WingTouch was aware of this, but did not allow himself to dwell upon it as he flew. He had a patrol to lead, and he was determined that the defeat of the previous night would not be repeated.
The camp came into view over the ridge, marked by scattered fires an d embers. WingTouch floated down through rising plumes of smoke and landed at the northern corner of the camp. He tramped through the grounds, calling out for his night patrol. As always, many dozens of dragons were asleep, or muttering in conversation around piles of blazing deadwood or burning draxis bushes, the poor cousin of lumenis.
Any number of dragons raised their craggy heads and peered at him with eyes glowing in the night like stars, but no one answered his call. WingTouch sighed, knowing that his dragons were undoubtedly somewhere in the camp, lost in conversation. Draconic discussions, especially when they turned upon the war and upon the powers and designs of the Enemy, could drone on throughout the night. WingTouch regarded most such talk as foolishness, and had little patience with it. Still, when he reached the far perimeter, he was not surprised to find two members of his patrol, Rocktooth and FireEye, perched on stone outcroppings, part of a small gathering absorbed in just such a conversation.
Rocktooth hailed him with a plume of smoke. "WingTouch! They are saying that the Enemy has been capturing shadow-cats from the valley and turning them into spirits that can move right through the earth!"
"Why not?" cried another dragon, behind Rocktooth. "If he can create drahls out of smoke, and cause the moon itself to spy upon us, I see no reason why he couldn't do that, too."
WingTouch answered with an impatient snort. "If you believe every story about the Enemy's powers, you'll make a sorry excuse for a warrior!"
"Then tell us what you believe!" said Rocktooth. "Stonebinder said he saw a shadow-cat come right out of the ground!"
WingTouch inspected his talons, dismissing the story with his silence. "What the Enemy is doing," he said finally, "I can't guess. But what we're doing is flying a patrol. Stretch out your wings and let's go."
Rocktooth grumbled, opening his jaws in a tooth-glittering yawn. "All right—but if we don't think of these things now, we might wish we had, later."
"We might," WingTouch acknowledged. "FireEye! You too."
FireEye slowly stirred, as though waking from a stupor, and blinked his red eyes. A stout dragon with thick, leathery wings, he was a good fighter—once aroused. Another dragon, hunched down in front of him, muttered, "I've heard that some of the sweepers are not to be trusted, either. Who knows about their sympathies?" FireEye, still only half alert, cocked his head and blinked his ruby eyes again as though ready to join in.
WingTouch was determined to let this go no further. He snapped, "FireEye—where are the others? "Where are Loudcry and Longnail?"
"They're in the sleeping warrens," said the dragon who had spoken of the sweepers.
"Summon them," WingTouch commanded. "It is time to take to the air." As FireEye and Rocktooth rose to obey, WingTouch surveyed the camp, shaking his head. Even his friend Loudcry was sleeping when he should have been ready to fly. In a state of war, how could they be so unwatchful? WingTouch flexed his wings and considered reproving the others here, but decided that it was not his place. They were, after all, off duty. Nonetheless, he was troubled by the idle chatter. When the four of his patrol appeared, he breathed a few dark words about unpreparedness, then they took off and left the matter behind them.
The early hours of the patrol passed quietly, as they soared southward over the eastern face of the Scarred Mount Ridge. Beyond the ridge, some distance to their right, lay a sparsely inhabited plain known as the Valley Between, where they had fought for and lost the wild lumenis grove the other night. Neither the dragons nor the Enemy actively controlled the plain, but both flew there at times, and both claimed friends among the small winged flyers and shadow-cats that lived there. The known strongholds of the Enemy were much farther to the west, across the Valley Between and over yet another range known as the Borderland Mountains.
The night was calm but cloudy, without a hint of trouble. As it wore on, with endless gliding flight over dark, silent slopes, the temptation to relax grew almost irresistible. WingTouch found himself wishing, on patrols like this, that he had Windrush's gift for undersensing. He had at best a blurry awareness of the underrealm, and he had to depend upon sharp eyes and quick reflexes to detect and avoid danger.
