by Duncan Lay
His first reaction was to say he wanted nothing from them but he forced himself to think before he said something foolish. ‘Can you take us back to the capital?’ he asked, both because he knew they needed to return fast—and wanting to give Karia a treat to make up for what he had put her through.
‘Yes,’ Argurium rumbled.
‘Good,’ Martil said, moving as if their ‘talk’ was over. Although Havell looked as though he had more to say, at a signal from Argurium he subsided and let Martil escape inside Alban’s church.
Martil found Merren trying to get some food for Karia, and she welcomed the distraction.
‘Using the dragon? What is this?’ Merren asked when he told her.
Martil shrugged. ‘Well, if we are going to ask Barrett to use his powers to bring in game for the Derthals, then he won’t be able to take us back to the capital. But we need to get back fast. The attack could happen any day.’
Barrett appeared from the church’s simple kitchen. ‘What do you want?’ he asked sourly.
‘Barrett, the Derthals need your help. They can march swiftly, but they need food. High Chief Sacrax told me last night that they need to leave enough food here so the females, the children and the old can last the winter,’ Merren said quickly. ‘You can do that today, then return to the capital tomorrow, with any of us that Argurium cannot carry.’
Barrett nodded. ‘I shall do that,’ he agreed flatly.
‘Barrett—I need to thank you for saving my life last night—and saving our cause at the same time.’ Martil stepped forwards, hand outstretched.
Barrett stared at it for a long moment. ‘It is becoming something of a habit, is it not?’ he said coolly. ‘Yet, funnily enough, it is you who is always hailed the hero.’
‘That is never my wish,’ Martil said quietly.
Barrett ignored his hand. ‘I have duties to perform. I shall go and find High Chief Sacrax, and begin to bring in game. They will need time to smoke the meat, if it is to last the trip south.’
Martil gritted his teeth and lowered his hand as the wizard brushed past him and walked out.
Barrett could feel every eye on him but he did not care. He was not in love with Merren any more. He told himself that every day. But, still, seeing her reaction to Martil’s fight, watching her run across to catch him in her arms, on top of knowing she was carrying Martil’s baby—it was hard not to feel bitter.
There was silence in the church after Barrett left.
Merren thought about going after him but thought it probably best to leave him alone. She might do more harm than good, the mood he was in. And he was too important to her cause to risk offending.
‘When can we fly on the dragon?’ Karia asked in the silence.
Merren smiled. ‘We shall need to leave as soon as we have spoken to High Chief Sacrax. Wilsen, Jaret, you can travel back with Barrett, while Father Quiller, you will need to travel with the Derthals, to make sure there are no incidents on the way south.’
‘I can’t believe I’m going to fly on a dragon! What a great present!’ Karia laughed and then pumped her fists.
‘Where did you learn that?’ Merren asked, laughing.
‘Watching the soldiers,’ she said, innocently.
‘Well, as long as that’s all you pick up from them,’ Martil muttered.
‘Can I talk to the elf and dragon? Can I, please?’
Martil was happy to leave her with Argurium and pestering Havell with questions about the nonexistent magic creatures on Dragonara Isle. Partly to pay back the Elfaran but also because he wanted to keep her away from where, thanks to Barrett, deer, goats, birds and rabbits were presenting themselves in reasonable—but not great—numbers to the Derthals. She would have loved that but hated seeing eager Derthals slit their throats, then skin and butcher them. Meanwhile, other Derthals were stripping bushes and trees of berries and nuts, again thanks to Barrett. The wizard would not talk to them but he was at least working hard.
Sacrax greeted them enthusiastically, his doubts of the previous night gone.
‘We shall be able to leave this evening!’ the High Chief grinned. ‘All the clans are gathering, and we shall meet at the point where my guides waited for you.’
‘We shall fly back to Norstalos on the dragon, so we may prepare to defeat our enemies, the Berellians,’ Merren announced. ‘We shall see you at the passes?’
