by Stephen Deas
“Yes.” He had no idea how, but it was the answer she wanted and that was enough.
“I have a dragon,” she breathed.
3
WHAT A DRAGON COSTS
Deep among the dry pine valleys that edged up to the Worldspine north of the Purple Spur, Hyrkallan watched two dragons land. One of them he knew because it was his own: B’thannan, an immense war-dragon who could make the earth shake merely by looking at it. The other one was a stranger, a long slender hunter. An unexpected stranger at that. Hyrkallan watched from a distance, always cautious until he was sure there was no trick. He sniffed the air, sweet with resin and fallen needles. Then he crept cautiously out from the undergrowth. As he came closer, his back straightened, his strides grew longer and he lowered the heavy crossbow he had gripped to his chest.
“Knight-Marshal!” One of the riders on the back of B’thannan had spotted him. Hyrkallan squinted. There were two up on B’thannan’s back, one tall, one short, and it was the short one who was waving at him. Shanzir. She always had sharp eyes.
He waved back. “Shan! Did the queen give us everything we need?” B’thannan was loaded up with sacks and barrels that hadn’t been there when he’d flown off the afternoon before. Obviously Queen Almiri had agreed to his offer. He wasn’t surprised. She had little to lose and a great deal to gain.
“Food. Weapons. Blankets. Everything,” shouted the other rider. Deremis, his brother.
Hyrkallan peered up. Even though B’thannan was crouched on all fours, Deremis was still twenty feet up in the air. “I don’t see any alchemists.”
“Oh, they won’t help us.” Deremis slid down from B’thannan’s back and ran over to embrace Hyrkallan. “Not their business, they say. In fact they wish us naught but ill and would have nothing to do with us.” He grinned. “Good to see you, brother. I know it’s only been a day, but it seemed it might be a very long one.”
Hyrkallan let his little brother go. “These dragons have been more than a week away from any eyrie.” He tried to smile. “I swear B’thannan has started talking in his sleep. Much longer and we have to go back. Almiri must know that. If we cannot shelter in any eyrie and we have no alchemists of our own . . .” As if on cue, B’thannan lowered his head and swung it toward them. His head alone was as big as a horse, with teeth the size of shortswords. The dragon gave them a baleful look and then stared at its feet. The war-dragon’s claws had already sunk a good foot into the soft earth. If it carelessly flicked its tail, trees would come crashing down.
Deremis punched Hyrkallan in the arm. “And the gracious Queen Almiri does indeed know this, and so behold!” He waved at the crates and barrels. “Enough of their potions to calm a dozen dragons for a month, taken in secret from the eyries of Evenspire!”
Smiling came easier now. Hyrkallan embraced his brother again. Then he looked at the other dragon and the three riders on her back. “And these?”
“Nthandra of the Vale and her mount. She lost many of her family on the Night of the Knives.”
Hyrkallan nodded. “She’s too young, but I won’t say no to another dragon. The other two?”
“You know them. Rider Jostan and Rider Semian. They were in Southwatch until about a week ago, and then they seem to have decided they should come here. I found them prowling the eyries of Evenspire. They were with Princess Jaslyn at the battle of the alchemists’ redoubt.”
“Yes.” Hyrkallan cocked his head. “I thought Semian was dead. What are they doing here?”
“Been cast out.” Deremis chuckled. “Said something they shouldn’t to Princess Jaslyn and she threw them out.”
“Riders without dragons and one of them a stiff prick to boot. Still, I suppose they can make themselves useful. Right.” Hyrkallan hauled himself up onto B’thannan. “I’ll take us to today’s camp then.”
“Is it far?”
Hyrkallan grinned. “You’ll have to wait and see . . .” His words fell into silence. Shanzir was pointing up at the sky. Hyrkallan couldn’t see what she was pointing at, but it could only be other dragons. “How many?”
“One, I think.”
“Then we’ll take it.” A lone dragon out here meant one thing. The Usurper, sending out her scouts. And still stupid enough to think she can send them out one at a time. Well I’ ll thank you later for the opportunity to bloody your nose. “Are you sure there’s only one.”
Shanzir shrugged. “No. It’s coming toward us though.”
