by Stephen Deas
'Back up!' he hissed. The words were lost to the rush of air but that didn't matter. The dragon would hear them even if he spoke in silence. 'Up! Up to the rest of the dragons!' Wraithwing is a war-dragon. He's faster than they are. They've lost their advantage. All I have to do is fly straight and level. Of course, that depends on how close they are, which I can't see…
Wraithwing pulled sharply up and turned. Something wrenched at Jehal's harness, some irresistible force. He felt straps and ropes tauten and snap. Nothing had a grip on him though. He wasn't dead and he wasn't flying through the air. Some of the bindings that held him and Wraithwing together had broken. Some, but not all. He clung on even tighter.
'Faster!' He had mounted two men on the dragon behind him. Their job was to keep watch above and below and behind. If he'd been from the north, they would have had scorpions as well. And will I be thinking how noble and pure we are to fly without them when a six-foot shaft tears me in two? The riders behind him had had another job too. Jehal didn't dare lift his head to turn round in case the wind tore him out of his ruined harness. At a guess though, they'd served that other purpose. At a guess they weren't there any more. Where had Almiri's riders come from?
Burning the Taiytakei ships in the harbour was one of the most satisfying things Meteroa had done in a very long time. It had an uncomplicated joy to it, the satisfaction of doing something with extreme thoroughness and yet without effort. He burned them to the waterline and stayed to watch them sink. The dragons had enjoyed it too. Something about ships rubbed dragons up the wrong way. They'd liked playing with the sailors too, scooping the survivors out of the water, tossing them into the air and eating them. That's what you get for trying to murder our queen. What were you thinking?
That was the only fly left in the ointment but to Meteroa's mind it was a rather fat and ugly one. Why had the Taiytakei done what they'd done? This wasn't the first time dragons had flown out of Furymouth and burned the Taiytakei into the sea. They'd done it once before when the Taiytakei had tried to destroy the silk factories on Tyan's Peninsula, but that had been a couple of hundred years ago. When the Taiytakei had finally returned, it was to throw their lot in with King Tyan and his clan. They'd supplied the poison that Jehal had used to derange Hyram. They'd given him the magical dragons that he'd mostly used to spy on his lover. It was a tense arrangement at best, since everyone knew that what the Taiytakei really wanted were dragons and would do almost anything to get some, but it had served them well enough during Ayzalmir's purges.
But why try to kill Lystra? To frame Zafir and drive them apart? Even the Taiytakei must realise how unnecessary that was. Did they think it would somehow help Jehal to the throne? And even then, what did that achieve? No. No, there had to be another reason, something to do with getting hold of dragons. Dragons, hatchlings, eggs, everything. Someone had made them a promise. Someone they believed.
So he burned their ships, taking pleasure in it, for good measure he burned the harbour and the Taiytakei quarter of Furymouth while he was at it, and then when he landed, he sent the palace soldiers out to finish the job. A crime, really, to destroy part of his own city, but necessary. Whatever they were up to, he'd killed it; and that, for now, would have to do. Until this stupid business with Zafir was finished at least.
The next day, with smoke still rising from the blackened patch of Furymouth closest to the sea, Meteroa, Prince of Furymouth, flew north and then west. Taking the last few dragons away from his beloved city felt like undressing her and leaving her naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. It left a bad feeling in his gut which even destroying the Taiytakei hadn't cured. Narghon's as good as family, he reminded himself. We're already going to war with Zafir and Silvallan. The Taiytakei are gone. Who else is there? Even so, the feeling was still with him when he reached the Pinnacles. Valmeyan. Sirion. The Syuss, even. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd never see his city again, not like she was.
