Varama drew to a stop beside a stinking wooden trough near the first dragon’s head.
The dragon itself was still. The resistance scouts reported that the beasts moved little, except when food was deposited in their feed troughs, at which point they lurched to life, so eager to eat that they’d once snared one of the slaves forced to feed them.
Two evenings previous, Sansyra had considered them from a hiding place high on the second ring. The dragons were broadly similar in that their central bodies stretched on for at least twenty horse lengths, their tails longer yet. But each was different. One with a greenish hue had a variety of added spikes upon nearly every leg and shoulder joint. Another had a beautiful, almost iridescent sheen, like an insect’s wing held up to the light, and Sansyra had found that such a stark contrast to its brutal outline she’d later sketched it from memory. The ugliest, though, was a deep blue with a heavy jaw and especially large spikes, and this was the one they neared first.
The horses shied as they stopped in front of it, and Varama stilled them with a word and what Sansyra sensed was a brief magical force. Surprisingly, the winged lizards smelled like very little at all, or perhaps their scent was completely disguised by the reek of blood-soaked soil.
Varama hung a lantern on a pole standing up from the corner of the cart, then unshuttered it to narrowly direct its beam toward the rectangular trough. If not for the dull light gleaming on the cobalt scales of the dragon’s snout, the creature would have seemed black. It lay with eyes closed, spiky head between its massive front feet, dark wings folded along its sides.
While Varama watched, Sansyra hurried to the back of the cart, hefted the first basket, and carted it to the trough. Her eyes locked upon the dragon’s features as she upended the raw meat, heavily soaked in poison, and sent it sliding into the container. The dragon did nothing. Sansyra stepped back, glanced to her commanding officer.
“Stand watch,” Varama said. “I’m going to wake it.”
Varama seemed no different than usual; distant onlookers would only have seen her staring at the great lizard. Her mentor was one of the least demonstrative spell casters Sansyra had ever encountered. Likely at this very moment the alten was deeply enmeshed in a weaving, connecting her mind to whatever mind the dragon possessed.
Sansyra noticed nothing along the wall. Back at the gate the guards were no longer silhouetted by their lanterns.
Torchlight reflected upon the whites of the dragon’s huge open orbs. Sansyra swore softly in surprise.
Varama stood absolutely still even as the beast craned its neck within a few feet of her and lowered its maw toward the poisoned food. It tipped in its head, bared its knife-sharp teeth, and dropped in a black tongue to slurp up the meal.
Sansyra smiled triumphantly. One down, assuming that such a creature could be killed by the poison Varama had harvested from flowers.
After it had lapped up the food and, for better measure, licked the wood where it had rested, the dragon stared past them, closed its eyes, and slowly lowered its head. A function of Varama’s spell work, Sansyra knew, for she recognized the alten’s concentrated look.
Sansyra only realized she’d been holding her breath when she let it out at the same time as Varama, who relaxed and turned away. “Let’s keep on,” she said.
Sansyra looked back to the first dragon, discovered it with its head between its feet. It didn’t seem at all troubled. “Did it work?” She spoke softly as she led the horses forward, fearful that her voice would carry far in the vast still quiet.
“I’ve no way of knowing, yet,” Varama answered. “It doesn’t seem to register pain or contentment, as I understand it. But the creature clearly has a stomach or the Naor wouldn’t feed it. And we just fed it enough atropa to kill forty horses. So assuming it’s physiology is not too dissimilar from other vertebrates, we should learn the answer to your question in approximately eight minutes.”
“How hard was the dragon to manipulate?
“There was some challenge,” Varama admitted. “There’s little mind there with which to link; more a series of impulses. You can set one in motion and it moves, almost automatically, as though it has a memorized pattern. I think it would be very challenging to alter that pattern.”
Sansyra scanned the ground ahead as well as the walls. In moments they’d stopped near the trough of the next beast, the black one with the thinnest body. She noted its eyes, too, were closed, then slid a quantity of pig meat into the wooden container. The dragon woke with a start and lunged at the meal. Sansyra let out a gasp of surprise and darted back.