‘You shall,’ Sacrax agreed. ‘You have my oath, my blood. May my bowels turn to water and my loins to ice if I break that!’
Merren glanced at Martil, who kept a straight face.
‘Thank you,’ Merren said simply, holding out her hand. ‘You have saved both our peoples.’
‘I hope so.’ Sacrax nodded, clasping her hand carefully.
3
Back in the capital, this had seemed like a straightforward task to ex-sergeant—now Father—Kesbury. Although he was not a real priest, not even a Brother, yet. In fact he had barely begun his training but Archbishop Nott had sent every novice out into the country. There was no point learning how to care for a flock when the wolves were already loose. His assignment had been one of the two villages on the Berellian border that was refusing to move. Attempts to remove food from villages had been far less successful than in the towns. After all, most were farmers, with vegetable gardens and livestock.
He did wonder why he had been given the hardest task of all the novices. He did not question it, because he knew he had more to prove than anyone else, being a Ralloran and also seen by some as too close to Bishop Milly.
The former priest of the village, Chanlon, had the place under his thumb but Kesbury was in no mood to play around. The attack could come any day. While Nerrin and the Rallorans had been forced to tread carefully, Kesbury had no such qualms.
He was greeted with jeers and insults, led by Chanlon, but he stopped them instantly by using his new-found powers to silence Chanlon, then hold the man. The villagers took one look at what the huge ex-soldier had done to their former leader—and swiftly decided to do whatever Kesbury asked. He sensed they feared him, some even hated him, but he could not worry about it. Their feelings about him were secondary to saving them.
Most families had a horse or two, many had small wagons or carts—and all were loaded high. Kesbury went through them, ruthlessly throwing away items that were useless, or would only slow them down, replacing them with crates of food and barrels of ale from Chanlon’s store. Villagers began to protest as valuable heirlooms were thrown to the ground, then thought better of it.
He was also grabbing every man he could see, and talking to them, a little more quietly.
‘Get yourself a weapon. Doesn’t matter if it’s an axe, a hoe, a club or a knife. Bring it.’
Against a company of Berellians, it would be pitiful, but anything was better than nothing. As for himself, he had found a lead-tipped staff in Chanlon’s house. Having used something similar as a guard on the Golden Gate brothel, he was happy to adopt it.
Finally, all was ready to his satisfaction.
‘Right! Our first destination will be the River Brack. We’ll get there and then see which road is faster to the north. Remember, every mile we walk is a mile further away from the Berellian attack. If the children get tired, sit them on a horse or on a wagon. Let’s move!’
Kesbury hid his fear as he watched them begin. They had left it late—but at least they were moving. The men and women were all farmers, used to working from dawn to dusk. He could push them hard, get them a good long way from here in a couple of days. But then it would get more difficult. People, and animals, would begin to tire. And Aroaril help them if it began to rain. He just had one more task.
‘I don’t want to see your face again, understand? Go where you will but stay away from these people,’ Kesbury told Chanlon. ‘You may take my horse. I’ll be walking.’
He released the man and for a moment he thought the ex-priest was going to attack him. But Chanlon was no fool, and he came to his senses befor
e taking on Kesbury, who was twice his size.
‘This won’t be the last you’ll see of me,’ the ex-priest hissed.
‘For your health, I hope it is,’ Kesbury told him, then turned his back on the man, striding after the last farm cart, which was just clearing the village outskirts.
Chanlon watched him go in impotent fury. Having been forced to watch, helpless, as his village was stolen from him, he had spent the time planning ever more fanciful ways of getting his revenge. But then his mind cleared. Revenge was close at hand. Stopping only to collect a couple of moneybags, which had been left by Kesbury, he found the horse and turned it towards the southern border.
King Markuz had become obsessed with the conquest of Norstalos. Since the death of Cezar, he had thought of nothing else. If he had had his way, the army would have already marched and smoke would be staining the sky. But Onzalez had ordered a delay. The Tenochs were late, still sailing up the coast, and the three invasions were all being held back because of them.
