by Stephen Deas
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 recognize 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 gates.”
“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 waved 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, that’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.”
He took his time. A few riders stayed on the backs of their dragons to keep watch. Others moved methodically through the eyrie, rounding up the Scales and the alchemists and anyone too stupid to run into the stone embrace of the fortress. Most of the rest raced down into the depths of the Pinnacles. That was the trick with this place. Get in fast and deep before they even knew you were here. Otherwise they could simply shut you out. As long as he stopped them from doing that, the rest could wait until he’d had time to bring soldiers up from Furymouth. Jehal had sent a couple of hundred cavalry, who would arrive in a few days. The remainder would have to march on foot. But I have time. Either Jehal has succeeded or he’s dead, and if he’s dead I might wish I hadn’t burned all those Taiytakei ships yesterday morning.
When he was done he mounted up and took to the air again. His riders knew what to do. Most stayed to hold the eyrie, but a few joined him back in the air. As they circled down, fire bloomed around the edge of the city below. There go the whores and all the riders who were lying with them. Never much cared for their kind. To get himself in the mood, he flew over the flames and through the smoke. The smell of it set his blood pumping, even more than burning the Taiytakei had done. There was something primal about dragon-fire, something that tore off the thin mask of order that governed the realms and exposed the raw chaos lurking beneath. And once in a while we let the madness out to wreak its havoc, and then we carefully put it away again, locked up until the next time.
A dozen of his dragons had already landed in the city eyrie. Zafir had taken almost all her dragon-knights north to fight Almiri. Seizing her city was turning out to be even easier than Meteroa had thought it would be. He circled the second of the Pinnacles, the Palace of Pleasure, urging his dragons up around the sheer face of the rock. Here and there he caught sight of windows, of little platforms, of tiny passageways carved into the cliffs, given away by the firelight that shone from within. Every one he saw, he burned. He didn’t have the men to even try to hold another of the three Pinnacles, so a different approach would have to suffice.
When they finally reached the top, a thousand feet above the plains below, a handful of soldiers and half a dozen scorpions were waiting for him. Or maybe it was more; in the darkness, Meteroa couldn’t see them, but nor could they see him. He heard them shouting and he heard the sounds of the scorpions firing. He had no idea whether they’d hit anything or whether they’d even come close. Then his dragons enveloped the entire palace in flames. Meteroa had to put his visor down simply to block out the glare. When it faded, there were no more shouts and no more scorpions, only screams. When even those stopped, Meteroa landed.
“Right!” he shouted for the benefit of anyone who was listening. “Message for Princess Kiam. Your uncle’s dead. You’ve got one hour to surrender yourself before I set fire to your sister’s city.”
With that, he settled back to wait.
ZAFIR COULDN’T HAVE EVEN SEEN Almiri’s dragons coming. The six of them fell out of the air straight at Onyx. Two of them smashed into him and glanced off, somersaulting through the air and almost crashing into the ruined palace below. Onyx lurched toward the ground. A third hunter plowed into him, ripping the scorpioneer off his back. The fourth crushed his other riders and finally forced him to land. The fifth and then the sixth landed on top of him before he could move. Zafir’s dragons were onto them in seconds, but they were far too late. By then everyone on the black dragon’s back had been ripped to pieces.
Jehal threw back his head and screamed, “I had to do that. Me! She was mine! ” He tore down again, chasing after the hunters that had killed Zafir. They were trying to scatter but Zafir’s war-dragons were already there. By the time Wraithwing arrived there wouldn’t be anything left but scraps. Too late. The damage is done. Almiri wins . . . But now there are seven riderless dragons sitting on the ground, waiting to be taken.
For the second time he pulled Wraithwing up short and started to climb again. For all his rage, Almiri’s riders had done him a favor. After all, isn’t that exactly what I wanted? And now I don’t have to do it myself. I don’t have to find out what it would have felt like to watch Wraithwing rip her to pieces right in front of me.
Or, if you looked at what had happened in a different way, Almiri had made him look hopelessly incompetent. He had some two hundred dragons circling below the clouds to stop exactly this from happening and they’d failed. And how do I retort? Do I say that I didn’t give a shit what Almiri did to Zafir, since that just spared me the trouble of doing it myself? Ancestors! I couldn’t even protect myself. But how did Almiri know where to strike, and when?
