The Order of the Scales mof-3

by The Order Of The Scales Deas

  They are close to each other.

  ‘How close is close, exactly?’ The dragon didn’t answer. Kemir shuffled slowly along. The light wasn’t flickering like a flame; it was moving as though someone was holding it, but otherwise it was steady. ‘Are there soldiers down here, or just alchemists?’

  How will their minds feel different, Kemir?

  ‘How would I know? Am I the one who reads them?’

  You little ones all feel the same.

  ‘Well now that’s useful to know.’

  No. You are different. I have come to know your special taste. I will always know you. Always find you.

  Kemir pulled out an arrow and nocked it loosely on the string of his bow. He passed a second passage, dark and lifeless, and then a third, more stairs leading back to the mountain slopes. As he came closer to the end of the tunnel, he could see that it opened out into a wider space. He started to hear voices.

  ‘… do you know?’

  ‘… outside…’

  ‘… Red Riders?’

  Them again. Same as the Scales had said. They kill even alchemists and scales… Kemir paused. ‘They’re talking, dragon. Do you hear them?’

  No. Their minds are unfamiliar. Which was worth knowing, Kemir decided, and he started trying to work out how far away he was from Snow. How much further before she can’t feel me at all?

  Worlds could separate us, Kemir, and I would find you. Besides, I will know your intent before you know it yourself, and you do not have the desire to run from me. I do not understand why you expend such effort thinking about it when deep down you have already conceded that your life is tied to mine.

  ‘You mean we have a shared destiny or some shit like that?’ Kemir spat. ‘What makes you think any of that mystical crap is true.’

  Dragons do not believe in destiny.

  ‘You don’t really believe in anything, do you.’

  I believe in what I see in your head, Kemir.

  He took another few dozen steps forward and listened again. The air smelled of mould and earth and sweat. He could hear at least four different voices arguing in the tired laboured way of men who’d argued about the same thing for far too long. Round and round. He crouched down with his back to the wall and listened. One of the voices wanted to go back outside. The others said no. On about those Red Riders again.

  With a start, he realised he knew the legend. The rider who wore red and whose name was Justice. Who rode a white dragon called Vengeance. A mythical, never real, white dragon… Well one of us fits the part at least. With a bit more blood on me, who knows?

  Make them come out!

  ‘I might have to explain why you tried so hard to kill them,’ breathed Kemir. Not a bad idea, if he could somehow convince the alchemists to come out of their own accord. He racked his memory for anything that might help. To be an alchemist probably meant you had to be clever, though. Cleverer than him. Certainly cleverer than a dragon

  … No, there were better ways. Tried and tested. He crept on a bit further until he was right on the corner where the tunnel turned and widened out into an open space. The air here was warm and smelled bad, stale with the taste of too many men in too small a space for too long a time. Sweat and piss. I know that smell well enough. Smells like home.

  He stepped around the corner and put an arrow in the chest of the first man he saw. Think of them as dragon-knights. They didn’t even realise he was there, lurking in the shadows on the edge of their light. Alchemists give dragon-knights their dragons. He put an arrow through the throat of a second man. They deserve the same. Killing dragon-knights was as easy as breathing. He stepped forward with a third arrow at the ready, letting them see him just as they realised what was happening. There were six left in front of him. None of them was armed. Alchemists, dragon-knights. Same difference, right?

  ‘Stay very still.’ Same difference. He had to keep telling himself that. Somehow it wasn’t sticking.

  It wasn’t a big room. A few crude beds, a simple table, pots to piss in, that sort of thing. Food on the table. Leftover biscuits and dried meat. Alchemical lamps, several of them. And more tunnels leading out of the back of the room. Too many to be looking into. Six men alive and two dead. You said there were eight. Are you sure?

  I cannot be certain, Kemir.

  ‘Are there any more of you lurking back there?’ he snapped and watched their faces carefully. There was no guile in these men; perhaps they were too shocked by the casual way he’d executed two of them. They didn’t start to glance at the tunnels, just stared at him in slack-jawed horror.