Still, giftedness in the underrealm was a mixed blessing. Their father Highwing had been so blessed, and even Farsight, to a lesser degree. But none of them could have matched their youngest brother, FullSky—and that was warning enough. FullSky's underrealm gifts had led him to foolish temptations, and ultimately to his succumbing to the Enemy's sorceries. Even in that dark time when WingTouch and Farsight had lived shadow lives under the influence of Tar-skel, they had lost all track of FullSky. He had vanished long before the victory at Black Peak, and by now, his brothers were certain that he was dead.
WingTouch knew that he himself was not much suited to thoughts of the underrealm. Even now, he was sure, there were many dragons awake discussing Windrush's claim to a prophetic vision. He himself had wasted little thought on the matter. He had no idea what Windrush's vision meant, but he believed in it and was content to let others wrestle with the subtleties of its meaning. His only duty right now was to remain alert until dawn and the end of his patrol.
It was only a little later, while winging over lowlands on the flank of the ridge, that he caught sight of something a less alert dragon might have missed: just a movement of shadow upon shadow, low in the foothills, barely enough to catch his eye. He swooped for a better view. He didn't call out to the others, because he wasn't sure he had really seen anything.
An instant later, the shadow suddenly loomed before him, with eyes and teeth. WingTouch banked sharply, barely evading the thing's claws. Turning, he spotted it fleeing to the west, close to the ground. "FOE IN THE TERRITORY!" he bellowed and dove after it.
The shadow was a drahl—fast and elusive, but not so fast that he couldn't catch it, WingTouch thought. He gathered fire in his throat, prepared to dispatch the abomination. But before he could do so, four more drahls climbed suddenly into the air to join the first. They turned to attack.
WingTouch swerved. His own comrades suddenly seemed far, far away.
* * *
Many mountains to the north, Farsight had just crossed a low ridge, winging his way homeward to his cavern. Over the sigh of the night wind, he thought he heard voices—voices that didn't quite sound as if they belonged in this area. He was flying opposite to the direction his brother WingTouch's patrol had taken, a northwesterly course over the Scarred Mount Ridge. Far ahead, the Black Peak glowed sullenly over the northwest horizon. Listening carefully, Farsight veered into the west wind, scrutinizing the landscape below. It was a patch of thin, bedraggled meadowland, where in a better time wild lumenis had grown. Bordering it on the west was an undulating cliff where voices could easily echo for some distance.
Farsight swung his head from side to side, listening. There was nothing now, except the wind on the cliff. Could that have been what he had heard? He didn't think so; there was a smell in the air, an undersense of a presence that didn't belong here. Still, he couldn't quite identify it—except that it had a vaguely malevolent quality, and he was unwilling to leave without investigating more closely.
Employing a trick that Windrush had taught him, he drew a simple spellweb of silence about himself. He banked and glided, following the tingle in his awareness, until he felt the presence growing stronger. He dropped low over the meadow and landed, hoping to lose himself in the gloom. Then he gazed upward along the face of the cliff wall.
His ears found it before his eyes—voices whispering across the air. He peered up at an inky patch of shadow halfway up the face of the cliff. It was probably a ledge, a perfect place for someone to hide in the night, a perfect place for a secret meeting. Farsight realized suddenly that
he heard both a dragon voice—and another, a voice at once husky and smooth, chillingly lilting, a voice shaped by magic. Drahl.
A drahl and a dragon talking together, almost inaulibly. He dared not move closer. For all he knew, there was a small army hidden nearby, preparing for an attack. Or had he stumbled across a pair of spies? He strained to listen.
The drahl's voice drifted, forming half-connected words: ". . . finest lumenis . . . (those with courage . . ." There was a rustling sound. The dragon spoke inaudibly, and the drahl answered, ". . . for those, servitude . . . little time left . . ."