Without permission to attack, Markuz was bored. So when a Norstaline priest was dragged before him, he was willing to hear what the man said. If it was not useful, then it would be entertaining to hear the man scream.
‘Who are you?’ Markuz demanded.
‘I am Chanlon, dismissed from Aroaril’s service and looking to serve you, sire. I bring news from over the border!’
Markuz tried to keep the interest from his face. He had tried to slip men across the border but the accursed Rallorans were too good—hardly any of his spies made it back alive.
‘What news?’
‘The Queen is trying to evacuate the people to the north!’
Markuz could not care less. The fools would run into Gello coming from the east and the Tenochs invading from the west.
‘Only two villages remain south of the river—’
‘This is not important,’ Markuz interrupted. ‘Where are the Rallorans? That is what I want to know.’
Chanlon paused nervously, unsure whether he should make something up.
‘Take this fool away and have him impaled for wasting my time.’ Markuz gestured to the sweating Chanlon.
‘No, no, I’ll do anything! Just don’t kill me, I’ll do anything to help you!’ Chanlon screamed.
Onzalez seemed to appear out of nowhere. At a gesture from him, the guards stopped dragging Chanlon away to his grisly fate. Everyone stopped, nervously waiting for the Fearpriest.
‘What is going on, Brother?’ Markuz rumbled.
‘Summon your war captains. Launch a raid across the border. Sack those villages,’ Onzalez suggested, and Markuz sat up, a broad smile on his face.
As the king signalled for his captains, Onzalez turned to Chanlon.
‘A former priest of Aroaril. Will you convert? Serve me always?’ Onzalez demanded.
‘Happily,’ Chanlon swore.
‘Bring him with us,’ Onzalez ordered the guards. ‘When we capture our first Norstalines, we shall see if he shall join us, or them in death.’
‘You won’t regret this,’ Chanlon promised, sobbing with relief.
Martil did not know what to expect when it came to flying on a dragon. He had never thought such a thing would happen. Karia, on the other hand, had dreamed of little else for the past year.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ Havell told them. ‘Riding on a dragon is not like flying on some bird or ordinary creature. A dragon flies using magic, so there is no need to worry about such things as wind and cold. The trip will be swift and comfortable, although I would caution you not to look down too much.’
‘Why not? I want to look!’ Karia complained.
‘The sight of the ground can be unsettling,’ Havell warned.
‘He’s no fun,’ Karia muttered to Martil.
‘No, but then falling off might be too much fun.’ Martil smiled. ‘And then no fun at all.’
‘Ha ha, very funny,’ she told him.
Havell, sighing slightly, showed them how to climb onto Argurium’s wing, which the dragon lifted until they could step onto her broad back, then walk up to where they could sit and buckle themselves into thin leather straps that looped around the dragon’s long neck.
‘Is that it? It looks flimsy.’ Martil tested it nervously.
‘That is all you need. It is, after all, a magical trip. It is just to stop you leaning over and perhaps falling off.’
Martil made sure Karia was sitting in front of him, and he had his arms around her, as well as through the strap, just in case.
‘Dad! I can barely see!’ Karia protested.
‘I’d rather be sure you can stay on,’ Martil told her, as Merren took her seat carefully.
‘Are we all ready?’ Havell settled himself between Martil and Merren.
‘No,’ Martil admitted.
‘Excellent!’ Havell smiled thinly. Martil suspected the Elfaran was rather enjoying his discomfort.
A crowd of Derthals, along with Jaret, Wilsen, Quiller and Alban—but, noticeably, not Barrett—waved them off.
Martil did not know what to expect. He had imagined there would be some sort of frantic flapping of wings, followed by a struggle to gain height, before an uncomfortable trip back to the capital.
But it was nothing of the sort. The dragon seemed to leap effortlessly into the air; in moments the huge crowd had dwindled to the size of ants and they were speeding south. Martil knew what it felt like to gallop on a horse, how the wind whipped at you—and the way the ground was moving below seemed to indicate the wind should be enough to blow them clear off the back of the dragon, ‘holding strap’ or not. But there was barely enough wind to ruffle their hair.
