Return to Dragon Planet: Book one of the Dragon Planet Trilogy

by S A Robertson

“Not as far as I can tell.”

  Hanaway let out a breath. “That’s something at least.”

  “But you said there’s a problem?”

  “Yes. Yes. A thorny one too. A ranger. She got wind of the hunt and is now on Terevell in pursuit.”

  Although Hanaway couldn’t see beyond the depths of that hood, he could still feel the dark elf’s eyes. It was like insects were crawling over his skin.

  “One of yours?” Corvus said eventually.

  “Afraid so. Name of Gemini Sohn. A Sweeper. Reckless, insubordinate…”

  “Ungovernable by the sounds of things.”

  “She’s a damned liability is what she is. And if she catches up with the hunting party, this whole thing might get tricky.”

  “For you maybe.”

  “No. Both of us.” Hanaway’s uneasiness around the dark elf gave way to irritation. “You want safe passage off Terevell? You want your identity on the databases expunged? You want to be paid? Then this ranger has to be dealt with.”

  “But dealing with rangers wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll be handsomely compensated for this extra job.”

  “Whether the package is delivered or not?”

  “Our arrangement still stands. If you can deliver the package to me, and so long as every soul associated with this hunt—including Gemini Sohn—is taken care of, you’ll get your rewards and then some. But if the hunting party isn’t able to secure what I want, you still have to make sure none of them come back alive. Only then will the funds we agreed for your time and effort be transferred. Understand?”

  “How much?”

  “What?”

  “For the ranger. How much more?”

  “Oh. Another ten.”

  “Well, well. Sounds like your employer must’ve transferred quite the chunk of credits to you before he even got to Terevell, huh?”

  “He’s not my employer. And there were certain expenses, yes. But you just worry about your end.”

  “I will. Just so long as you understand, if you betray me, Hanaway, I still know enough people to collect my debt in other ways.”

  “Which is why, if all goes according to plan, Corvus, you and I are going to be the only two people in the star system who will know what went on down there. I guarantee it.”

  NINETEEN

  1

  In the high reaches of the World Tree, so high that even in early spring there was a dusting of snow on some of the branches, two eagles alighted silently at the gated doors to the Royal Aviaries. The birds were huge, with great hooked, black beaks so sharp they could rend steel, and talons so powerful that they could crush a wyvern’s skull. But it was their feathers that really were the true wonder of these creatures, with an unnatural sheen that seemed to reflect the very light around them, making them almost invisible in flight. Ghost eagles they were aptly named. They were one of the deadliest predators on Terevell, and one of the most arrogant, too. For it was said that the great ghost eagles considered themselves of such superiority to all other living creatures, that only dragons were their match upon the world. Which was why the elven eagle riders were so valued by the High King.

  Training to be an eagle rider was a difficult and hazardous pursuit. The skills that were necessary were passed down through generations and even then, only a select few ever obtained the attributes necessary to mount the eagle saddles. Most ended up dead before they had even reached that stage. Others even as they took to the skies. And largely because there was one prevailing truth that those luckless failures almost all seemed unable to grasp: that an eagle rider was not in charge of the eagle, the eagle, rather, deigned to allow the rider in its presence.

  Still, for those who navigated these tricky currents, and became a rider for the High King, they had a bond with these mighty birds that was rarely broken. A mutual respect formed between animal and elf that made them a fearsome combination. It was why the High King so often trusted them to fulfil some of his most difficult and secretive missions.

  Such a mission had been entrusted to two eagle riders the previous day, and by the early morning the alarm was sounded that two eagles had been spotted to the east. Not that the High King was here to receive them. He seldom came up to the aviaries any longer. Increasingly, he spent his time locked in his palatial chambers or brooding in the throne room as whispers in court suggested he had become increasingly isolated. Instead, it was left to Crosas, Zerian’s Tree Reader, to hurriedly make his way up the endless spiralling staircases, puffing and wheezing, until he finally arrived in the mighty hallways of the Royal Aviaries. Here, amongst the acrid stench of bird droppings and dried blood, the eagle riders bedded down in their quarters, never far from their mounts, along with their grooms in even more cramped conditions. Which for Crosas would have been a preferable destination. Instead, he was forced onto the dizzying landing perches, out to the very limits of one of the broad, planed branches beyond the aviaries. Here, the chill wind snapped robustly at the eagle riders’ pennants, and a fall to the earth far below that would seem to take forever.