The dragon's words were louder this time. ". . . they talk and complain . . . but haven't the courage to move . . ."
The drahl answered, ". . . no use . . . let them serve us . . ."
The dragon pleaded, "Let me speak again . . . close to persuading . . ."
Farsight realized what he was hearing—a drahl seducing dragons to the Enemy's side. He trembled with cold fury. He knew how reasonable, how persuasive a drahl's voice could be! Oh yes, he knew! It was nothing more than a dragon's voice twisted by sorcery, evil and yet beguilingly beautiful. He knew all too personally the power of the Enemy's seduction. But that had been a long time ago, before the Enemy's true nature had been revealed, before the drahls had begun to wage war upon the realm—killing dragons, destroying gardens and lumenis groves, destroying the very source of life to dragons. What was Tar-skel promising now, treasured lumenis for those who followed him?
If only he could identify that dragon's voice! If only he had his brother's undersense! Farsight strained, but the wind was rising again, rustling the grass of the meadow, carrying the voices away. Finally he decided that he had to move against the two, whatever the risk. He could not allow such treachery to go unchallenged. He sprang, and beat the air silently, climbing in the shadow of the cliff.
He had nearly reached the height of the ledge when reason overcame his rage. He was outnumbered. It was senseless to die and lose the knowledge he had just gained. He veered and glided back down into concealment, praying that he had not been seen. His heart burned with shame. It was ungarkkondoh to retreat from a battle that deserved to be fought. But it was far better that he return to warn Windrush, to let him know of traitors in their midst.
The breeze over the meadow floor was dying down, and as he landed softly near the bottom of the cliff, the voice of the drahl reached him again: "Speak no more! Someone is here!" Then all was silent, except for the faint scratching of the dragon on the ledge.
Farsight kept utterly still, his eyes closed to slits. He heard a rustle of wings. Fire burned in the back of his throat. Find me and die, he thought, even knowing the advantage that an airborne adversary would have. It galled him to crouch like an animal in the grass. He hoped that the knowledge he'd gained was worth the sacrifice of dignity.
A pair of dragon wings caught the air with a snap, in insolent disdain for silence. He heard another flutter: the drahl taking flight. He craned his neck to watch the sky. He glimpsed a dragon's silhouette, flying southward, but the drahl he didn't see at all. When the sounds had faded, he took to the air.
He flew in search of the dragon for a time, but it had already vanished into the night. He thought of returning to the main camp to report, but instead finally turned northward again, back toward his own cavern. He wanted to discuss this with Windrush. His brother would be sleeping now, and badly needed the rest. But at dawn's light, Farsight would seek his counsel.
As he flew, he listened to the wind over the mountains and thought: What you must have to tell, Wind, if only I could understand your voice. And he thought of WingTouch on patrol, and hoped for the sake of the realm that his brother was having better luck tonight.
* * *
WingTouch had only an instant to decide whether to flee from the five drahls, or to fight. His reflexes decided for him. He banked right and climbed with powerful wing thrusts. When he glanced back, he saw the treacherous shadows in pursuit. The drahls were half a dozen lengths behind, and gaining.
Very well, he thought. He was still strong from the feeding; perhaps it was time to unleash some of that power. He climbed into the wind, faster and higher—then abruptly pitched up and over into inverted flight, and plummeted back upon the drahls. The ground loomed crazily over his head as he dove, breathing crackling flame into the enemies' midst. The drahls answered with freezing fire, but he scarcely felt the chill before they scattered from his mad assault.
He rolled upright and climbed again. He glimpsed his patrol above him, their breaths flickering in the night. "FOES BEHIND!" he cried. "FIVE DRAHLS, AT LEAST!"
He wheeled once more as his companions passed over him, and the five dragons joined in formation. The odds were evened; it was time to do battle.
The drahls were climbing quickly toward the dragons. They were not easy targets. The dragons dived, exhaling fire. The drahls wavered and darted, shadows in the darkness. The movements of shadow and dragon intersected, and suddenly all was chaos. The air reverberated with battle cries; the night flared with fire.