He looked up at his dragons, still circling aimlessly, still waiting for orders. How many does Almiri have left? Sixty? Seventy? And then the dragons she took from Prince Sakabian. Less than a hundred. She’ d be mad to launch herself at us now. She’s done as much damage as she could hope for. Zafir is dead. The speaker. The war is over, even if the battle still rages. She should know that. There’s nothing more she
can do.
If he pretended for a moment that Almiri didn’t exist then there really wasn’t much point waiting around any longer. Zafir’s riders must have taken the citadel by now. They’d be landing, mopping up any survivors too stupid to hide in the deep tunnels. They’d be wondering what on earth to do next. He took a deep breath.
Almiri has done my work for me. I could leave quietly. Return to the Adamantine Palace. Return to Furymouth. There would be a council of kings and queens to choose Zafir’s successor. It’s hard to see who it would be. Sirion, perhaps? Narghon? Silvallan? Not me though. They won’t choose me. Not like this. No speaker’s throne for dithering King Jehal.
And that, in the end, was the whole reason he was here. He reached his dragons and signaled. It was what they’ d been waiting for. Almost as one, they turned and dived toward the ground to smash the remnants of Zafir’s reign to pieces.
46
THE RED PRINCE
High above the cloud where the dry desert air was thin and the sky was so blue that it hurt his eyes, Prince Hyrkallan flew. Prince Hyrkallan now and soon to be king. He understood why Queen Jaslyn had offered herself to him—she needed him simply to survive. He understood, but it didn’t matter. He’d given himself a single day to consider her proposition, what it would mean to accept and what it would mean to reject her. In the end the decision was easy. If he turned his back on her, the realm would fall apart. Jaslyn would fall, a hundred pretenders to the throne of Sand and Stone would crawl out from their holes. There would be blood and chaos, and all the while Speaker Zafir would be laughing at them.
No, he had only one choice and so he committed himself to it with all his heart and vowed to make Jaslyn into a queen to make her mother proud. So while Jaslyn remained closeted away in her eyrie, he’d flown, in person and in secret, to King Sirion. He’d gone with almost nothing to offer, yet Sirion had listened, and when Hyrkallan had finished, King Sirion had nodded. They would go to war together.
“Why?” Hyrkallan had asked, and Sirion had shaken his head.
“Because of the Red Riders. Because you knew what was right.” And then he’d done the strangest thing. He’d bowed and taken Hyrkallan’s hand. “Shezira should have followed Hyram but she’s dead. Now it will be you.”
All that was before they’d slipped into the City of Dragons and the Night Watchman had almost begged them to overthrow Zafir. Another man might have felt the hand of destiny resting lightly on his shoulder. To Hyrkallan, it was all simply justice. Justice and Vengeance, exactly as he’d promised.
He looked around behind him. Nearly four hundred dragons. Not as many as Zafir would have and so he’d planned his attack with care. Almiri didn’t know he was coming. There would be no pitched battle to save Evenspire from the flames. The city would be sacrificed. Then, as Zafir reveled in her victory, he would fall out of the skies on her and crush her.
Far above the cloud, where the air was thin and the sky was so blue that it hurt his eyes, Prince Hyrkallan felt a deep sense of calm as he signaled his dragons down. They’d flown as high as they had in the hope of evading any eyes that Zafir had left to keep watch; now they fell at such speed that the wind ripped the air out of their lungs. All Hyrkallan could see was cloud, but the dragons knew. They had an instinct for where things were, as though they could sense their own kind, and knew they were coming for a fight. Hyrkallan could feel it from them—the tension, the anticipation, the hunger, the joy.
Four hundred dragons plunged into the cold damp cloud and disappeared. Seconds later they burst out directly over Evenspire.
WRAITHWING BANKED AND TWISTED, Spraying fire at one of Zafir’s riders who hadn’t had the sense to run away. Jehal caught a glimpse of another cluster of dragons racing toward him, but before he could even start to see whose they were, Wraithwing shot through a cloud of smoke and he couldn’t see anything. When his eyes cleared, those dragons were gone. Another dragon, one of Zafir’s, raced overhead with two of Jehal’s riders in pursuit. Below, the city was burning now, burning with a vengeance.