Fortunately, the monster seemed only interested in the bloody meat. Soon, it too had downed the poisons, and under Varama’s guidance, resumed its slumber.
As they moved on toward the largest of them all, the green, Sansyra felt tension building within her. Each roll of the cart wheel, each hoof clop, she imagined like the sound years made as they swept away. How much longer before someone grew worried about what they were doing?
“Two baskets for this one,” Varama told her as they came to a stop.
Sansyra nodded as she remembered their preparations, but she said nothing. Varama usually only repeated orders to those who seemed unable to keep up with her train of thought, and Sansyra had long since sworn she would prove herself more reliable than that. It was oddly reassuring to note her mentor was nervous too.
This biggest one slept more deeply, and Varama had to force it awake. Still, once it scented the meal it was just as eager as the others, and gobbled up the food.
As they neared the fourth dragon, she felt a stab of remorse, for the torchlight winked upon the dragon’s brilliant wing scales. Its appearance shouldn’t have mattered, but it troubled her both that they had to slay such a unique specimen and that the Naor were capable of fashioning something with a hint of beauty even if it was likely accidental.
As Sansyra headed to the rear of the cart, she heard the rush of feet behind her and whirled. Her hand went to the place her knife was usually belted, then switched higher when she realized she’d attached it differently on her Naor armor.
A moment later Nereal sprinted up to them and drew to a halt, only a little winded. She sketched a salute to Varama then reported quickly: “A Naor mounted patrol came by. They left, but Iressa believes that they were suspicious.”
“And your belief?” Varama said.
“I think her right, Alten. The officer hesitated too long, and they didn’t complete a full round before they returned the way they came.”
“As though they got to thinking about it and were returning to check in with a higher-up,” Sansyra suggested.
“Yes,” Nereal agreed.
Almost at the same moment, a deep horn call sounded from the nearby gate tower. Sansyra recognized an alert when she heard one.
So did Varama. “Empty the last basket. Nereal, uncouple the horses. Hurry!”
Sansyra slopped the next-to-last dose of poisoned meat before her favorite dragon. Earlier she’d regretted having to kill it, now she was sorry that they wouldn’t have a chance to slay the next one as well. She heard Nereal cursing and stepped away to assist her with a knot as Varama concentrated on spell work.
The horn calls were repeated to the south, and then from somewhere in the second ring. Sansyra knew a stab of fear, for the Naor could pour into this area by the hundreds. Or thousands.
A flash of red light caught her attention from the left, and Sansyra looked up to see the roof of a building aflame on the second ring. A moment later there was a flash of fire from far off in the west.
Varama’s backup plan was already underway. Two small additional teams had been deployed with orders to light a barracks building and a Naor stables afire if the Naor blew alert calls during the midst of the dragon mission. Varama had commented that the odds of their escape improved somewhat if there was confusion as to the reason behind any alert calls.
She and Nereal untethered the horses, then, while Sansyra grabbed the ca
rt’s hidden shields and javelins, Nereal outfitted them with bridles.
A wordless Varama leapt astride the darker of the two animals. Sansyra handed up a shield and three javelins even as more horn calls rang through the city. Closer by, she heard the whinny of horses and the clash of arms.
Sansyra had ripped off her distracting disguise beard and mustache and climbed onto the back of her horse, urging Nereal to hurry after she’d passed over the second shield and javelins. The squire clambered up and grabbed her about the waist.
Either Varama had a better horse or she was a better horsewoman, for hers surged immediately forward. Sansyra’s was fairly unresponsive to heel or reins, which was understandable in a cart horse. Unfortunately, there was no time to be understanding. Reluctantly Sansyra dipped into her small supply of magical energies. She was but a minor weaver, with the ability to cast a handful of spells before exhausting herself. She preferred to reserve all her energies for life-threatening emergencies, such as spears headed straight for her. It annoyed her to have to expend effort to get an untrained animal into useful motion.
She briefly linked her will to that of her mount and set it following its companion. Varama was already several horse lengths ahead, and she was the first through the barrier. A male scream rang through the air and was abruptly silenced.
Just this side of the fence, they passed a lumpy pile that hadn’t been here before—the bodies of the Naor sentries, dragged here after the archers had secured their exit. In the road beyond Sansyra spotted a riderless horse cantering away. A Naor warrior impaled upon a javelin crawled feebly after it.
By the light of scattered torches, she saw even more details as they advanced. A dozen warriors charged at them from the right, roused from bed to fight unhelmed and unarmored. Denalia’s archers had retreated to the nearby line of houses, from which they launched a devastating volley. The Naor cried out as they fell.
She kicked her horse again after Varama, nearing the archers as they diverted into the lane that was their planned exit. They were only a few lengths along when she spotted a small Naor band, just visible by the glint from helms and spear points.
Varama hefted a javelin as she kicked her animal into gallop. Sansyra saw Varama’s throw, and knew momentary disappointment as it arched past the two Naor in front. And then the weapon transfixed a rider behind. He plummeted stonelike from his saddle.
Varama shouted back to her: “Take the one on the left!”
Sansyra used more of her dwindling powers to coax her heavy mount to speed. Two horsemen had galloped past the Naor on foot, and one pitched a spear. Sansyra saw it begin its arc, made a split-second decision, and veered right. She felt the passage of the weapon past her cheek.
Marksmanship had never been Sansyra’s great strength. But Nereal was a natural. She gripped Sansyra’s shoulder with her off hand, then let loose. Her javelin took the charging Naor in the shoulder.
It stuck in his armor. He rocked in his saddle, then cast it savagely away and pulled his sword, shouting in fury as he closed. Varama was already exchanging sword blows with the man’s companion.
Sansyra parried a slash that almost tore the sword from her fingers. Nereal left her second javelin buried in the warrior’s thigh, his shout of pain almost drowned out by the squire’s exultant war cry.
Then they were past the riders and heading straight on for what must have been two full troops, with two more mounted horsemen and at least four dozen on foot.
Varama donned her other semblance and set her ring to shining. “For Alantris!” she shouted.
But it was not her voice, even if it came from her lips, and as Sansyra came up beside her she saw it was not Varama’s image revealed by her azure ring, but that of a dark-haired man with a narrow face. Sansyra had never seen N’lahr in person, but knew his image from the many paintings and statues and the relief upon his tomb. The Naor already gaped, and to ensure they all understood, Varama flourished her blade and cried out theatrically: “I am N’lahr, returned from the dead to drag you down to hell!” And with that her horse curvetted. The alten sent forth a burst of fear, and fully half the Naor soldiers bolted into a nearby alley. Those struck motionless with fear were wide open for the next volley from the archers, who’d run up from the side.
Varama shouted in fury and spurred toward the enemy, sword extended. She galloped one warrior down and sliced another’s arm off and then she was into the horsemen.
Sansyra’s beast was again slower to answer. Varama was already engaged with one of the mounted officers. The other cast forth a stream of glittering motes into Sansyra’s path. She swung up her shield and heard one of the metal things clang against it. Something sharp slashed through the leather of her boot. The horse screamed and Nereal gurgled and suddenly slipped from the saddle.
Years of training kicked in and Sansyra threw herself clear of the collapsing mount. She tumbled as she hit, the air filled with her horse’s screams. She staggered to her feet and whipped up her sword, saw the horse struggling to rise. Nereal was slumped on the ground, moving fitfully and with no real purpose, her throat a terrible red gash.
A voice in her head told her to still her movements. It was a very reasonable, commanding voice, and no matter how much Sansyra shook her head and repeated the mantra she’d been taught, throwing up her own meager magical energies to counter, the enemy mage’s command grew ever more authoritative. Dully she was aware of others closing, of footfalls, of shouts.
Her lip curled and she showed her teeth, but the voice in her head was telling her to stop the nonsense and she was wondering why she shouldn’t.