“Right.” Hyrkallan nodded. “Deremis, get the scorpion ready as soon as we’re in the air. Shan, watch in case there are others. Hey!” he shouted across to the other dragon. Underneath all their dragon-scale armor, he had no idea which rider was which. Presumably the one sitting at the front was Nthandra of the Vale, if the dragon was truly hers.
The riders turned. They didn’t seem to have much with them. Certainly no scorpion. Hyrkallan didn’t bother shouting at them, but made a series of sweeping gestures, signs that any dragon-knight would understand. Up. Fight. You follow, we lead.
The rider at the front signed back. Understood. They must have seen the interloper too. Am I the only one who can’t? Am I going blind? Best not to think about things like that or all the other fears of age, though, lest he start worrying about how long it would be before he couldn’t climb onto B’thannan’s back without taking his armor off first and having it handed up to him, piece by piece. He shouted at the war-dragon instead. B’thannan turned on surly feet and lumbered into a run, rattling the trees with each step until he launched himself into the reluctant air.
There! He could see it now. A war-dragon. A big one, still coming toward him. Someone either brave enough and stupid enough to fight outnumbered, or else someone with a friend lurking. He wondered if he should have let the hunter make its own choices, let it fly low beneath him and take the enemy from a different angle.
No. I haven’t seen their faces. I don’t even know who they are. It might be Nthandra of the Vale under that helm or it might be one of the Usurper’s spies. No no, you stay close where I can see you. He shouted to Deremis: “Keep an eye on Nthandra’s hunter too.” B’thannan was in his prime, though, one of the best dragons in the realms. Hyrkallan was one of the best riders and Deremis was one of the best scorpioneers. He shouldn’t worry. The Usurper’s riders, they were the ones who should be afraid.
They came closer and closer. Abruptly, the unknown war-dragon turned and started to climb. Hyrkallan made as if to follow it up. B’thannan’s nose came up . . .
“Hunter!” shouted Shanzir. Hyrkallan still didn’t see it but he wasn’t surprised. The Usurper’s war-dragon did have a friend after all.
. . . and dived down again. Shanzir was wrong; there wasn’t just one hunter with the war-dragon, there were two, both shooting up from the trees. An ambush, exactly as Prince Lai laid out in his Principles of War. Except Hyrkallan was supposed to be flying up right now, blissfully unaware of what was coming from below, instead of down, straight toward the ambushers.
“Go for the one on the left!” he roared at Deremis and veered B’thannan toward the hunter on the right. Hunters were faster and more agile, but not when struggling to climb against a war-dragon diving toward them. A war-dragon more than twice their size . . . Hyrkallan grinned. He could almost feel their surprise and their fear. The hunters both turned and started to dive back toward the ground but they were too late. All they managed to do was to expose their riders even more. He felt the saddle and harness shudder as Deremis fired the scorpion, and then B’thannan, all fifty tons of him, slammed into the back of the nearest hunter. Both dragons shrieked and then pulled apart. Except now the hunter’s riders were in B’thannan’s jaws.
And that’s the end of you. Hyrkallan spared a glance for the riderless dragon as it spiraled down, looking forlornly for its riders and a place to land. Then he looked for the war-dragon. It was above and behind him, wings tucked in, hurtling toward him. Trying to do to him what he’d done to the hunters.
Except that doesn’t work when my dragon’s bigger than yours. Doubtless whoever was on the war-dragon expected B’thannan to dive and run and for the fight to turn into a chase, but Hyrkallan was having none of that. He turned B’thannan sharply in the air, facing his enemy head-on. He didn’t have time to pick up much speed, but even war-dragons had some sense of self-preservation. They both swerved and passed each other close enough to touch, belly to belly; claws and jaws and tails reached around each other, trying and failing to get at the other’s riders.
