by Stephen Deas
The Picker and Kithyr came in last. They were at the heart of this, but Jostan didn't have time to think about that before Semian followed them in.
Kithyr cocked his head. 'So?'
'I told him we should be burning the speaker's palace instead of her filthy hirelings. He said we wouldn't get close. You will lead them to their deaths, ignoble and barely remembered. That's what he said.' Semian spat. 'He's too old and too cautious. He doesn't belong here any more.'
'Is that what you would do, Semian, if you led us?' asked Shanzir. 'Would you lead us against the palace itself?'
'Yes!' Semian's eyes flared for a moment. 'Yes! Yes, we'd burn her on her own throne.'
'The palace is defended by the Adamantine Guard,' Jostan heard himself say. 'With so few dragons we'd never get close enough. They would shoot us down.'
The blood-mage closed his eyes. 'Not if they didn't see you.'
'And how could they…' How could they ndt see us? But no one was listening to Jostan. He wasn't one of them and they all knew it. They were all looking at the mage.
'How?'
'Is it possible?'
'Could it be done?'
Ripples of wonder spread among them.
Kithyr pursed his lips. Jostan felt a sickening smugness radiate out from the magician, but none of the others seemed to notice. 'Do you know,' he asked, 'how the dragons were tamed?'
'By potions brewed by the alchemists,' snapped Semian. 'Could it be done or not?'
'You are wrong about that,' said Kithyr softly. 'The alchemists came later. When the dragons were tamed, there was only blood-magic. In the stories I was taught there were other magics once, but they went when the dragons came. After that there was blood or there was nothing. There were no cities of men, no great armies, not even towns. All that existed among what we called the realms were frightened bands of wild men who were little more than animals, hiding in the fringes of the world, in the caves and the hills and the mountains and the forests where the dragons didn't find them. And there were lost places, places left behind by the sorcerers who had once taught us our craft before they abandoned the world. The greatest among them were the three fortresses of the Pinnacles. And that is where the dragons were tamed.'
'The Pinnacles?' Kithyr had their rapt attention now. The Pinnacles were Zafir's palace now.
'That was the greatest of our strongholds. Encased within the stone, the dragons could not reach us. We laboured always, day and night to find a way to tame them. For as long as we could remember, we had failed, and yet we laboured anyway and always to no avail. Until the white sorcerer came to us, that is. He had no name that we could understand, for he was the last of his kind. He wore armour of quicksilver. He carried the Adamantine Spear. Where he walked, the dragons obeyed him. He did not ask our consent to rule us. He simply did. His commands were few, but if they were not carried out above all other things, he would turn a hundred men to dust with a flick of his finger. We called him the Silver King. It was the Silver King, not any mortal human, who tamed the dragons.'
Kithyr paused. He fixed his gaze on Rider Semian. 'There is always a way. In time, the Silver King took us to a place, to what has become the alchemists' redoubt. To the caves there.' He smiled. 'What do you know of the alchemists' secrets? There are certain moulds and mosses and lichens that grow in the caves there, yes. The sorcerer showed us how to make potions from those that would tame the dragons. But there was more to it than that. It needed a sacrifice, you see. Blood. Death. A soul.' He smiled again, this time at Jostan. 'You've been there, Rider. Perhaps you know. The alchemists don't need blood any more. Do you know why?'
Jostan, despite himself, shook his head.
'No. Because that is where the Silver King taught us his greatest secret, that anything and everything was possible if the sacrifice was right. Because we blood-mages learned that lesson well and there and then made a pact. We all gave of our blood and we bound the demon-sorcerer to our will and took his blood instead. We held him down and split open his skull and took out his spirit, which was like a luminous silver snake. I imagine he's still there, still bound by our blood-magic, still pouring his life energies into the potions the alchemists make to keep the likes of you in the skies. It was hard, the hardest thing we ever did. It cost us a great deal of our power, all of us. Look at us. Reviled and hated while our little brothers the alchemists, who were once our apprentices, rule over everything.' He grinned. 'I suppose you think that it is the speaker who wields the power…'
Semian stood up and loomed over the mage. 'Can. It. Be. Done?'
Kithyr didn't flinch. He met Semian's eye with a lazy gaze. 'My point, Rider Semian, if you must have it so soon, is this: If blood-magic can be made to tame dragons and to enslave gods, why then ves, it can do a little thing such as make men blind. Yes, it can be done. But there would have to be a…' Kithyr pursed his lips. 'There would have to be a sacrifice.'
And here it comes. Jostan sat back to see what would happen. How many of you are actually ready to die for whatever this is? Because it's certainly not going to be me.
Semian gave a decisive nod. 'Whatever it takes.' He looked at Nthandra, who nodded, and then the others. They nodded as well. Then he clasped Kithyr's hand. 'Whatever it takes, Kithyr, we will do. We will bring the speaker to her knees and burn her on her throne.'
One by one they got up and left for their beds. