The Order of the Scales

by Stephen Deas

  For some reason, Meteroa wasn’t dead. He felt his consciousness begin to fade and his struggles lose their strength. There was a sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder, a bad, deep pain. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t; the pack of slave-soldiers was suddenly flung aside and he was being dragged. Away from the light. Deeper into the tunnel. There were other men, other voices. His men, the ones he’d sent to wait at the end of the tunnel. A wave of relief washed through him and he must have passed out then, because the next thing he knew he was in one of the rooms with the softly glowing ceilings. There were a good few riders with him. He tried to sit up, but that turned out to be a mistake. His head spun so much that he almost fainted.

  ‘Ancestors,’ he groaned. His shoulder hurt, a deep hard stabbing, aching pain. He couldn’t move his left arm. At least, when he tried, his shoulder lit up as though someone had poured molten iron into the middle of it.

  They’d stabbed him. The slave-soldiers. They’d stabbed him though through the pit of his arm where there was no dragon-scale to protect him, only soft leather.

  He groaned again and gave up on sitting. ‘Is it bad?’ he whispered.

  The rider beside him turned out not to be a rider at all, but Queen Lystra. ‘You killed a dragon,’ she said, breathing softly in his ear. The tenderness in her voice gave him the answer he didn’t want. Yes. It’s bad then.

  ‘Rider Gaizal told us,’ she said. ‘They’re all talking about it. No one’s killed a dragon since . . . I don’t think anyone knows. Since the first Night Watchman.’

  Balls. I’m going to die. ‘How much blood is there?’ If I can still think then it can’t be too much. Not yet. Who dies of an arm wound?

  ‘A lot,’ she said with that irritating trace of sadness that said he wasn’t going to be getting better. And how does she know? What is she? How does a queen who’s not much more than a girl and who’s spent her life living in a library know when a wound is mortal? Eh? And if you don’t know, then I’d appreciate you not being so bloody condescending about it. He tried to sit up again, but that was clearly going to be beyond him for a while.

  ‘Who’s leading the defence?’

  ‘Rider Jubeyan.’ She paused, and he could almost feel her fidgeting, trying to decide whether to tell him something. Then she sighed. ‘They took Princess Kiam. They were going to tie her to one of the scorpions, where every rider could see. There are soldiers in some of the caves now too. They were fighting in the tunnels.’

  ‘Right. So we’re losing then.’ That didn’t seem possible. Was Tichane really going to win by throwing cages full of barely trained slave-soldiers at him? That hardly seemed decent. Not that I’m one to complain about a lack of decency. Too many bad habits of my own when it comes to that.

  ‘No, we cleared the scorpion caves, but it’s getting hard. I don’t know how long we’re going to last.’

  ‘You know it’s Zafir, out there, don’t you? You should hide. Take Hyaz. Dress yourselves as servants. That sort of thing. Keep Zafir away from Jehal’s heir. Hyaz was supposed to find the secret way out.’

  ‘No one knows a secret way out.’ Lystra mopped his brow. ‘And I don’t think I would stay hidden for very long.’

  ‘No.’ Although you don’t seem all that bothered for someone who’s best option is probably to take poison while you still can. But the words stumbled over each other in his mouth, which somehow wasn’t working again. No. You sound like a little girl who’s trying desperately hard to be brave. Well you’re right to be scared. And then he was fading again, perhaps for the last time . . .

  No. I’m not having that. I’m not dying now. Especially not if that means my whole life has to flash before my eyes. I’m not ready for that. I need another few months or years before I can look you all in the eye, you ghosts, and tell you it was all worth it. Show you what I’ve done for us. Calzarin, you were so beautiful, too beautiful for me to resist. The sun to Jehal’s moon. But don’t pretend that you gave yourself to me unwillingly, or that you took me, as you did, under duress. Don’t you dare blame me that your own father put you to death. He killed you because of what you did to him, not what you did with me. Do you say it was the sweet nothings I whispered in your ear that put such a bloody knife in your hand? Tell it to the gods, ghost. Maybe it was, but it was your hand that held the knife nonetheless, and I do not believe your heart was so frail.