  ‘Well? Do I have to shoot a few more of you so the rest can find their tongues?’ He took a step towards them and they cringed. They could rush me if they wanted. I could only shoot one of them and the rest would be on top of me. With strength of numbers they would win, and yet they won’t. They’ll cower, too afraid, and then I’ll herd them outside and they’ll be slaughtered like cattle. All because every one of them would rather live for another few minutes more than win.

  Your kind are indeed curious, observed Snow. What you are doing would not work on dragons.

  Kemir gritted his teeth. He muttered under his breath, ‘And how would you know that, Snow? Dragons find themselves on the wrong end of these situations often, do they?’

  We are very old, Kemir. We remember much that your kind have forgotten. Powers far greater than us. Powers that made us. Snow went silent and there it was, the catch in her thoughts. The something that passed for a pause for breath, a mouth that opened to speak, and then closed and chose to to be silent instead. One of those silver men moments. Even as he thought that, he sensed Snow bristle.

  The alchemists, Kemir.

  Yes. The alchemists. He’d given them far too much time to think about rushing him. They were exchanging glances and starting to fidget. Two bad signs. He switched his aim to the one who, in the dim glow of their lamps, looked the oldest. In Kemir’s experience, the older men got, the keener they became on living. ‘You,’ he snapped, ‘are there any more or is it just you six?’ He didn’t dare take his eyes off them, but the room was far too shadowy for his liking. He couldn’t even see the walls clearly, never mind their dark corners. A man with a bit of skill could sneak right up to him.

  The man’s jaw dropped. He made a squeaking noise that could have meant anything.

  ‘On the count of five I’m going to shoot you. One.’

  ‘Uh… ah!’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘We’re all there are! Please! Oh by all the gods, please don’t kill me.’

  Kemir shot the man standing next to him instead. He had another arrow ready before they realised what he had done. Herding five was easier than herding six. Four would be even better… ‘Well done, old man. You’re still alive. A bit quicker next time. Are you all alchemists?’

  ‘Yes! Yes!’ The old alchemist fell to his knees and lifted his hands to Kemir. ‘We are servants of the Order. We have no part in these battles. We serve the realms and tend to the dragons, all dragons, no matter who rides them.’

  He speaks of us as though we are no more than animals, snarled Snow in Kemir’s head.

  ‘You can eat him when I bring him out, dragon.’ Kemir hardly spoke, but his lips moved. The old alchemist looked at him in wild-eyed horror.

  ‘Who… who are you?’

  Kemir laughed. Why not? They won’t know what he looks like. ‘I’m the Red Rider himself, old man. The real thing. Justice, with my white dragon Vengeance waiting up above. I used to have a different name but I don’t use it any more. We’re above, taking what’s left of this eyrie apart.’

  ‘But King Jehal destroyed you!’

  Oh, so that one’s a king now, is he? ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘What do you want from us, Rider?’ The old man was almost crying, as if Kemir had confirmed his worst fears. ‘We serve all with equal dispassion. We do not take sides.’

  Rage flickered around the edges of Kemir’s thoughts. The drag-o
n’s rage. ‘Get out.’ None of the alchemists moved. ‘Get outside or you’ll all die where you stand. Go and I’ll let you live. Take your lamps and make your way outside and you will not be killed. You have my word as a rider.’ And we outsiders all know what that’s worth, don’t we? But you probably believe in that shit.

  He watched as they filed past him, heads hung low, broken men shuffling out to their doom. The oldest one went first. Kemir followed the last, careful to keep his distance. In the darkness all he could see were their lamps. If one of them decided to lag behind and hide with a knife somewhere, the first he’d know about it was when it was in his ribs. Tunnels, caves, dark closed places, he hated them all.

  The alchemists got to the foot of the steps and the pile of rubble that blocked the way and stopped, milling uncertainly about. If they were going to think of stabbing him, it would be now.

  There is another. You have left one behind. I sense it now.

  ‘Too bloody late,’ snapped Kemir. ‘I’m not going back.’ He barked and prodded at the alchemists. ‘Clear it or climb over it. I don’t care which you do, but you’d better do it quickly. My arm’s getting tired.’ Alchemists, dragon-knights. Same difference. He thought about shooting another one to chivvy them along. It would be a mercy, after all, compared to what would happen when they went outside. Wouldn’t it?