Which was all the encouragement he needed to be on with his business quickly. It was dark when he reached the Pinnacles and circled the three immense spires of stone that ringed Zafir's city. A fortress was built on the top of each monolith, lit by fires. Battlements and caves riddled their sheer sides, little pinpricks of light. They were the oldest places in the realms. This was where the Silver King had come and where he'd died; where the dragons had been broken, where the blood-mages had risen to power and fallen again, where the Order of the Dragon had followed inexorably in their path. Narammed had lived here, and the first King of the Crags too. Legend said that the three mountains were filled with tunnels, stocked with enough food and with enough rooms to keep the entire city safe for a year, that they were filled with ancient and arcane workings that even the alchemists were unable to fathom. This was where the Reflecting Garden stood, with its fountains that never ran dry and its pool of water whose surface wasn't flat. Far more than the City of Dragons or even the Adamantine Palace or even the Glass Cathedral, the Pinnacles were the old heart of the realms, and only kings and their personal escorts were allowed to land on them; even then it was considered polite to ask first. Protocol.
Meteroa led his dragons towards them. Protocol could fuck itself.
Another wall of heat washed over him and then another. Jehal glanced up. The visor made him almost blind and so he took a chance and raised it for a moment. He was in the wrong place, separated from the bulk of his riders. At least they weren't in front of him, which meant either they were behind him or something very bad had happened. He didn't dare look back…
A thousand feet above the dark mounds of the Blackwind Dales, a thin blanket of morning cloud smothered the sky. Jehal and Zafir and the dragons had come to Evenspire from above it, from high out of the emptiness of the Desert of Stones. He'd been one of the first to punch through the cloud, falling towards the ground like an arrow. Wraithwing had pulled up and Jehal had watched the other dragons go. The sky was thick with them even now. Five hundred, mostly his and Zafir's. They were like a plague. Wherever they went they ate everything. The palace eyries had been stripped bare in a matter of days, their potions drunk dry and their herds of cattle gone. The plague had crossed the Purple Spur into the dry plains that sat between the Spur and Evenspire. There the dragons had spread out. They made their way foraging in little clusters, falling out of the sky onto the tiny scattered bands of outsiders who eked out their lives on the fringes of the desert. As far as Jehal knew, no one had had any particular desire to lay waste to the southern half of Almiri's realm, but that's what they'd done, more by accident than by design. Sated dragons fought harder than hungry ones.
No sign of Almiri. He'd held his position just below the cloud and signalled to his other riders to do the same. Almiri's dragons hadn't been waiting for them above the cloud and they weren't waiting here either. Let Zafir burn the citadel. Whoever won today, the city and the eyrie around it would burn to the ground, that was inevitable. He wondered briefly if Almiri had abandoned her stronghold and run off to hide with her sister. That would have been the best thing she could have done for her people. Then the first of Zafir's riders had been greeted by a volley of scorpions as they approached the walls. Jehal had watched as a single dragon spiralled towards the ground. A lucky shot on a hunter with only one rider.
Or maybe she hadn't, but where were her dragons? He'd looked around him, and it had occurred to him then that even if he saw them, how would he know? He didn't even know all his own beasts. And then there was Prince Loatan with sixty of King Narghon's dragons, and every single monster from Zafir's eyries. Silvallan had sent some seventy dragons under Princess Kalista and he knew none of them. There were so many. He'd sat there on Wraithwing's back, watching the palace below him burn, and wondered: How would I know if I saw Almiri and her riders? He'd watched as the last half-dozen dragons drifted lazily out of the cloud and veered towards him. I don't have the first idea who they are. For all I know, those could be Almiri's riders. Prince Lai will be turning on his pyre.
The ri
ders had signalled, telling him to go down to join the attack on the ground. Zafir's dragons were almost there, converging on the cascading curtains of stone that were the Palace of Paths. As he'd watched, the first blasts of fire bloomed in front of them. He'd been so busy wondering how he'd know Almiri's dragons when he saw them that he didn't realise he was looking right at them until much too late. The six hunters. Still signalling, still coming towards him. Coming much too fast. He'd winced as he'd shouted at Wraithwing to dive and dive hard. And so it had begun…
Behind him he heard one of the hunters let out a series of shrieks and he suddenly knew exactly where Almiri's dragons had been. They're not below the cloud and they're not above the cloud. They're in the cloud.
On cue, three shapes dropped out of it in front of him. Oh, very clever.
