WingTouch jerked his head around to try to vent his own breath on the thing; but it was well positioned, out of reach. It tightened its grip—and fire flashed through his body. "Brothers—!" he started to cry out, but he felt a freezing flame on his neck and heard, "Die now if you make a sound!"
He choked off his words, and tucked forward into a rolling dive, trying desperately to shake the thing loose. The drahl's nails held tenaciously, and its whispered voice cut through the wind. "Descend . . . slowly . . . and silently . . . if you would live."
If you would live, WingTouch thought, the voice of the drahl chilling him as bitterly as its breath. What was it intending?
Its nails had found a nerve that commanded excruciating pain. Gasping, WingTouch descended in a glide, scarcely moving his wings at all. The torment eased a little. He hoped, with faint hope, that his fellows would see him and come to his aid. He strained to call silently: Come. Help. Quickly. But he felt no answering thought. If he could just snap out a quick cry. He began very slowly to draw a deeper breath—but the drahl's nail tightened on his nerve, driving the wind from him. He wheezed, barely able to draw breath at all.
He heard the others calling in the night, for him and for Loudcry. But Loudcry was dead, and now he was as good as dead, too.
"We may let you live, if you do as we say," the drahl whispered, behind his head. "You who have killed so many of ours." Its voice was soft and measured, almost a chuckle.
I will kill many more of you before I finish, WingTouch vowed furiously, irrationally. The drahl laughed behind him. Had it heard his thoughts, or had he spoken aloud?
Through the haze in his mind, WingTouch thought how his brothers would grieve, and how badly they needed his help. The whole realm needed help, now more than ever. It needed all dragons who could fly against the Enemy.
"Fly to those shadows at the base of the ridge," the drahl whispered. WingTouch turned as he was told. He could still hear his comrades calling. Come, he thought. Help. Quickly. Their voices were growing fainter. They were flying in the wrong direction. If Windrush were here, he would know better; he would use his undersense. But Windrush was not here.
"Fly along the base of the hills, and turn west through the break. Let us hope that you are strong, dragon. You have a long journey ahead." The drahl laughed cruelly.
Come. Help. Quickly. The thought was dying in his heart. The shouts of his comrades were distant now. He was alone here, with a drahl who commanded his life and death. Should he end it now and try to take the enemy with him? That might be the better way.
But if he waited, there was always the chance that he would find an opening. Always the chance to learn something useful. Always the chance to escape.
It was a faint hope, but it was all the hope he had. That last spark of hope died when he saw a new cluster of drahls rise from the shadows and climb to join them in westward flight. In flight toward the home of the Enemy.
Chapter 7: Tracks in the Underrealm
Back in his cavern, Windrush found sleep eluding him. The lumenis vision had left him far too restless. He peered about the stone-and-spell confines of his cavern, noting that the sweepers had been busy in his absence, gathering up his fallen scales. The tiny creatures had left the ledges around the cavern adorned with their jewellike sculptures, his fallen scales twisted together into silvery shapes that balanced and pointed in odd ways, glinting in the gloom. Windrush had never attached any meaning to those decorations, and yet, in some way he could never quite fathom, they seemed tantalizingly suggestive of some deeper intent. Tomorrow they would be gone, carried into the dim crevices of the cavern to line the sweepers' nests.
Sighing, he sharpened his nails, raking them on the stone floor. It felt too cold in the cavern, too dark. A few patches of luminescent moss provided the only light. He peered into the hearth where a draxis bush stood and focused his thoughts there, until he had coaxed from the bush a burst of flames tinted with amber and ruby. The flames pleased him; they were the colors of distant suns.
It was only after he had stared at it for a time that the dragon understood his desire for the flame. A memory flashed through his mind: three small figures pacing before just such a fire, in this very spot. The rigger Jael, with her friends Ar and Ed, had visited this cavern one eventful night, far too long ago.
Jael. Human, rigger, friend. It was his father who had first befriended her. Highwing had recognized in a frightened young rigger the possible fulfillment of the Words—barely remembered by most male dragons, but held at the very heart's center of the song and history of the draconae. "From beyond life will come one . . . without friend will come one . . . and surely the realm shall tremble." Jael, an outsider, had accepted Highwing's friendship; and soon thereafter, the silent corruption of Tar-skel had erupted into an open reign of terror. In punishment for trusting an outsider, Highwing was sentenced to exile and death in the static realm.
It was on the morning following the night in this cavern—the night when Jael had questioned a reluctant Windrush until he thought he would go mad, questioned him until he changed his mind and agreed to challenge the darkness—that they had flown together to the Black Peak to save Highwing. It stirred his blood to remember it—the trumpeting dragon cries, the fire and smoke, the flash of sorcery that hurled Highwing out of the realm with Jael in fast pursuit. And then . . . the anguish of waiting, fighting off Tar-skel's followers, until the riggers reappeared with the dying dragon. In the end, Windrush bore his great father on his own back, giving Highwing the precious moments he needed to die in triumph, with peace and dignity. . . .
The hearth fire danced before Windrush, throwing shadows about the cavern, shadows that jumped up to tower over him. Windrush gazed into the flames, mesmerized. He wished that the fire could help him unravel the knots of the day, or somehow transport him back to more fathomable times. He recalled the strange little parrot rigger, Ed, who had accompanied Jael—and he wished he could laugh at the memory. But laughter would not come to him, not from this fire. The flames danced bright and warm, but they seemed only to replay the puzzles of the day. What had it all meant: the demon, the vision? Even an iffling's explanation would seem clear compared to today's bewildering events.
He was scarcely aware that he was drifting in and out of sleep. It seemed as a dream to him when he first saw a small, silken-furred creature loping out of the cavern's shadows. The creature sat up on its hindquarters, peering up at him with huge, dark eyes. Windrush blinked, flexing his talons unconsciously as he tried to decide whether he was awake or asleep. "Iffling?"
"Dragon," whispered the iffling.
Windrush drew his thoughts together. "Did you hear me wish that you would come?"
The iffling blinked its dark eyes and shivered, its silvery fur rippling down its back. "We felt a need."
Windrush exhaled steam. "I hope you've come to explain the mysteries of the past day. Were they your doing?"
The being cocked its head. "My doing? Dragon, you would give us powers that are not ours. What is it that you wish to know?"
Windrush eyed the iffling. "You have to ask? I saw a vision tonight, a most disturbing vision. I hoped you would know where it came from. I also spoke with a demon who was once a rigger—and I wonder how I might gain its trust. Or should I? What can you tell me, iffling?"
The creature did not answer at once. It cocked its head the other way, its eyes half closed as though it were listening to some distant voice. It began to sway from side to side. It seemed to have forgotten the dragon's presence.
Suddenly it spoke, very softly. "I do not know all of the answers that you seek. But I can show you something. Follow me." It sprang toward the hearth and vanished into the air.
Puzzled, Windrush searched with his eyes, then probed with his thoughts down into the underrealm. He felt the quiver of an unfamiliar spell and was startled to discover that the underrealm surrounding the cavern had changed dramatically. A glow filled the cavern, penetrating into corners that ha
d long lain in darkness. Where his own guardian spell had tightly closed the underweb against intruders, he now saw a doorway out of his cavern, leading to a place of sunshine. Sitting in the doorway, silhouetted in the sunlight, was the kuutekka, or spirit-presence, of the iffling. Behind the iffling was a vast green meadow. What is this? Windrush whispered, amazed.
The iffling's answer came soundlessly. It is our memory of the place where the Dream Mountain stood before the Enemy stole it away. I know your question—but we cannot tell you where the draconae have gone, or even if they have truly moved at all. The Enemy obscures our sight of that place, and makes the way impossible to find. But . . . there may be other ways to find it.
Windrush muttered, If there were a way in the outer world, I would have found it by now! If you know some other way, I would be grateful if you told me! He narrowed his undersight, trying to see more clearly the meadow beyond the doorway. He thought he heard faint singing, draconae singing. It felt more like a memory than an actual sound.
The iffling flickered in the sunlight. Dragon, I am sharing with you our own vision, our memory, as clearly as I can. Unfortunately this is not a doorway through which you can pass.
Windrush scowled. If you can, why not I?
Dragon, my undersight is not your undersight. I walk where you cannot; and where you go with strength and pride, I may go with great peril.
The creature paused. You must find your own way. Not on wing, but in the underrealm. But take comfort in what I have come to say: You have more friends than you know.
Windrush stared at the iffling, puzzled by its words. He recalled the lumenis vision, in which the realm had been lost to the Enemy. Who had created that vision? Was it a warning from the ifflings? A warning to act quickly?
You say I must search the underrealm, he replied at last. I doubt that my skills are sufficient to the need.
Windrush, your skills are the greatest of any dragon flying free in the realm today. And tonight, when you ate the lumenis, your skills grew.
Windrush blinked. If you mean the vision . . . will you explain it to me?
It was not from us, but from another. Know this: there is one who is trying to help. You must seek in the windows he has left you here. Find him, before it is too late! Start tonight! With those words, the iffling suddenly turned and bounded through the doorway and was gone. The doorway vanished as well.
Windrush stared after the being, blinking in bewilderment at its parting words. What exactly did it want him to do? As he peered again about his cavern, his bewilderment grew. His haven was a changed place. There were openings in the weave of the underrealm, passages out of his cavern that did not exist in the outer world, that had not existed here before. Someone had cleverly penetrated his protective spells—someone who knew his mind and his thoughts. This was truly rakhandroh—astonishing, and most unnerving.
The passages were dark; he could not guess where they led, or what lay beyond them. But he sensed that they were windows onto other places in the underrealm. Rakhandroh! He caught hints of smells from them: salt and tree, sulfur and fire, wind and dust. As he sat and studied this puzzle, he came to realize that the passages might open further in response to his active touch.
After a long hesitation, he stretched out his thought to one dark passage. With a shimmer, the weave in the underrealm became an open window. Peering through it he glimpsed a barren land, a sun low and red in its sky. It looked remote, and oppressively empty and desolate. He pulled back, uncertain what sort of spell this was. Could his thoughts, his kuutekka, actually come and go through these windows? It darkened as he drew away.
He touched the next one with his thought. It opened to a view from a great aerie, high over a woodland. Yellow sunlight glinted from the tops of the trees, and shone from within the forest. He smelled a distant ocean, mingled with the forest smell. It was not a place he recognized. Most strange. He let the window close.
The next opened onto darkness, a subterranean gloom lit by a red flicker of distant fire, volcanic fire. He could not see much, but he sensed a labyrinth of underground passageways. He smelled sulfur; he sensed, though at a great distance, the presence of the enemy. He pulled back with a shudder and made certain that the window drew itself tightly closed again.
The fourth window opened onto darkness, also. But it was a kind of darkness he understood; it was the natural gloom of the underrealm. He could see connecting threads rippling outward, twisting and joining and stretching off in various directions. He was surprised by the clarity of the view. One thread seemed particularly bright and promising, and he thought he heard a faint tinkle of laughter from it. He sniffed cautiously—and thought he caught the smell of a demon-spirit. He was startled to realize that he recognized the smell. Start tonight, the iffling had said. Find your way in the underrealm.
Sighing, he stretched his kuutekka cautiously outward through the window, into the underrealm beyond his cavern. His thoughts ranged down the thread, searching and testing every knot he encountered, taking note of each change in direction. The laughter grew louder, but came to sound more like crying than laughter. In time, there was a faint yellow glow ahead, and the demon smell became stronger. Windrush sniffed the underrealm for treachery. He heard a faint metallic jangle of protection spells, but easily swept them aside. A moment later, a lazily dancing figure of light came into view. When he had last seen it, it had been a figure of shadow-fire, but there was no mistaking who it was.
Hodakai, he called.
There was no answer. The figure seemed to be stretching its arms and turning about, as though pretending to be soaring—diving and banking and climbing. He was muttering words that Windrush couldn't understand. ". . . Vela Oasis off the port bow . . . let's take her straight on through, and leave the spiral arm behind . . ."
Hodakai! Windrush shouted.
Gaaahhh! cried the demon, jumping and twisting around. Who's there?
The dragon hesitated. Surely Hodakai should have been able to see him—unless he was not manifesting his kuutekka visibly here. Do you not recognize the presence of a dragon? he inquired.
Dragon—it's you! Yes—of course I do! Hodakai gulped. I was just—ahhh, testing your honesty!
Ah, said Windrush. That is a good thing to do . . . Hodakai. He repeated the demon's name deliberately—not that there was any real power in doing so. The demon, after all, had not given his name, and it was the willingness to be known that gave a name actual power. But there was no harm in reminding the spirit of how much he knew.
Hodakai seemed a little unnerved. If you wish me to judge your honesty favorably, he grumbled, perhaps you wouldn't mind showing yourself.
Windrush wasn't sure why he was invisible, but he didn't want to say that. He cleared his throat. Considering your treatment of me when we last spoke, wouldn't you say—?
The spirit twisted in space. You come here interrupting my peace with your sorcery, and now you wish to discuss old grievances? Let me tell you—!
I did NOT come to discuss old grievances! Windrush snapped, cutting him off.
There was an uncomfortable silence. Windrush didn't want Hodakai to regard him as a foe, if he could help it. However much the rigger-spirit hated the dragons who had captured him, it was Windrush's impression that Hodakai was not a committed ally of Tar-skel. Perhaps, he rumbled, we can agree that your little trick on me was very clever, if not very hospitable.
The figure of light danced, bending toward him. So why have you returned to hide in the shadows harassing me?
Windrush sighed, allowing his breath to escape in a plume that materialized before him in the underweb. The spirit pulled back, growling, Don't try sorcery on me, dragon!
I am not using sorcery on you, Windrush said in irritation. He didn't remember the rigger being so jumpy the last time they'd met. But if the plume of steam had become visible with his unconscious thought, then perhaps he could materialize an image of himself, as well. He recalled his own face as it appeared to him in the surfa
ce of a still pool. He felt his kuutekka become solid, a craggy, silver-scaled head with faceted green eyes, glowing nostrils, and enormous jaws. There, he said. Is that nonthreatening enough?
Hodakai twitched and danced wordlessly.
Can you see me all right now?
Is that supposed to be funny? Hodakai snapped.
I would not presume to attempt humor with you, one called Hodakai. From your reaction, I will assume that you can see me.
Okay, I can see you. Why are you here?
I have come . . . Windrush paused and thought a moment . . . to ask whether you are in service to the one who is called Nail of Strength.
Dragon Rigger Page 7