  Crosas had never been very good with heights. Having spent so many centuries in the depths of the World Tree, amongst the crawling roots and in dank, earthy darkness, he had slowly become averse to the very highest reaches. Many suggested this was perverse for an elf. Even elf children delighted in climbing to the topmost branches as soon as they were strong enough. Crosas ignored such sneers. He knew the real power was in the depths. Even if up here, as his robes were grabbed by the wind, he felt far less powerful than he usually did, as if at any moment he would be pulled screaming into oblivion.

  “The eagles have only lately returned, Elder Crosas…”

  Hastening alongside Crosas was one of the eagle grooms, a youth with long brown hair who one day hoped to take the saddle himself. He bore many of the scars common to his dangerous profession, as feeding the eagles with all manner of live game often resulted in an eagle taking umbrage with these unskilled upstarts. Many a groom had been killed after being flung to their death at the bottom of the World Tree for good measure.

  “And there’s a prisoner?” Crosas asked, as they walked the wide avenue toward the limits of the branch.

  “Aye, Elder Crosas. A goblin.”

  “Goblin?” Crosas threw a look the groom’s way. What on earth was a goblin doing in Terevell?

  “So it seems, Elder.”

  Crosas picked up his pace, eager to find out what the creature’s purpose was in Ilmaris. Indeed, he was so preoccupied in his purpose that he almost bumped into a figure that seemed to materialise out of thin air. Crosas staggered back a pace as a long, arrogant face soaked into view, a length of black hair trailing down one side of the skull while the other side was completely shaved. This fashion was as typical for eagle riders as their stealth armour, mirroring the ghost eagle’s uncanny ability to fade into invisibility. Which was how the rider’s head had suddenly appeared from nowhere after pulling free her helmet and thrusting it under her arm. The rest of her was still oddly imperceptible, though, save for the faintest of outlines against the sky, her moulded armour disrupting her slim, powerful shape. Crosas recognised the rider. This was Captain Jarial, one of their best. Her dark, almost black eyes were like two pieces of polished ebony. A white scar slashed across her nose and through the corner of her mouth, showing off one of many souvenirs from her long years of service.

  “Elder Crosas,” Jarial said with a short bow. “I have returned with a trespasser.”

  Behind Jarial came another rider—whom Crosas recognised as Solon—having dispensed with his helmet too. In his arms was a small, limp body with large, sandalled feet and ugly, long-fingered green hands. There was a hood over its head from which there came a faint moaning and snuffling sound. Crosas knew all too well the surreptitious skills of the eagle riders and appreciated that the creature that Solon was cradling had been put to sleep by a powerful drug. In fact, this soporific had been created by Crosas himself
, who had a particular penchant for the varying and surprising effects of mushrooms that grew amongst the Root.

  “But this is all?” Crosas turned his attention back to Jarial. “There were no others?”

  “Just the ship,” the eagle rider explained. “A scientific research vessel. This thing was doing repairs on it.” Jarial acknowledged the body again with a sneer. “We searched the craft but found no others. However, we believe a small group fled south into the forest some hours before we arrived.”

  “And you didn’t get after them?” Crosas spluttered, knowing the High King would not be pleased to hear there were more interlopers loose in his country.

  “We could not,” Jarial said stiffly. “There was no way of knowing how far the party had travelled into the forest and there is the small matter of the dragon.”

  Ah yes. The dragon. If the eagle riders had strayed too far south, they might have attracted the interest of the great beast, who had an uncanny sense of the world about it, especially if anything as large as an eagle penetrated its territory. Not even these great birds of prey could fend off such a monster.

  “But you’re sure they were definitely heading south?” said Crosas.

  “Aye, my Lord.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “That I cannot say, Elder Crosas. We found no evidence of their intentions on the ship, and the creature will not awaken for some hours, so I have not yet been able to question it.”