  Or Tyan? Do you have something to say to me, big brother? You point your wagging finger at me and accuse me of murder, do you? I would point out that it was Jehal who killed you in the end, not me, but we both know that would be splitting hairs. Do you think I somehow regret that I poisoned you? Do you think that I wish I had not watched you suffer for all those years, mad, useless and drooling. Do you think that it was not an endless pleasure to me to watch you like that, after what you did to me? Yes, I had your wife in my bed and I had your son there too. But you never knew it. Their loss pained me more than it pained you, and yet you were allowed to stand there, the grief-stricken king, while I stood beside you and held your hand and murmured ‘There there’ in your ear while all the while my heart was bleeding. I fucked lots of other people as well until you denied me that pleasure for ever. And you did what you did because of what? Whispers in your ear. Murmured half-truths and lies and conjecture. If you’d caught me with my prick stuck in Calzarin’s arse or between Mizhta’s legs then I would have understood, I really would. But on hearsay and rumour? To your own brother? You should have finished the job and had me killed with your son. No, I don’t regret what I did to you, not one second of it. So bring it on, ghost. Let us spend the rest of eternity locked in our anguished embrace . . .

  On and on, over and over it went, fading in and fading out. Mostly the ghost was Tyan. Sometimes it was Mizhta or Calzarin, sometimes even Jalista or the other Tyan, the little boy Calzarin had disembowelled through his arse. Once or twice it was Jehal, and then, perhaps, Meteroa felt a twinge of guilt for all the things the cleverest of the princes had never even begun to deduce. I could tell you the truth. But why? What would good would it do you?

  Mostly though it was Tyan, and Meteroa faced him down with salt and iron, as any good ghost-hunter would do. They fought and it seemed to be for ever. In the distance sometimes he heard screams and wondered if they were his own. He felt pain too. Pain was good. Pain was life, even if the pain got worse and worse until he seemed to be bathing in fire.

  And then someone was poking him, and the pain was blinding. He opened his eyes.

  ‘He’s alive, Your Holiness,’ said a voice. Not one that Meteroa recognised. He tried to open his eyes. The ghosts were gone but the fire wasn’t. He felt sick. When he finally did manage to lift his eyelids, the effort almost broke him. The light was blinding.

  ‘Are you sure?’ There was no mistaking that scornful voice.

  ‘Zafir.’ The word hissed between Meteroa’s teeth. It probably sounded more like a sigh, a last dying gasp, than anything else, but someone understood him.

  ‘Lord Meteroa.’ She was coming closer. ‘You’re alive after all. You don’t much look it and I’m not sure you’re going to last much longer. But since you are . . .’ She moved away again. ‘Get him up. Let him sit in my throne one last time.’ Hands hauled him up from wherever he was lying. The pain in his shoulder was like being stabbed with a thousand burning knives. Mercifully he fainted. When he woke up again he was soaking wet and a fierce skin-stripping smell was flaying his nose. He jerked away and opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was Zafir again. So that wasn’t a dream then. Or another ghost.

  ‘Where’s my sister, you impotent little snake? Murdering Uncle Kazalain is something I could be persuaded to overlook, but not my sister. Where is she?’

  You hate your sister. Why are you bothering me? Leave me alone. But the only speech he could manage was ‘Uh?’

  ‘Is that all you have to say? Shall I tell you? I found her still alive, no thanks to you. She was stripped half naked and tied to the front of a scorp
ion. How Prince Tichane managed to find the competence not to burn her I shall never know. But she lived, you sick little gelding. And she told me all about you. About how you ordered your riders to rape her while you watched.’

  ‘What are you . . .’ Talking about? Your little sister is a liar, but that should hardly be a surprise. Shit! Come on, mouth, work!

  Zafir stepped away and raised her voice. ‘Yes. Ordered your riders to rape a royal princess so you could watch because you can’t do it yourself? Was that it?’ She shook her head theatrically. ‘The realms will be a lot better without you.’ Ah, so that’s it. Playing to the crowd. You want a reason to kill me? Do you really think you need one? That makes you seem all the weaker, you know. Better you just did the deed. Please go ahead, though. Anything to put an end to this pain. Although, if you can spare one, I’d prefer an alchemist or blood-mage, who might actually be able to heal me. He laughed, a broken hacking sound. Zafir spun to face him, furious.

  ‘You laugh?’

  ‘Even when I could . . . I mostly preferred . . . boys . . . Or perhaps you didn’t . . . know.’