Once again I haven’t the first idea what’s going on. Are all dragon-fights like this? Principles made them sound like a carefully choreographed dance where the winner was decided before the contest even began. Not this. This was anarchy. Madness! For a moment, Jehal found himself wondering whether Prince Lai had ever actually fought in the War of Thorns or whether he’d just watched it all, scratching his chin. He dragged Wraithwing higher above the city. At least from a thousand feet, just below the cloud, he could see what was happening. And what use is that? I can see lots of dragons chasing each other. I don’t know which ones are mine and which are Zafir’s. They disappear in and out of clouds and plumes of smoke with such speed that I couldn’t follow them even if I tried. I can see a good few dragons fleeing the battle. I assume that they’re Zafir’s and that we’re winning, but I don’t even know that for sure. Ancestors! How embarrassing would that be? To loiter up here feeling all smug and sure of myself only to discover that all my riders have run away and Zafir has won even though she’s dead. I suppose I could try and signal some orders. Or I could get Wraithwing to shriek them out, but what use would that be? Apart from the twenty dragons circling in overwatch, who would actually see or hear me?
There were some things in Principles, right at the start, that he’d have to look at. Things about the preparations to be made before a battle. When this was done, he’d have to read that bit again.
Enough of this. He signaled to the riders on overwatch to follow him and thundered back down toward Almiri’s citadel. At least she’s had the sense to go away, now she’s done what she’s done. Or is she still up there in the cloud, lurking and watching? You know what, when I’m done here, I’m going to go away. You can have your city and your palace back again. What’s left of them.
If he thought the fighting over the city was chaos, the scenes in the citadel made him dizzy. Even before Wraithwing landed, the heat of the fires penetrated his armor. The smoke burned his throat and the air was so hot that it hurt to breathe. His visor didn’t help; using it just meant that he couldn’t see anything at all, as opposed to getting fleeting glimpses of things through the occasional gap in the smoke. He took his helmet off, wiped the tears from his eyes and waved at his other riders as they came in to land.
“Dragons!” he shouted. “Get the dragons.” Almiri’s hunters were still perched around the citadel, moping near the bodies of their riders or what was left of them. The fire didn’t seem to trouble them, but even if it did they’d only sit there and howl until someone came to take them away. That’s what we train them to do. Stupid. You’ d have thought they’ d know to give up when all that’s left of their rider is half a charred arm.
“Dragons!” he shouted again. “Get the dragons and get them out of here.” He waved his riders closer. Dragon cries were drowning his words. “Can you hear me?”
He had to practically shout in their ears, one at a time, to make himself understood. “Get the dragons. Any dragon you see. Get it back in the air. Get everyone else back into the sky. I’ve had enough of this. Tell them to take what spoils they can and leave! Get Onyx.” He had to point. “The big black one. Through the smoke that way. Get Zafir’s dragon.” As an afterthought, he limped after the two riders he’d sent for Onyx. There was always a chance that he might find Zafir’s body. The more proof he had that she was dead, the easier the rest of this was going to be.
He didn’t even get halfway there before a subtle change in the dragon cries around him made him look up.
The sky was raining dragons again. White ones! Hundreds of them.
B’THANNAN PULLED OUT OF HIS DIVE; Hyrkallan lifted his visor and there was the ground, a thousand feet below. Evenspire was burning and there was no dragon overwatch. And as he looked, he slowly understood what he was seeing: Jehal and Zafir were fighting over the spoils. A warmth blossomed inside him. He wanted to shout for joy, and even, maybe, believe in that hand of destiny after all.
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“Remember me?” he roared into the wind. “The whole fucking horde of the north with me, five hundred dragons and fifty thousand men. That was my promise!”
And as the dragons of the north rained from the clouds he waved them on toward the ground to grind his enemies to pieces. Unlike Jehal, Hyrkallan knew exactly which were his dragons. His dragons had their bellies painted white and his riders wore red.
“OH SHIT! GET UP! GET UP and get out!” Jehal screamed at his riders, urging them into the air. Could I be in a worse place? Yes, I suppose I could be lying spread-eagled in a field with a big sign reading “Please burn me” hanging over my head. Other than that, it’s hard to see . . . He wasn’t going to reach Wraithwing before the northern dragons reached the ground, so he didn’t try; instead he hid behind a wall until he saw a white-painted dragon shoot overhead. At least I know exactly how difficult it is to see anything down here. A shift in the wind blew smoke over him. He took the opportunity to hobble across the open to where Wraithwing was waiting, cursing his ruined leg. The noise was deafening, dragons howling, everything burning. He caught a glimpse of Onyx launching into the air, little more than a large black shape in the shifting smoke.
“Let me on, let me on!” Jehal waved frantically. Wraithwing knew he was there, Jehal could see that, but the dragon was very slow to move. He seemed almost stunned, dazed and dopey but somehow blissfully happy. I must be imagining that bit, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d bother to actually open your eyes.