The King of the Crags mof-2

by Stephen Deas

  'Go for the one on the left!' he roared at Deremis and veered B'thannan towards the hunter on the right. Hunters were faster and more agile, but not when struggling to climb against a war-dragon diving towards 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 towards 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 tonnes 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 spiralled 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 towards 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 King. 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 towards 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 skywards 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 armour. 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 any more. 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 s
tared 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 will 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. T 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.

  'Rider Hyrkallan chose to call these men his Red Riders because its a common enough piece of folklore. Everyone knows the stories, little parts of the prophecies, handed from village to village, from generation to generation, a little more broken and warped with each telling. The red rider and the pale dragon. Justice and Vengeance. Mostly they forget the vengeance part. Yes, the red rider, who flies from town to town, bringing the wicked to justice for their crimes. Everyone knows that story.'

  'But that's not the true story,' whispered Semian, 'is it?'

  'Names have a power of their own, don't they, Rider Semian.' The blood-mage smiled thinly. 'In the original revelations the red rider is the herald of the end of the world. The burning of everything. I don't think Rider Hyrkallan has quite such apocalyptic intent.'

  Jostan jumped to his feet. 'Semian, why are you even talking to this… this creature. You know what he is! He told you!'

  'We saw some blood-magic once,' said Semian mildly. 'Do you remember, Jostan? It was an alchemist who did it.'

  'The queen outlawed its practice! On pain of death!'

  'And yet this man worked for her knight-marshal.' Semian shifted closer to the blood-mage and gripped the man's knee. 'I drank dragon-venom and I survived.'

  Kithyr nodded. 'Most people do, actually.'

  'I had a vision!'

  'Also common, I understand.'

  'I saw a priest. And a dragon.' Semian seemed to see Kithyr's hands for the first time. 'His hands were burned. Like yours, but worse! He told me what I had to do!'

  'And what was that?' asked the magician.

  Jostan had had enough. He was already half drunk and the last thing he needed was to listen to Semian going on about his vision again. 'He thinks he's the red rider.' Jostan spat. He expected the magician and Nthandra to both fall about laughing, but neither of them did. If anything, they both looked at Semian with even greater interest. 'Did you hear me? He believes it. Prophecies, end of the world, he believes the lot. He thinks it's him.' There. 'He's crazy. And if you don't think he's crazy, then you're both crazy too.' He walked away and left them to it. Not just crazy crazy, either. Dangerous crazy, Cracked. Mad as a bag of spiders. That sort of crazy. He looked back over his shoulder at the tiny circle of light surrounded by a near-infinite darkness. The three of them were huddled together as if they hadn't even noticed him go. Nthandra had draped both arms over Semian's shoulders now. She'd had her eye on him since they'd arrived, but Semian seemed oblivious. Close by, other riders sat and stared at the fire; around them, looming mountain shapes reached up to gouge dead black holes from the starlit sky. Some drank, others sang softly to themselves. Jostan knew a few of them, recognised more. Several caught his eye and gave him a nod. One or two waved him over to sit with them and share their drink or their sorrow. They'd all known Deremis. He was the first of the Red Riders to fall, and none of them, it seemed, knew quite how to take the news that he was dead. Jostan went and sat among them for a while, but somehow they were still apart. The Night of the Knives, had brought these riders together and he'd missed it. While the Night Watchman and his Adamantine Men had put their brothers and their fathers to the sword, while Queen Shezira and King Valgar had been taken to be tried for treason, Hyrkallan and these few had fought their way out of the speaker's palace. With them, somehow, they'd taken Queen Almiri – Shezira's eldest, Valgar's queen, mistress of Evenspire and now, because of these few riders, the fulcrum to end Speaker Zafir's rule if only the right lever could be found. And Jostan had missed it. Missed it because he was with Semian and Princess Jaslyn at the alchemists' redoubt, facing something far worse, but he could hardly say that, could he? Hyrkallan's riders had all lost friends or family or both, and what did he lose? Nothing. Nothing and everything. They knew, of course. They knew he and Semian had faced the rogue dragons. They knew about the caves and the smoke and fire and the alchemists and the Embers. They knew that he'd shielded Princess Jaslyn and that Semian had taken dragon-venom so that, in being eaten, he might kill one of the dragons. They knew, they just didn't… understand.

  They didn't care. There. That was the truth of it. They only cared about Zafir and that she had tried to murder them. Them and their queen.

  When he looked again, Semian and Nthandra and the blood-mage were all gone. He stayed with the others for as long as he could bear it and then slipped away, back to their tent. Deremis' tent. He approached it slowly, quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone inside. If Nthandra was with Semian well then he didn't much care either way, as long as she gave him some warmth as well once she was done. He was beginning to understand how she felt. Anything, anything not to be alone.

  Sure enough, as he crept close, he heard whispered voices from inside.

  'I can feel it. I know it's there.'

  'Yes.'

  'I need to know. I need to know if I'm right.'

  'Yes.' Jostan slipped closer. The first voice was certainly Nthandra. The second didn't sound much like Semian.

  'It is true.' Jostan had almost reached the flap of the tent. He froze. She was with the blood-mage. The thought made him want to be sick. He could almost see her, naked, straddling him while he pawed at her with his ruined fingers.

  'Let me touch you.' No! Don't let him touch you! 'Yes. It is true. You carry a child within you. You carry a boy, Nthandra of
the Vale. You carry your dead husband's heir.'

  'What do I tell the child when it's born? That it has no father?'

  'Have a few years of joy with him and then see if perhaps the alchemists would take him.'

  'They won't. He has a bloodline. Even if he doesn't know it.'

  'You could give him to the Adamantine Guard. No one will care whether he has one father or ten.'

  'No! I'd rather cut his throat when he comes out of me than give him to Zafir.'

  'The speaker will be long gone by then.'

  'I said no!'

  'Then tell him whatever you wish. You tell him that he carries all that is left of his father within him. Make him his father's son. Sit him on whatever throne is his.'

  No one will believe me.'

  'No.'

  Jostan couldn't move. He ought to slip away, come back later, but he couldn't. He couldn't move forward either. He needed to see and yet was too afraid to look.

  'Because behind your back they call you a whore, Nthandra of the Vale.'

  'He'll be a bastard. It's not fair.' Suddenly she was shrieking. 'We were to be wed as soon as he came back! I was unbroken! I never lay with another man.'

  The magician's voice softened. 'It is unfair, but think of this son as a gift. Men such as he are often born to be great. Destiny has fingered your son, Nthandra of the Vale. Do you want him to be great?'

  'Yes!'

  'I can help with the hole inside too. With the helplessness, the hopelessness, the uselessness. I can help you make all that go away. If you want me to.'

  'Yes.' Her voice was quiet now, sobbing. 'Please.'

  'Which one, Nthandra of the Vale? I can do only one.'

  'The child then,' she said, her voice so broken that Jostan could barely understand her. 'I owe it to him.'

  'Greatness and happiness are rarely the same thing. You know that.'