  She came closer and a smile twisted her face. ‘I’ve been wondering which part of you I should cut off to send to Jehal. Your prick then. He’ll recognise it, will he?’

  Meteroa laughed some more. In the face of the agony in his arm, it was that or weep. ‘There’s nothing . . . to cut. Tyan . . . saw to that . . . long time ago. You . . . know . . . nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I know quite enough.’ Zafir walked across to one of her riders and snatched his spear. Then she ran at him and jammed the spear into his belly with all the force she could muster. He gasped and groaned at the impact, but his armour held.

  ‘Hold the spear,’ she barked. Two of Zafir’s riders came and took hold of it. They seemed uncertain what to expect, until Zafir walked to the far end of the room and picked up a hammer. Meteroa felt himself almost vomit. This isn’t how I want to die.

  ‘Slow and painful?’ Zafir snarled as she drew close again, as if reading his mind. ‘No more or less than you deserve, eh? You were behind all of this, weren’t you? Jehal’s puppet-master. Hyram called him the Viper, but that’s you, isn’t it? You’re the venomous one.’

  ‘I think . . . you’ll find . . . Jehal . . . has venom . . . enough . . . for us both.’

  Zafir cut him off. ‘Well if he does, you won’t be here to see it.’ She swung the hammer. It was a good blow, slamming squarely into the butt end of the spear, and with quite enough force to finally split the dragon-scale that protected him. The impact knocked all the air out of his lungs. Strangely, he barely even felt the pain of the metal barbs ripping his guts apart. Zafir struck the hammer again. That one hurt more, as the point emerged from his back, grating against his spine on the way. The third blow pinned the spear solidly into the throne.

  Meteroa closed his eyes. If he wasn’t dying before, there was no escaping it now. Even a blood-mage couldn’t help him. There was nothing left to do but slip away as quickly as he could and brace himself for some mightily angry spirits waiting in the halls of his ancestors. But Zafir wouldn’t allow him even that much peace. The bitter acrid smell came again, slapping his senses, pummelling him awake until it was too much to bear even for a man with a spear through him. Until he opened his eyes.

  ‘Mandras ammonium.’ Zafir laughed at him. ‘But you know that, don’t you, master poisoner. Well here’s some poison for you of a different sort.’ She snapped her fingers. Three riders hurried over to stand beside her. Two of them were dragging Queen Lystra. The third held a squalling bundle. ‘While we’re having so much fun, before Prince Tichane stops blundering in circles outside and works out where the door is so he can run in to spoil it all, here’s one last kingly decision for you. I need to keep one of these two alive in case I have to bargain with Prince Jehal. One. The other doesn’t really matter to me, so I’d rather been thinking of getting rid of it. The question is which one. I thought Jehal might care more for his heir than his queen, but you decide. One of them gets to live and one of them gets to die. You get to watch.’

  She meant it. Every word. Because she’s mad.

  ‘And if you don’t decide then I’ll just kill both of them out of spite. I know what you’re thinking. Jehal’s little starling bride has proven herself fertile. There could be plenty more heirs in her yet. But are there any left in Jehal, eh? Do you know? Does even he? Or has Shezira gelded him like your brother gelded you?’

  Meteroa barely heard her. The choice was obvious. Play the odds.

  ‘So which one dies? Now!’

  ‘Lystra.’ The sound that emerged from his lips was little more than a hiss. Zafir smirked.

  ‘Really? Are you sure? I suppose I should have known, but . . .’ She cocked her head and gave him a knowing smile. ‘Are you trying to curry favour with me, Meteroa?’ She glanced down at the spear stuck through him. ‘It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?’

  ‘Sword . . . and . . . axe . . .’ What came out of his mouth weren’t so much words as the bastard child of a hiss and a groan. Zafir’s smile grew even sweeter.

  ‘Pardon, My Lord?’

  ‘Sword. And. Axe.’ There. She must have heard this time.

  ‘Sword and axe?’ Zafir threw back her head and laughed, rich and throaty. She seemed to be truly amused. ‘Sword and axe?’ she asked again. ‘Lystra’s a girl, Meteroa. What do you think she can do? Do you think she’s even learned to fight? And how long ago did she give birth? She’s still milking her brat. She’s in no state to fight.’ She shook her head.

  ‘Scared, Zafir?’ If she didn’t bite soon then the pain was going to get too much. He could barely speak.

  Her smiled faded and her face fell to stone. ‘You think that’s going to work?’

  Meteroa mustered the last of his strength. He managed a weak shrug. ‘I just want to see a little sport while I die.’

  The smile came back. She gave him one last long look, then nodded her head. ‘Then yes. Sword and axe. Just for you.’ She tapped hard on the shaft of the spear, which sent such a shock of pain through Meteroa that he nearly passed out.

  When the ammonium forced him back to his senses, Zafir had turned away and raised her voice to her riders. ‘Get me an axe. Give Queen Lystra an axe too. A sword as well if she knows how to hold one.’ Zafir sauntered away from Meteroa into the centre of the throne room and drew her sword. She was already armoured and she began to prowl up and down, swishing it back and forth. She could handle a blade, he could see that much. Whether she could handle it well was another matter. I’m the last person to ask.

  It hit him then that he really was dying. Never mind the pain and the confusion and drifting, he was coming to an end. This wasn’t a dream. No more Meteroa. The end of his line. Unless Jehal was his, which was a distinct possibility. But even then it’s not looking very promising, is it?

  He watched as Lystra was pushed out towards Zafir. You. Your fault. If Jehal hadn’t decided that he wanted to keep you, this would never have happened. I would never have come here. There wouldn’t have been a Battle of Evenspire. Valmeyan would never have left his mountains. I wouldn’t be dead. Suddenly he didn’t much care which one of them lived and which one died.

  Someone tossed Lystra a sword. Someone else tossed her an axe. They landed by her feet. Zafir was still prowling back and forth in front of her. For a second Meteroa thought that Lystra was going to fold. She’ll stare at the weapons. He sighed. A little quiver of the bottom lip. A faltering step away and then she’ll fall to her knees and weep and beg, and Zafir will watch and laugh for as long as it suits her. Then she’ll give me a little glance because she’ll need to know that I’m still here to see, and then she’ll end it with an axe in Lystra’s skull. Why did I even bother . . . Oh.

  The other thing Lystra might have done was scoop up the sword and the axe and charge at Zafir with both arms flailing like windmills. It wasn’t a bad strategy for a novice, especially if Zafir was a novice too. What he
certainly didn’t expect was for Lystra to pick up the sword and the axe, give them a couple of experimental swings and throw them both back to the riders lining the walls of the throne room. Then she walked over to them and eventually selected another sword and a different axe. A short stabbing sword and a hatchet. Quick weapons instead of the broadsword and the war-axe she’d been given. Meteroa tried to sit higher in Zafir’s throne and immediately regretted it. Pain hit him like the swing of a dragon’s tail. He grimaced. But I’m going to stay awake for this. I’m not going to die. Not yet. I’ll have my sport.

  Lystra weighed both weapons carefully in her hands. She tested their edges. Content, she walked back to the centre of the room, the great Octagon that had all but ruled the realms for two hundred years before Vishmir and the War of Thorns. She didn’t pause, but sprang straight at Zafir, swinging the axe at her head. Zafir ducked, obviously taken by surprise. She parried the sword aimed at her face but missed the return swing of the hatchet, which caught her a solid blow on the hip. She staggered back, covering her retreat with a wild swing of her broadsword.

  Meteroa sniggered, and never mind how much it hurt. Zafir’s armour had taken most of the blow, but she wasn’t quite standing straight. The shock on her face was priceless. Despite the pain it gave him, Meteroa cackled. Priceless. Lystra was Shezira’s daughter. Raised by the Queen of Flint in the deserts of sand and stone, where there really isn’t much else to do. You really shouldn’t be surprised, Zafir, you really shouldn’t. Although I admit, to look at her, who would have thought, eh?

  ‘Good you’ve got all that armour on. Reckon you’d already have lost otherwise,’ he croaked.

  Zafir didn’t turn her head, but she must have glanced at him, because Lystra launched herself at Zafir again. She feinted at her head, parried Zafir’s backswing and then rolled underneath her axe, lashing out with her hatchet at Zafir’s ankle. Zafir saw it coming and tried to jump out the way but wasn’t quick enough. Meteroa heard Zafir gasp. She staggered and hopped a few paces. The armour had saved her again in that her foot was still attached to her leg, but she was limping. With a bit of luck, Lystra had hit hard enough to crack a bone or two.