‘I can’t believe it,’ Martil gasped.
‘This is fantastic! Look down there,’ Karia laughed.
‘This is better even than Barrett’s trick with enchanting the birds! With Argurium’s help, we can see what is happening from one side of the country to the other,’ Merren exulted.
‘Perhaps there is some use to this “bloody lizard”, after all,’ Argurium declared.
Martil glanced guiltily at Havell as a grinning Karia leaned back and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.
There was barely time to spot the northern towns and the passes as they flew south at an impossible speed. But there was time to see, on every road, columns of refugees heading north.
‘So Conal and Sendric did their job,’ Merren said grimly. ‘But what will this cost the country?’
‘Less than if we were not getting those people behind the passes,’ Martil replied.
‘How is it going? Are the south and west being evacuated swiftly enough? Perhaps I should not have gone north…’ Merren was worried.
‘Merren, you had to go. Without the Derthals, we could offer those people only a false hope. With the Derthals, they will be safe behind those passes,’ Martil told her. ‘You can only do one thing at a time. Conal and Sendric have not let you down.’
But Merren was not really listening to him. ‘So many are going to die,’ she sighed.
‘But more will live,’ Martil reminded her. ‘The most important thing is to keep as many soldiers as possible. It will be a hard decision to leave people behind to the Berellians and Tenochs but we have no choice.’
‘Sadly, I fear you are right,’ Merren groaned.
‘We shall be at the capital shortly. I assume you want to be taken to the palace?’ Havell interrupted.
Merren shook her head. ‘I want you to go lower, fly around the city slowly. Let all see me on the dragon’s back before you land.’
‘Is that sort of display really necessary?’
‘Dragons hold a special place in Norstalos’ history. It might be a false place, given what you told us about King Riel and the Dragon Sword, but dragons are still honoured and cherished by the people. They talk of Norstalos being “blessed by the dragons”. The people are afraid, worried. To see me on a dragon will give the people a boost,’ Merren explained.
‘And
stop those rumours about the dragons not wanting a Queen on the throne.’ Martil turned and smiled at her to remove any sting from the words.
Merren could not help but smile back. ‘Indeed,’ she admitted.
So it proved.
The first swoop around the city brought the people out in droves—rather too many people, Martil thought, when they should have been already heading north—and the second trip around the city was greeted with thunderous cheers. Merren—and Karia—waved as Argurium banked low over the city and Martil rather reluctantly drew the Dragon Sword and flourished it for the benefit of the crowds below.
‘It is important. The people need to see it,’ Merren insisted.
Martil felt a little foolish—in fact he felt the way he had when Rallora’s King Tolbert insisted Martil and other war heroes share the stage with him at victory parades. But he remembered Merren’s promise to wait before marrying Sendric, and he thought he could survive a little foolishness.
The square outside the palace was full of people by the time Merren finally let Argurium land. Many were cheering and screaming—others were crying with joy, holding up children so they could get a better view of the wondrous sight.
Out in front were Sendric and Conal.
‘That’s a fine welcome, but don’t you think there are too many people here?’ Martil said sharply, sliding off in a rather ungainly fashion, then catching Karia as she jumped nimbly down.
But they ignored him, instead addressing Merren, who slid down gracefully.
‘Your majesty! Thank Aroaril you are back,’ Conal said with relief.
The appearance of riders on their flank had many of the villagers crying out in fear. Some tried to run, others tried to hide but Kesbury saw immediately the riders were Rallorans. He ignored them, concentrating instead on the people who were his responsibility.
‘Stop!’ he roared at the villagers. ‘Those men are on our side.’
‘But they’re Butchers of Bellic!’ one elderly man cried fearfully.
‘I was at Bellic,’ Kesbury told him, standing close to the man. ‘And you are in no danger from them. But you may be in danger from me unless you quiet down!’