Meteroa landed with three dragons and a dozen riders on the largest of the three Pinnacles, the Fortress of Watchfulness. The people he was looking for might be here or they might be at the Palace of Pleasure on the second Pinnacle. He rather doubted that he'd find them on the third, in the Temple of Tranquillity. Soldiers came running out dragging scorpions behind them, rather too late to do any good.
If I'd planned to burn everything from the skies, that is. He snapped his fingers and his dragon lowered its head as any well-trained dragon should do. More dragons circled above, almost invisible in the night sky, little more than the occasional black silhouette blotting out a star. Meteroa climbed down from the dragon's back. He stroked its scales. You don't like the dark, do you? But you'll still fly if I tell you to. Once we're done with you, you're not much different from dogs and horses, are you? Don't think I don't know what you'd be like if we didn't keep you docile. The alchemists are right to be afraid of you.
He looked at the soldiers and the Scales and the pathetic collection of riders that had emerged to greet him. He didn't recognise a single face. Zafir had taken every rider who could fight away with her to Evenspire. Which is going to make my life so much easier.
'I am Prince Meteroa, brother to the late King Tyan. I am King Jehal's eyrie-master. We ride to war at the speaker's call. I require food and sustenance for my dragons and my riders and an audience with Prince Kazalain.'
The riders shuffled uneasily. One of them stepped forward. Meteroa peered at him. The face wasn't familiar but his eyes were sharp. He was old and walked awkwardly, which was presumably why Zafir had left him behind. 'In Queen Zafir's absence, Princess Kiam rules here,' said the rider. He bowed as he spoke, but his eyes never left Meteroa's face.
'And will I find her here or in the Palace of Pleasure?'
The rider bowed again. 'I do not know where you will find her, Your Highness, but it will not be here.'
Meteroa threw up his hands in exaggerated exasperation. 'Shall I spend the night searching for your errant princess? I have better things to do and my men are soldiers not errand boys. Is Prince Kazalain here?' He'd better be. 'My words are for him, not some little girl.'
'He's here, Your Highness,' said the rider. He sounded reluctant.
'Well, then go and get him.'
There wasn't anywhere else for him to go. Jehal plunged down again, the force of Wraithwing's turn pitching him back with such force that he was surprised it didn't snap his spine. He screamed as something ripped and his injured leg was suddenly stabbing burning agony. He gestured frantically, hoping some of his riders would see and follow him towards the ground. Principles said that he should keep his riders high and simply sit there and take it from the dragons hidden in the clouds. We need to be low enough to see them coming. Then we can fight them. He brought the visor down again and trusted Wraithwing to level out safely above the city instead of smashing into the ground. Jehal was still gasping from the pain in his leg when Wraithwing spread out his wings again and he pitched forward. His eyes bulged and the world went red for a moment as his ribs were pushed flat. Then the feeling went. Dazed, he leaned forward and urged the dragon on, over the column of smoke and flames that had been the Palace of Paths. The wind battered at him. Whatever would burn was burning. The scorpions on the walls were gone, smashed to bits or sitting limp and idle, surrounded by the charred husks of the soldiers who had manned them. Most of Almiri's men would have fled down into the tunnels under the citadel; that was to be expected. Zafir wouldn't worry about that. Two thousand of the Adamantine Men were on the march to mop up the survivors and hold the citadel once Almiri had been burned out of it. Once we've done with you. But the soldiers wouldn't get here for days. Until then dragons would have to do.
He glimpsed Onyx, Zafir's war-dragon, circling low along the walls. Jehal could almost taste her delight as she swept arcs of fire about her as she went. He drove Wraithwing towards her and then into the plumes of smoke and into a cloud of a hundred circling dragons. With a bit of luck that would shake Almiri's riders off his tail. After he'd passed through, he started to climb back towards his own dragons. He took a deep breath, sat up, opened his visor and looked behind him. He was breathing hard. Everything hurt. He was ready to be sick. But at least he was still alive.