  Murdering frightened old men in the dark. Was that what he’d come to?

  Leave them for me. I wish to question them.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ Shooting unarmed men in the back, that was more the sort of thing that a rider would do. Dragon-riders, alchemists, same difference. Right? RIGHT? He could feel something building up inside him. It felt like Sollos, his dead cousin. The way he’d lurk in the background when Kemir was settling down to really have some fun with some crippled dragon-knight. Always there, telling him that what he was doing was wrong without ever saying a word.

  ‘Piss off, cousin,’ he muttered to himself. ‘They deserve everything they’re about to get.’ The words felt empty.

  But they do, Kemir. They do.

  The alchemists scrabbled over the stones, moaning and groaning and grunting all the way. The last one stopped and tried to plead with him, holding back from the rest to bargain his way to safety at their expense. Kemir ignored him – he wasn’t interested – and pushed him through. When you’re dangling upside down in front of a row of drooling dragon fangs, then we’ll see what you’re made of.

  He wasn’t that surprised when, as he started to crawl through himself, someone threw a stone at him. It missed, skipping a few inches past his face. He pushed himself back behind the rubble and shouted, ‘Go on then! Run! Go on, run! Run up the steps! See how far that gets you. Do you think I’m alone here?’ He waited while that sank in. If you were going to fight you should have done that much sooner. ‘Run up the stairs and into the sunlight, where my comrades and I can see how sorry you are!’

  ‘Why do you kill alchemists?’ shouted one of them. ‘When word spreads of what you’ve done here, no one will follow you. Valmeyan will hunt you down and destroy you. Even Shezira’s daughters will reject you. They’ll declare you rogues. You’ll get no more succour from them. Everything will stop until you’re dead and your dragons are safely returned!’

  ‘You have until I count to three this time!’ Kemir aimed his bow through the gap. He had no idea what they were talking about. ‘One. Anyone I can see when I get to three doesn’t get to the top. Two, three!’ He fired an arrow, not bothering or caring to aim, snapped up another arrow and fired again and then again. By then, the alchemists were gone, their lamps left behind. He’d hit at least one, judging from the groans. As for the rest… well, chances were they got lucky.

  You have killed another one of them. I felt his thoughts scream and fade. Three have escaped you. I am waiting for them. Three of eight. And you accuse me of waste, Kemir. I am displeased.

  ‘Drink my piss, dragon.’ He pulled himself across the rubble. In the cold gleam of the alchemists’ lamps, he could see the two he’d shot now, one of them with an arrow in his chest, the other one rocking back and forth, clutching the wound in his thigh. Kemir stood over him, shaking his head. He slung his bow over his shoulder and pulled out a knife.

  ‘Please! No! I don’t…’

  Kemir!

  He clenched a fist towards the light at the top of the stairs. ‘You’re telling me not to kill someone?’ He didn’t get any further with that thought, as a roar filled the tunnel and orange light filled the stairs. A second later a sharp blast of hot wind almost knocked Kemir off his feet, and then someone was coming, uneven hurried footsteps stumbling back down towards the bottom of the stairs. In the dim light all Kemir could see was a vague shape. He readied his bow again. ‘Stop!’

  The figure stopped. ‘It’s a rogue. Oh dear ancestors! You are the Red Rider! You’re not one of Shezira’s riders, you’re the Flamebringer. You’re the herald of the end of the world!’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you either go back up those steps or you die where you stand.’ He pointed his bow at the shadow on the steps.

  Alive! Kemir, I want one of them alive! I have questions! Rage and fury filled his head, battering at him. Snow’s, not his.

  ‘The way you ask questions I should have kept all eight of them alive.’ He gritted his teeth.

  Yes. You should.