The dragons were stronger, the drahls more elusive. The dragons cried warning after warning to each other as they wheeled in the air, glimpsing one drahl here and losing sight of another there. WingTouch heard the sound of a drahl screeching in its death throes, but he could not tell who had made the kill. The battle was spreading out over the foothills, and he was dodging an attacker of his own. Shaking free of it finally, he turned back toward the others.
He spotted Loudcry grappling with a drahl—but above and behind Loudcry, another creature was dropping for a kill. WingTouch thundered a warning and sped to intercept the attacker. Before he could reach the drahl, he saw cold fire ripple along Loudcry's wings and heard the dragon bellow with pain. Loudcry stalled in midair, caught squarely by the terrible cold of the drahl's breath. The drahl he'd had in his grasp slipped away, as the one behind him billowed another freezing breath. WingTouch shot toward them, trumpeting his outrage. He dared not use his fire so close to Loudcry; instead, he caught the attacking drahl in his claws and, banking steeply, hauled the loathsome thing away from his friend.
The shadow squirmed in his grasp, trying to bite. He sank his nails into its body. At first, it felt like nothing but shadow; then it turned suddenly into a repulsive, shivering thing. It continued to change, metamorphosing into the form of a dragon, an innocent fledgling. WingTouch felt sickened, knowing that it had once been a fledgling. He could not avoid a shiver of compassion and an urge to release it. As it arched its neck, he caught a glimpse of glowing eyes and an imploring gaze. But he knew its inner nature as it was now, no matter what it once had been. It was a servant of the Enemy, and it killed dragons. With a shudder, he drove his talons deep and ripped the thing's throat apart. Its death cry was hideous, but brief. It turned back into a shadow, a lifeless one.
WingTouch released it and looked for Loudcry. His friend was below him, cartwheeling downward—alive, but unable to fly. WingTouch dove after him.
The drahl that Loudcry had been grappling with earlier was slipping through the air toward him. WingTouch called in warning, but again the drahl was too close to his friend. Loudcry's eyes flashed as he spun, struggling to move his wings. He cried out: "Ki-i-ill it for me—kill them all! I'll be all ri—!" His words were strangled off as another icy flame washed over him. The dragon tumbled out of control, close to death. He was beyond WingTouch's help, falling toward the rocks below.
It took WingTouch several heartbeats to reach the drahl as it turned upward, screaming in triumph. It saw WingTouch in the instant the dragon's fiery breath enveloped it. Its cry turned to a screech of agony. It tried to squirm out of the flame, but WingTouch was upon it, and he caught its head and body with his claws and ripped it apart, flinging the pieces away in rage.
WingTouch looked frantically downward, where he had last seen Loudcry falling—and then up to where the rest of his patrol were fighting. He saw Rocktooth and FireEye close together, and heard
Longnail's shout. Reassured, he dove toward the spot where he had last seen Loudcry. He boomed out a call, but there was no answering cry.
It came inside his mind—the sharp, final pain. He saw a glimmer down on the rocks, a dragon turning to crystal glass in the instant of death, before vanishing from the realm. Loudcry had just taken flight to the Final Dream Mountain.
WingTouch climbed back toward the remaining battle. He heard a screech as another drahl died, and Longnail's trumpet of victory. It gave him some consolation. A good dragon and friend had died, but the enemy were almost all disposed of. Just one more remained.
Perhaps it was the shock of Loudcry's death that dulled his alertness. When he felt the stab of pain in the center of his back, he was stunned senseless. He glanced back and saw the drahl's eyes gleaming over his shoulder in triumph. He drew a breath to shout, and the pain lanced up through the crown of his head. The drahl had slipped its claws between his scales and driven them deep between his wing joints. Its breath was close on the back of his neck. What was stopping it from freezing him? It was not breathing fire, but soft, vicious laughter.
Dragon Rigger Page 6