The hunters who'd been chasing him were gone. For a moment he was alone. He took a few breaths to let his racing heart slow. He was sweating, exhausted, and he hadn't even done anything yet except run away. Below him the rest of Zafir's dragons, the ones that weren't destroying the citadel, were loose over the city. There wasn't any pattern or order to what they were doing. They were hunters mostly, Iooking for any sign of Almiri and her soldiers. So far they hadn't set the city hopelessly ablaze, but that was surely only a matter of time. Jehal wondered for a fraction of a second whether the people who lived there had had any warning of what was to come. Probably not, he supposed.
He looked up again, turning Wraithwing back towards his own riders. And ducked as a dragon tail sliced the air barely yards away from his face.
'Vishmir's cock! What does it take?' He swore some more but these dragons weren't coming for him. They rained past him, another cluster of Almiri's hunters from the clouds, arrowing down towards the citadel. For a few seconds he was too stunned that he was still alive to think. Then he saw where they were going. They were aiming straight for Onyx.
Jehal watched in stupefied disbelief. Without thinking what he was doing, he turned Wraithwing and dived after them. He felt something that was almost panic. He wasn't going to catch them in time. And all the time a part of him was screaming, Why are you chasing them? They're only doing exactly what you were going to do! Let them do it! Except that wasn't what he wanted. He'd come to the battle with every intention of betraying Zafir and smashing her dragons to the ground as soon as the battle was won. And now Almiri's doing it for me, and I'm trying to save her. What sort of idiot does that make me?
He pulled Wraithwing up. The hunters were far too far ahead. They'd fallen like stones all the way from the clouds and he had no chance of catching them. All he could do was watch.
Eventually Prince Kazalain appeared. Meteroa almost didn't recognise him. He looked old and broken. He tried to smile, but his face struggled as if he'd forgotten how.
'Prince Meteroa.' The usual disgust wasn't there. Kazalain only looked sad.
'I'm just an eyrie-master, Your Highness. You look terrible. The months since King Jehal's wedding have not been kind to you. You look ten years older.' Meteroa reached out a hand. 'I'm sorry for your loss.'
Kazalain spat. 'No, you're not, Prince Meteroa. You hardly knew my son Sakabian. He was foolish, but he didn't deserve to hang in a cage over the speaker's g.ates.'
'Neither did Queen Shezira or King Valgar for that matter, but little things like that don't seem to bother your queen.' 'Mind your tongue.'
'Why? Will you cut it out because I say that your son's death was unjust?'
'You should not be here, and you should not be saying these things.' Kazalain turned away. 'Be gone!'
'I require food and sustenance for my dragons and my riders, Kazalain. We are going to war.'
Kazalain w
aved vaguely at the city below. 'At the city eyrie, Meteroa. You know that. Don't ask the alchemists for any of their potions though. They barely have enough to feed the hatchlings. We have none to spare.'
'You still have your other sons. You should not forget them. Vishmir and Lai, isn't it? Named after the shining lights of Furymouth's past. Good names. Are they here?'
'Of course they're here. You think I'd let them stray from me after what our queen did to Sakabian.' He stopped and turned back again. 'Why do you ask?' Something in Meteroa's tone must have caught his attention. I'll have to pay more attention to that sort of thing.
'You could wonder about that. Or you could wonder about the fact that I'm dressed in dragon-scale while you and your soldiers are not, eh?' He gave Kazalain an instant to understand what was about to happen and then dropped to one knee and flicked his fire visor closed.
Fire poured from the dragons behind him. The force of it plucked him right off the ground and threw him ten feet forward. The noise left his ears ringing. When he got up, he staggered. If any of Kazalain's soldiers were still alive, they could have killed him as easily as killing a child.
Well I won't be doing that again. Meteroa lifted up his visor. The soldiers and Kazalain were all dead, burned to the bone. Meteroa knelt down beside Kazalain and patted what was left of his head. Charred bits fell off in his hand.
'I wouldn't want any heirs escaping to make a nuisance of themselves, dial's why.' He gave the dead prince a wan smile. 'I'll be kinder to them than Zafir was to Sakabian. At least I can promise you that. Their deaths will be as quick and painless as yours.'