  ‘No.’ The alchemist was shaking his head. ‘I’m not going up there. Not with a rogue. I know what that means. Kill me then. Be quick. I’ll not…’

  Kemir sighed and shot the alchemist in the belly. ‘Maybe it comes from hanging around dragons for so long, but I don’t have the patience any more, I really don’t.’ He put his bow away and then walked over to where the man had fallen. The arrow had been placed to pass through his stomach. Men always died from that, but it was slow. Painful and slow. ‘Four rogues actually,’ he said. ‘A whole eyrie of them in a few weeks, I dare say.’ He wrinkled his face. ‘You stink. You’ve soiled yourself, haven’t you. Great. Now I’m going to have that smell on my clothes.’ He hefted the alchemist up over his back. His hand settled on something wet. ‘Ah. Is that blood? I hope that’s blood.’ He let rip a deep-throated growl and started the long climb up the stairs and back into the light. ‘Dragon, this had better be worth it. You’d better give me the rider who murdered Sollos after this, you really better had.’

  Slung across his shoulders, the dying alchemist was sobbing.

  ‘Hurts, does it?’

  The alchemist didn’t say anything, but Snow did. Not pain, Kemir. Understanding. This one is wiser than you. This one knows what is coming.

  After he’d taken the first alchemist to the top, he went back down for the one with the arrow in his leg. With a bit of luck and care, a man with a wound like that could live. Recover, even. Ah well.

  He brought out the bodies next, one at a time. Snow sat, patiently waiting, watching over the quivering alchemists, still as a statue, until he was done. Then, with slow and deliberate precision, she picked up a dead alchemist and ate him. Slowly, biting off one limb at a time, then ripping open the torso and shaking guts and organs down her throat. When she was done, she tossed what was left high into the air and caught it with a snap of her teeth. First one body, then another, with precise and deliberate care. When she was done, she turned to the two who were still alive.

  You may stay or you may go, Kemir, she thought with such glee and anticipation that Kemir felt his own heart jump in sympathy.

  ‘Well then, I reckon I’ll stay.’ He sighed, found a place where he could make himself comfortable, sat back and settled down to watch. It wasn’t as though he had anything else to do.

  He was covered in blood. From the alchemist he’d carried, no doubt. He’d have to clean himself off before long, but for now it would have to wait.

  The Red Rider. Justice and Vengeance.

  9

  Lystra

  For some reason, Meteroa wasn’t dead. He
felt his consciousness begin to fade and his struggles lose their strength. There was a sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder, a bad, deep pain. He should have been dead, but he wasn’t; the pack of slave-soldiers was suddenly flung aside and he was being dragged. Away from the light. Deeper into the tunnel. There were other men, other voices. His men, the ones he’d sent to wait at the end of the tunnel. A wave of relief washed through him and he must have passed out then, because the next thing he knew he was in one of the rooms with the softly glowing ceilings. There were a good few riders with him. He tried to sit up, but that turned out to be a mistake. His head spun so much that he almost fainted.

  ‘Ancestors,’ he groaned. His shoulder hurt, a deep hard stabbing, aching pain. He couldn’t move his left arm. At least, when he tried, his shoulder lit up as though someone had poured molten iron into the middle of it.

  They’d stabbed him. The slave-soldiers. They’d stabbed him though through the pit of his arm where there was no dragon-scale to protect him, only soft leather.

  He groaned again and gave up on sitting. ‘Is it bad?’ he whispered.

  The rider beside him turned out not to be a rider at all, but Queen Lystra. ‘You killed a dragon,’ she said, breathing softly in his ear. The tenderness in her voice gave him the answer he didn’t want. Yes. It’s bad then.

  ‘Rider Gaizal told us,’ she said. ‘They’re all talking about it. No one’s killed a dragon since… I don’t think anyone knows. Since the first Night Watchman.’

  Balls. I’m going to die. ‘How much blood is there?’ If I can still think then it can’t be too much. Not yet. Who dies of an arm wound?

  ‘A lot,’ she said with that irritating trace of sadness that said he wasn’t going to be getting better. And how does she know? What is she? How does a queen who’s not much more than a girl and who’s spent her life living in a library know when a wound is mortal? Eh? And if you don’t know, then I’d appreciate you not being so bloody condescending about it. He tried to sit up again, but that was clearly going to be beyond him for a while.