‘Lad—’ Glaukos began.
‘I’m not a boy anymore, Uncle,’ Dion said. ‘I’m the king. These people are my responsibility.’
Dion soared above the clouds. His hope was that if he stayed high there was less chance that the bloodren would see him. He also had an all-encompassing view of the countryside.
He gazed down as he flew with slow sweeps of his wings. He saw a patchwork of fields laid out in a grid, and villages interspersed along the road that followed the series of valleys between the mountains. Green pastures flowed over the rolling hills, but they were absent the usual dots of white that indicated livestock. The wheat fields glowed bright yellow in the sunlight, but all of the grain he needed lay neglected. He looked upon the burned husks of houses where untended fires had spread. The only creatures he saw were birds, and every time he saw a flock in the distance he felt a stab of fear.
He soon realized that he was too high to know if there were any small groups of people still alive. Despite the risk of being ambushed, he tucked in his wings and descended, following the road and scanning at both sides. The tall peaks on both sides of the valley now rose above him.
He almost wished he was still too high to see.
The first village he flew over was mostly intact, but there were bloody lumps everywhere, surrounded by wisps of clothing and splintered bones. He saw a square outside a small temple; the individual smears on the ground suggested the dragons had come just as the villagers had gathered for a service. House after house had its interior ripped open to the sky. Nothing stirred: no dogs, no sheep, no goats, no people. The only sign that the village had once been occupied was blood.
Dion beat his wings down to put on speed. He left the settlement behind and continued to follow the road, scouring the terrain. He came across a dozen wagons halfway to the next village. Possessions were still strapped down in the carts, but the traces were ripped into shreds and barely anything remained of the horses. He was learning to read the signs. The people had scattered when the dragons came. They weren’t fast enough.
He knew he had to stay calm, or wildness would threaten his senses, but it was becoming impossible. Village after village was destroyed. Individual homesteads were somehow sadder: he could see where a family had been butchered as they ran or hid. Everywhere it was the same.
Dion followed side roads and winding trails, desperate to see if there was someone he could help. Flying swiftly, knowing he had little time, he searched for any signs of the living.
Always there were none.
He wondered what to do. Everyone was depending on him. It was clear that the dragons would find no more prey in this area. They might head to distant lands in search of easier pickings, perhaps across the Maltherean to the Salesian continent, but he had sensed their rage more than once. They hungered for flesh, and they wanted to kill anyone who stood in their way, to destroy the humans who had killed members of their bonded group. They would come for Xanthos until there were no more people left, and they would come soon.
These lands were lost. Dion had to find safety for the people in the city. He had to keep the peace, and to do that he would need to give them a common purpose. He had to provide enough sustenance to keep them alive.
Perhaps Phalesia would have the supplies he needed. After all, he had sold many of his stores to Phalesian merchants. He also needed to know that Chloe was still alive.
He was now in Xanthos’s east. Rather than farmland below, he was soaring over an unbroken forest. Phalesia wasn’t far, just on the other side of the mountains. If he could hold on to his changed form for just a little longer, he would make it.
He beat down hard with his wings, rapidly gaining height. Climbing the wall of mountains, he fixed his sights on the gap between two of the peaks.
He came abreast of the gap and leveled off, feeling his thoughts becoming confused, but fighting to maintain his identity. His name was Dion. He was the king of Xanthos. His people needed him.
As soon as he crossed into Phalesian lands, he saw them.
He had been so focused on what lay ahead that he hadn’t been looking down. His blood ran cold when he saw hundreds of winged creatures settled on the floor of the valley on the mountains’ far side.
A single dragon raised its head and let out a piercing shriek when it saw him. As one, the bloodren rose into the sky. Suddenly Dion could sense them. Their thoughts were as crazed as ever. Already they were flying directly at him. They wanted to savage him, to tear him into pieces.
Fear jolted him into action. He tilted to turn sharply. Last time he had encountered the bloodren, he had outflown them, but there was no storm this time, and he was fatigued after his long flight. He put on every bit of speed he could, heading back between the peaks as red-scaled dragons blotted out the sky behind him. He didn’t know if they were learning, but they had spread out on all sides as if to herd him like an animal.
He heard their shrieks and roars. The constant flutter behind him made his own wings work until they ached. The ground below passed by in a blur. Dion tried to focus his thoughts; he needed a plan if he wanted to escape. He banked slightly to head farther north. Soon he would be in the Wilds, a region he had come to know in the time he lived with the eldren.
He craned his neck to peer back. With his greater wingspan he was outdistancing them, but slowly. He couldn’t stay changed much longer.
He crossed over another row of tall mountains and then dived.
He plummeted as fast as he could, making his body as lean and swift as an arrow. Evergreen forests speeded toward him. He saw a few clearings and a craggy, barren hill, landmarks that told him where in the Wilds he was. The wide blue ribbon of a river carved its way through the trees. He knew that what appeared to be another clearing was actually a pool.
He rushed headlong toward it. Treetops scraped his belly as he swooped at the pool. The circle of deep water was directly below a plummeting waterfall. A hundred feet in height and as white as snow, it filled the air at its base with spray.
Dion flew directly into the waterfall.
He changed his shape even as he struck the liquid wall. For a moment everything was white and wet. Then he tumbled through the water, rolling over and over. He struck the wall of stone behind it hard, but he’d judged his moment well and there was a solid ledge under him. Now returned to human form, gasping with the shock of the water, he shot to his feet. He heard a single, piercing cry.
On the other side of the spray, he saw the outline of scarlet wings.
He scanned furiously. There was a fissure in the rock, at the back of the cavity behind the waterfall. He lunged toward it and wedged his body into the narrow chimney. He thought that he was hidden, but he couldn’t be sure.
He poked his head out, risking a glance at the curtain of water. What he saw made him duck back into the darkness. A monstrous tapering head was pushing through the spray, a head with glaring eyes and teeth protruding from both sides of its jaws. The dragon was keeping itself aloft, wings beating the air. It was searching.
Dion shrank himself as small as he could. Over the roar of the water, he heard beastly panting. He knew the dragon’s eyes were roving. He looked down and saw that his foot was poking out. There was nothing he could do. If he shifted now it would see the movement and he would be dead.
This time when the dragon shrieked, the deafening sound echoed everywhere and made his ears ring. Dion tensed, waiting for the creature to strike at him.
Then the sound of the waterfall changed slightly. He waited for several long breaths, and peered out again.
The dragon was gone.
Warily he climbed out of his hiding place. He peered out at the waterfall, pricking his ears, but couldn’t hear anything. Waiting, still on alert, he listened for a long time.
Finally he leaned back against the rock wall and slid down to the floor. Sodden, weary beyond belief, he told himself he would rest for just a few moments.
His eyes closed of their own accord.
25
Ilea was a land of sunshine, but the dungeon was dark, always dark. The guards often neglected to rekindle the torches, and several hours might pass before Palemon could see anything more than his hand in front of his face. The walls were stone, the floor was dusty, and the ceiling was too high to touch. Thick iron bars divided the room into large cells.
Palemon knew that far above him was a grand palace, the residence of King Kargan, but the two places might as well have been heaven and hell. He also knew that this dungeon was special, to be so near the king’s residence. It was for prisoners that the king wanted to keep close at hand: important hostages, people with secrets to uncover, or those that Kargan liked to be able to visit and see humbled.
Palemon supposed he was the latter. He had no secrets that the king of Ilea wanted. Kargan already knew from his spies that the dozen captured ships had set off for the cold lands in the north long ago. The Ilean king could figure out for himself the rough number of people the fleet had gone to rescue. There was nothing left to tell.
He was also useless as a hostage. At the head of a powerful army, he had once had the world at his feet. Now he was just a man who had set his sights too high. A man who had failed. Worse – he had unleashed a plague on the world, a dark magic that would see his people killed and his name cursed, if his name was remembered at all.
So the only reason that Palemon and those with him were being kept so close to the palace had to be so that Kargan could gloat.
And gloat he had.
The barrel-chested king had brought all his lords to see the famed and feared Palemon in the flesh. They had all exclaimed, initially fearful but then laughing when they saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with gray in his hair and his face streaked with grime. Kargan was pleased, Palemon saw. His standing with his lords would be the highest it had ever been.
Kargan had brought generals from his army and visitors from his distant dominions. Palemon always stayed silent, regarding them with his dark-eyed stare. The brave laughter faded. The gloaters never stayed long.
In the flickering light cast by the torches, Palemon inspected the large cell as he paced. He shared it with a handful of sorcerers and thirty warriors from Necropolis. At least it was big enough that they weren’t on top of each other. No one ever asked him what would happen next. Instead his men cast him dark looks. He was their king; he had created this mess, and it was his task to find a way forward.
He had always commanded the respect of his warriors, and seeing their resentment caused him more pain than he cared to admit. They were right to be angry, for he knew their situation was hopeless. Their weapons and armor had been taken from them, and like Palemon they wore simple vests and dark trousers. The four gray-robed sorcerers had lost their staffs, and without gold, silver, copper, or iron they were as useless as babes.
Palemon looked at the adjacent cell, which was smaller than his own. There was an Ilean there, another prisoner. The man was dressed in unkempt but expensive clothing and sat slouched against the wall, staring at the floor despondently. Palemon had spoken to him long enough to learn that he was some craftsman who had been caught stealing from his king. He would be no use.
His gaze then went to Zara. She was sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed. She was meditating; he had seen her do it many times before. Still in her figure-hugging dark-blue dress, she sat with her raven-black hair draped like a screen in front of her eyes.
The sight of her slowly breathing in and out irritated him. He wasn’t a man used to sitting still. He finished his pacing and stood over her.
‘I need to speak with you,’ he said.
Her eyes opened, and she tilted her head back to look up at him with her penetrating blue eyes. ‘And it could not wait, sire?’ She spread her arms. ‘We appear to have all the time in the world.’
‘Time to wait for the king of Ilea to grow tired of us and kill us all?’ Palemon growled. ‘I prefer to converse.’
‘But only with me.’ Zara gave a slight smile.
Palemon glanced back at the other occupants of the cell. He didn’t want to speak to them without a plan to earn back their trust.
‘Yes,’ Palemon said. ‘With you. It is partly your fault that we’re in this position.’
Zara’s smile faded, and she scowled and climbed to her feet. ‘This is not the time for blame. Our ancestors left a message. We were both warned.’
Palemon began to return her glare, but then he gave up and his shoulders slumped. ‘Of course this is my fault. We have lost everything. Our people will return to a shattered land.’
‘The king of Ilea doesn’t appear to be concerned.’
‘He is a fool.’ Palemon’s lip curled. ‘The man thinks this is an opportunity. He knows there is trouble in the north, but he believes that if he waits until it is all over he will be the only ruler with any armies left.’ He tugged angrily on his beard. ‘I heard the guards talking. They say that across the sea our dragons have ravaged the land. The young king of Xanthos . . . He knew what he was facing. But chances are he is now filling some creature’s belly.’
Zara raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought he was your enemy.’
‘Enemy?’ Palemon snorted. ‘What use are enemies now?’ His voice became firm. ‘You have had time to think, sorceress. Is there some way to break the spell and change them back?’
It was a moment before Zara replied. ‘There is something.’ She spoke hesitantly. ‘Do you remember the jewel I told you about?’
‘On the island, Athos.’ Palemon nodded. ‘I remember.’
‘The magic of materia is somehow connected to it. The spell on the dragons also. When I stared into its depths, I saw them, as if they were flying inside it.’ She looked away, remembering. ‘If there is a solution to any of this, it may be in that cave.’
‘Then we have to get you to Athos,’ Palemon said.
‘I have an idea.’
Zara suddenly walked away. She started to circle among the warriors, inspecting them all carefully. Her gaze traveled up and down each man in turn. ‘Stand still,’ she admonished one man when he tried to back away. She patted down their collars and vests. Whatever she was looking for, her search was obviously fruitless. Shaking her head, she finally returned to Palemon’s side.
‘What are you doing?’ Palemon asked.
‘Looking for a—’ Zara broke off. She left Palemon again, but this time she walked to the bars separating the cell from the one next to it.
Palemon watched as she said something to the Ilean sitting alone in his cell with his back against the wall. The man had been reticent when Palemon had spoken with him, too wrapped up in his own despair to bother with the strange foreigner’s inquiries, but Zara could be beguiling when she wanted to be. The man slowly stood and approached the slender sorceress.
The prisoner came closer, and Zara said something else. He reached for his tunic at the collar and lifted a copper necklace, displaying the round medallion for Zara to see. She beckoned him closer. They approached each other until only the iron bars were separating the two of them.
The man showed Zara the medallion up close. She smiled and raised an eyebrow to query. He nodded. A moment later Zara held the medallion between two dainty fingertips to examine it.
She looked up, her face suddenly menacing.
Before the man could back away, she slapped the copper medallion against his temple. The medallion glowed.
The sound was brief but ear-shattering. Zara pressed the copper against the man’s skull, holding it there for three heartbeats. The prisoner’s eyes shot wide open. He quivered, almost standing on the tips of his toes. His face became contorted in a grimace of pain. Palemon saw blood trickle from his ear.
Zara released the medallion.
The prisoner collapsed. His sightless eyes stared up at the sorceress. Zara crouched down and reached through the bars to unfasten the necklace. She then straightened.
All eyes were on her. Even Palemon was stunned. Zar
a waved two warriors over and got them to prod at the prisoner’s body until he was a reasonable distance from the bars. He had been killed by sound. The guards would never suspect anything other than some strange illness.
Palemon was impressed, but he wondered what Zara’s power could achieve. The medallion would be useless against a trained soldier.
Zara fastened the copper necklace and settled the medallion at the base of her throat. She looked up at him. ‘How do I look, sire?’
‘You have copper. Now what?’ he grunted.
‘You will have to wait and see.’
The guard trudged around the dungeon, barely giving the captives in the cell a moment’s thought. He carried a basket and went from torch to torch, replacing the dying bundles with fresh ones and lighting the new from the old. His work done, he prepared to leave. He hadn’t even noticed the dead man in Palemon’s adjacent cell.
‘Guard,’ Zara called softly.
Everyone including Palemon hung back as the sorceress approached the bars. Zara walked with a roll of her hips. Her long hair, straight and sleek, hung partly over her face. Looking directly at the guard, she moistened her lips and then smiled.
‘What do you want?’ the guard growled. He came over and scowled at her.
‘I have something to ask you,’ she murmured, so low that Palemon could only just hear her. She beckoned with a finger. ‘Please, come closer.’
The guard’s irritation faded. His eyes traveled up and down Zara’s body, before he tilted his head and approached the bars.
‘Will you take me to see the king?’ Zara asked sweetly.
Palemon knew what she was doing; he had seen it before. Now that she had copper, she could charm most men. If she managed to get close to Kargan, she might even charm him too.
The guard frowned, but he was now near enough for Zara to put a finger on his chin. She tilted his head, gazing into his eyes. ‘Please,’ Zara said. ‘I have something important to say to the king.’
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