  “So I see.” Crosas sniffed and eyed the lolling prisoner for a moment, before he stepped toward Solon and grabbed the corner of the bag over its head, dragging it aside. The hideous face of a goblin was revealed, with drool dripping from its twitching lips, its bulbous closed eyes, and black hair plastered to its skull, its face crawling with sweat. Crosas curled his lip in distaste. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been in the presence of such disgusting creatures. Then he said: “Alright. Have your groom take the creature down into the prison wing and put it in a cell.”

  “Yes, Elder Crosas.”

  “And after it awakes and is fed, have someone bring me word. I will question it myself.”

  TWENTY

  1

  The rising sun now penetrated the retreating clouds by the time the party stopped again. The rapids had lessened their ferocity, so Nyara crouched at the water’s edge and peered out toward the other bank, a hand trailing idly through the silvery eddies of the Shilita. Blake came to stand next to her.

  “This is it?” he said. Across the river he could see the woods climbing up onto a rise, the sun glaring through the branches. His eyes lingered there for a moment. He frowned. Until now, and for a while even after they left the cover of the trees, the feeling of watchfulness hadn’t left Blake. Odd that it had disappeared.

  “A little farther up.” Nyara nodded to a sand bank.

  “Hmm? Oh. Well, it doesn’t look very shallow to me.”

  “Waist height. Even so, we’ll have to secure a line. The current is still strong.”

  “And what if one of us loses their grip?”

  Nyara lifted her eyes to where the river turned a bend. “The rapids are closer than you think.”

  Blake sighed. “Alright. Let’s get on with it. Then we can stop for something to eat.”

  2

  Nyara fired the thin, strong rope she had unhooked from her pack across the river. Securing one end to a heavy branch overhanging the bank, she used her crossbow to fire a quarrel into a tree on the other side. Then, testing the rope’s strength, she nodded at Blake.

  “Okay,” he said to the rest of the party. “I’ll go first.”

  There was not a peep of an argument at that, and everyone watched as Blake stepped up to the shore. He peered up and down the river, wondering at the speed and power of the water into which he was about to walk. Then he slowly began to wade into the current.

  It was cold, his first tentative steps sending a shivering shock through his whole body. This had all the characteristics of mountain melt, and his muscles tightened painfully. It didn’t get much better either as he gingerly dropped deeper, and by the time it rode over the top of his belt, he was involuntarily holding his breath.

  “What’s it like?” Uldo called, perched on a rock, and chewing on the end of his unlit pipe.

  “Like bath water!” Blake snapped back.

  Uldo glanced at Cid. “I think he’s lying. It doesn’t look very warm to me.”

  Blake ignored the dwarf and edged his foot out another step. Now the water was riding up to his rib cage. If it began to creep much higher, he wasn’t sure he could keep upright. The rope flexed in his hands. His boots slipped slightly on the slimy rocks beneath the water.

  “This doesn’t seem very shallow,” he shouted as he moved farther into the river. Now the current was tugging at him with such ferocity that the other bank seemed a long way off.

  “You’re doing fine,” came Nyara’s unencouraging voice. Blake gritted his teeth. He supposed if the elf wanted to get rid of him, this would be as easy a way as any. He kept going, inching his way toward the centre of the river, his extremities numbing, his body shuddering, until eventually he found the water lowering again.

  Nyara had been right. After a while, the riverbed evened out, and before too long he was pulling himself free of the current. Taking another couple of staggering steps, he eventually hauled his body free of the water and clambered up onto the bank.

  Thank Christ for that, he thought, clenching his trembling hands and lurching, soggily, onto dry land. He turned and looked back to the distance he had travelled and saw Maddox waving at him enthusiastically. Blake waved less enthusiastically back.

  “Okay! Who’s next?” he called, shucking water from his sleeves.

  It was Maddox who came after. Blake guided him as best he could and was surprised to find that Maddox seemed more confident with this little exercise than he had been the whole expedition. Using the rope to help him anchor his footing, he reached the bank in good time, and Blake was soon dragging him out of the water. He slapped Maddox on the shoulder before turning and signalling to Nyara. “What about you?”

  “I’ll go last,” Nyara hollered back. “Master Rorg and Cid next.”

  Now this was the real test. And while Uldo was still entirely resistant to the process, complaining loudly about the indignity of it all, he finally acknowledged that unless he could fly, there was no other way he could inch across. Thus, as Cid waded warily into the water, his huge fingers closing about the rope, Uldo climbed up onto a nearby rock and laced his arms about the golem’s neck. When he hopped on, he did indeed look like a child to Blake. Admittedly, an ugly child with a black beard. And even with a river between them, Blake could almost feel Uldo’s furious stare. Then Cid began to step deeper into the river, his one eye blazing intently, his great legs bending to counteract the flow of the water around him.

  “Keep coming,” Blake cried. “If you stand still, you’ll just as easily lose your footing.”

  Cid made no acknowledgement of these instructions. He simply kept moving slowly onward, the water riding up against his massive metal thighs until it was barely touching the giant’s groin. Which should have offered him an advantage. Until somehow the rope came loose.

  After two wary crossings before it, the knot that Nyara had secured to the branch must have somehow worried free. And once Cid tried to steady himself by using the rope as a counterweight, he slipped when the rope unspooled from his hand. Suddenly, he was dropping to one knee, and so paranoid that his core might be compromised by the fast-flowing water, he tried to lurch up again. Which meant he threw off his passenger.

  Uldo immediately hit the water and went under, his heavy pack dragging him, spluttering, into the current. Then he was thrashing to the surface again, and gulping out a shout, only to be dunked again as the river swept him away.

  “Oh…Great!” Blake cried, as he watched Uldo being whisked away. Cid, by contrast, had managed to clamber to his feet again, although Bl
ake was less worried about the golem who, relieved of his burden, would probably be able to make it to the bank. Instead, Blake started to run. He shouted to Maddox over his shoulder, “Help that damn metal contraption get across, will you?”

  Maddox called back: “But where are you going?”

  “Where do you think?” Blake was already diving into the trees, jumping a fallen branch, and thrashing his way through thorny plants, cursing under his breath as his clothes were torn.

  Through the blur of trunks and branches as he ran, Blake chanced a glance at the river as he hit the bend. It was already starting to run faster. Flurrying white caps presaged a much more restless stretch of water ahead. Blake plunged on, sweeping aside more low-hanging branches until he emerged from the treeline again—only to find himself teetering on the edge of a rocky drop.

  Blake wheeled his arms but managed to keep from falling. Then he danced back and scanned the river again. There was Uldo! The dwarf was gasping for air as he scurried to keep himself afloat, trailing out one of his hands to grasp hold of anything that would slow his progress. All for nothing. He was helpless in the strengthening grip of the Shilita now, with the water beginning to foam, while ahead Blake could spy the onset of the rapids. As the river narrowed, a thundering, churning torrent dropped into a series of shallow waterfalls. And here the water seemed to be at its most violent, as it was squeezed through a steep, rocky stranglehold, throwing up an impenetrable veil of mist. This did not bode well. For even though Blake could not see much beyond this boiling fog, he knew well enough what it meant.

  “The Sheerwater Falls,” he murmured, remembering what Nyara had warned about: a deadly drop, no doubt, where Uldo—if he somehow managed to survive the rapids and the rocks—would most probably meet his end.

  Setting his jaw, Blake hastened on, clambering up a rocky slope and leaping down the other side. Now he was a few feet above the river, all the while trying to keep the dwarf in sight. His only chance of saving Uldo, Blake realised, would be to reach the narrowing of the river before him. That would not be easy. For all his efforts, the water was moving much faster than he could run, and once the dwarf hit the white water, he would probably move completely out of reach. Still, so long as Uldo was conscious, there was always a small chance the dwarf would be able to slow himself after he dropped over the first falls. Blake had spied a series of large, smooth boulders in the river before the next drop, and the dwarf was bound to encounter one of them. If they didn’t break him to pieces, Uldo might just be able to cling on long enough for Blake to get ahead of the curve. Which he was relying on for his one chance at rescue.