And then the voice was stilled and Varama was there in her N’lahr semblance and the Naor mage who’d thrown the shining weapons slipped headless from his mount.
“Take his horse!” Varama shouted. And so she did. Iressa and the archers caught up Nereal’s limp body and they all stole into the night.
Over the next quarter hour they sometimes pretended to be Naor patrol and sometimes advanced more stealthily around large Naor search parties. Eventually they abandoned their animals, moving over rooftops and through alleys and secret ways until they reached, at long last, the safety of the tunnels.
After a healer had slipped sharp shrapnel from her calf and sewn the wound shut, she sat in Varama’s office. She was trying to draw the dragon rather than the image of Nereal she kept seeing as Varama listened to reports. Then she learned that Varama’s other forged orders had yielded success: the Naor themselves had delivered armaments to a deadly ambush site and a Naor cavalry patrol had been dispatched beyond the city and promptly vanished, almost surely cut to ribbons by the Alantran cavalry. Other missions had sown additional chaos. Virian, a wiry third ranker, had infiltrated a barracks and slain every soldier on lower bunks while they slept. Other lower rankers had written N’lahr’s name in red paint in prominent places that would be seen come dawn.
As important as the donated weapons were, it was the last report, delivered just before dawn by her friend Lemahl, that excited her most. He and a small team of masons and weavers had worked a hole through a secluded spot in the outer wall, and Lemahl had set out to find their allies in the countryside.
With his large, knobby nose and square face, Lemahl wasn’t the handsomest of men, but his good spirits were indefatigable. He flashed his winning smile as he entered Varama’s office.
“You made contact,” Varama said.
“Yes, Alten. And I brought a guest.” Lemahl looked to his right and raised his voice. “Enter.”
The door opened on the instant and in swaggered a short, dark-skinned woman with straight black hair. Like Varama, she wore a khalat and a sapphire ring, but the resemblance ended there, for where Varama’s face was rectangular, this woman’s was round, and while Varama’s nose was long and thin, her counterpart’s was short and flat. Varama stared as the newcomer grinned and opened her arms.
She was Enada the Swift, mistress of horses.
“Hail, Alten!” sh
e cried. “I’ve brought my cavalry. I hear you have some Naor to slay!”
12
The Hand of the Enemy
Varama stood and politely saluted the shorter woman. Enada laughed that off and stepped around the desk to embrace her comrade, bringing with her the strong odor of horse. Lemahl rocked back on his heels in barely contained excitement.
The blue-skinned alten blinked and half-heartedly patted Enada’s back. She herself was never particularly demonstrative and always looked awkward making physical contact.
The horsewoman chuckled as she stepped away, slapping Varama’s shoulders. She stared up. “Gods. You look like hell.”
Someone else might have been affronted, or made a joke about the horsewoman’s appearance in kind, but Varama probed immediately for information. “Why are you here? and who’s to command your troops if you’re trapped or killed inside the city?”
Enada answered with a shrug. “I came to make sure it was really you. No doubt about that now. Aren’t you glad to see me?”
But Varama hadn’t received the answer she wanted, so she tried again, hoping a question with greater precision would supply the requested information. Sansyra, long since familiar with Varama’s methods, wondered why Enada was so oblivious to them. “Is there someone in charge of your troops?” Varama demanded.
Enada rolled her eyes a little at Sansyra, as though sharing with her audience some private amusement at another’s foolishness. It was then Sansyra understood. Enada knew Varama’s methods; she just didn’t approve of them. “Yes. I’ve two sixth rankers in charge of them. Now tell me you’re glad to see me.”
“It’s good to see you,” Varama said coolly. “How many are with you?”
“I’ve got enough to make things hellish out there. Those idiot Naor just can’t keep up with us. Can you believe they sent a forty-man cavalry patrol after us tonight after we wiped out a hundred-and-fifty-man unit yesterday?” So Enada’s force and not just the residual Alantrans had been responsible for the Naor’s new reason to fear venture beyond the walls.
Upon the Flight of the Queen Page 22