They flew apart. Hyrkallan glanced over his shoulder. First I ruin your ambush, then I even the odds and now I have the heights. You must be wondering who it is you’re facing. I am Hyrkallan, dragon-master of the north! Winner of the tournament a decade ago when Hyram took the Speaker’s Ring. And a decade before that as well, when it was Iyanza. He felt his harness shudder again as Deremis loosed another scorpion. B’thannan turned and Hyrkallan saw Nthandra of the Vale swoop past the enemy dragon. She raked it with fire, and then her hunter managed to wrap its tail around one of the war-dragon’s riders and pull, and its whole harness fell apart. For a moment everything that had been on the back of the war-dragon hung in the air, one end still held fast, the other hanging from the hunting-dragon’s tail. Riders, scorpions, saddle, everything, all of it stretched out in a line, dangling in the air.
For a moment. Then the dragons pulled apart, the line went taut and snapped, and everything fell in a lazy cloud of pieces toward the ground.
That’s that then. The last of the enemy dragons, the second hunter, was already skimming away. B’thannan would never catch it and he wasn’t about to risk Nthandra. Not after a victory like this. Let the Usurper hear all about it. Let her send out ever more scouts to look for him.
The war-dragon was heading for the ground now. Nthandra was following it down. She had every right, since she’d made the kill. Hyrkallan tipped B’thannan skyward once more. Let her pick up the grounded dragons while he flew circles overhead, watching in case the hunter came back.
“It’s a good day!” he bellowed back to Deremis. “Three new riders and now three new dragons. That’s twenty wings we have now. We’ll have to start our own eyrie soon!” He laughed. Deremis and Shanzir didn’t answer, but that was probably because they hadn’t heard him over the noise of the wind. Or else they had, and he hadn’t heard them. He let his eyes scan the skies one last time, then turned back to them.
Not the wind. Deremis was sprawled away from the scorpion, speared by a shaft half the length of a man. It had gone right through him and nicked at Shanzir as well, caught her in the top of the thigh. Blood was everywhere. Hyrkallan blinked, as if that might somehow make the blood and the scorpion bolt go away. Deremis? My brother? He couldn’t see properly. For a moment he didn’t know why. Then he understood. His brother was dead. He couldn’t see because his eyes had filled with tears.
“Shanzir!” He put a hand on her shoulder and shook.
He didn’t hear her, but she moved an arm, made a jerky gesture to tell him that she was hurt, and badly, but that she wasn’t about to die. He promptly forgot about her and stretched out past her for his brother.
“Deremis!” Their harnesses held them both too tightly for him to reach. He couldn’t even see his brother’s face, hidden behind his helm.
He hadn’t seen the enemy riders fire their scorpion. Couldn’t even think when it had happened. He shook his head. They must have fired as the two dragons passed and pulled apart. He’d felt the shudder as Deremis had fired. They must have fired back.
He shivered. A foot to the left and Deremis would have been alive and Shanzir dead. A foot the other way and perhaps he himself would have been hit. Two or three feet and they’d all be alive. Two dragons passing at speed, in such a way . . . A desperate piece of luck to hit a rider like that, and yet there was his brother, right in front of him. Dead.
Below, Nthandra of the Vale circled over the riderless war-dragon. Someone was going to have to bring that one home without a harness. Most riders tried that once, when they were young and stupid and thought they were immortal. Most of them didn’t try it again.
I’d do it. Hyrkallan reached out for his brother again. I’d do it for you. But Shanzir was hurt and someone had to fly B’thannan. As he watched, Nthandra looped her hunter through the air, dived and almost landed on the war-dragon’s back. She pulled up at the last possible moment, and as she did, one of the riders with her jumped. He landed on the war-dragon’s back and somehow managed to stay there. Nthandra made one more pass and then flew on, chasing the fallen hunter.
You’d do that, would you, old man? He could almost hear Deremis laughing at him. You’d do that? I seem to remember you tried the same thing twenty-five years ago, before you went fat and half blind. You slid off, broke one arm and three ribs and almost got trampled if I remember it right. We were all very impressed. After we’d finished laughing at you.
“I didn’t see any of the rest of you try.” Hyrkallan swallowed hard. Up here, where no one could see, he could afford to shed a tear and whisper words to the dead. Up here, but not on the ground. There will be a pyre, my brother. We’ ll send you on your way as though you were a king. We’ ll sing your name and send you to the ancestors, and then I swear to you, one way or the other, I’ ll bring this Usurper to her knees.
