Fight angry, but never think angry,” I said, as much for my benefit as my uncle’s. It was another saying of my father’s, and I was finally realizing its usefulness. But if any time was apt for thinking, when we were on the verge of being destroyed, it was now.
Dragon Mage (The First Dragon Rider Book 3) Page 13