Later, back among the rest of the Red Riders, Hyrkallan took his brother’s armor. They burned his body and sang old songs of battle and victory and loss. After that, Hyrkallan gave them leave to celebrate what they’d gained. Three dragons, three riders, an alliance with Almiri’s eyries and a bloody nose for Zafir. Enough to make any young rider drunk with excitement.
He left them to it and slipped away. Without Deremis, their victories felt hollow. Others might have drunk themselves into a stupor or lost themselves in Souldust, but Hyrkallan had no use for such things. Instead he sat alone in his tent, still and straight, and recited the names of all the riders who had died on the Night of the Knives, all the riders killed by the Adamantine Men on the Usurper’s order. He added his brother’s name to the list, and then did what he did every night. Planned Speaker Zafir’s downfall in fierce detail, step by step by step by bloody step.
4
THE BLOOD-MAGE
Jostan hadn’t brought a tent with him. He hadn’t brought a bedroll or any blankets either, or indeed anything that might have been useful. Semian was no better off. Nthandra had some blankets but no tent. They ended up, all three of them, in the tent that had belonged to Hyrkallan’s brother simply because it was there, and because Deremis didn’t need it anymore. They watched Deremis burn. Hyrkallan and some of the other riders sang songs and Jostan sang with them. Nthandra stared at the fire. On and off she wept. Thinking of Deremis perhaps, but more likely of all the menfolk she’d lost. From time to time Jostan wondered where he was. He had almost no idea. They’d crossed the Great Cliff and the Silver River valley and then veered west and then south again. Somewhere near the merging of the Purple Spur and the Worldspine. That was about as close as he could guess. Somewhere in the mountains.
Semian stared at the fire as well. Jostan had no idea what he was thinking at all.
When the first flash of the burning was done, Hyrkallan stood up and with a simple gesture he silenced them all. He raised a drinking horn. “To Deremis, my brother. Another brave and noble and honest rider slain.” He emptied his horn. “I will mourn him as a kinsman should, but you should not. We are at war, and in war the noble and the brave die. We will be the spark that ignites the realms. We have a victory today. Three dragons gained and three new riders too. That is how my brother should be remembered. So I give you another toast, one to celebrate. I give you Queen Shezira and King Valgar, freed from the dungeons of the Adamantine Palace. I give you Speaker Zafir’s headless corpse rotting on a rope!” He raised his horn a second time. “So warm yourselves at my brother’s pyre. Know that he died a fine death and that he would be proud of what we have done, of what we w
ill do tomorrow, and of what we will do every day after that.”
Hyrkallan threw his drinking horn into the fire, turned his back and vanished into the darkness. Nthandra started to sob. Semian stared at the flames.
“It’s a strange day,” Jostan muttered.
“He doesn’t believe,” whispered Semian. Jostan didn’t know what to say to that. Doesn’t believe what? It was hard to feel much of anything except bewildered, and perhaps a little pleased that he found himself with a dragon again.
Nthandra reached out a hand and rested it on Semian’s shoulders. “I believe,” she said.
“Oh, believe what?” complained Jostan. When Semian turned to look at him, Jostan wished he’d kept his mouth shut. In the flickering firelight, Semian looked demonic.
“Rider Hyrkallan does not believe in the name he has given to the men who follow him,” said another voice, standing behind them. Jostan twisted around and found himself looking up at a nondescript man leaning on a staff. About the only thing Jostan really noticed was that the man’s hands were scarred and burned and that some of his fingers seemed to be missing. The man with the staff was looking at Semian, and Semian’s face had changed. The expression on his face was suddenly one of shock, and even awe. Jostan frowned.
“You do though, don’t you?” said the man with the staff to Semian. Semian nodded. “The problem,” the man went on, “is that Hyrkallan has no faith.” He crouched between Semian and Jostan. Now the man’s face was closer, it seemed familiar.
“I’ve seen you before,” said Jostan.
“Yes. We both served the same mistress. I am Kithyr. I served Lady Nastria. I was her blood-mage.”
Jostan felt himself turn rigid with a mixture of distaste and fear and anger. Blood-mage. Abomination. He half expected Semian to jump to his feet and reach for a sword, but Semian didn’t even blink.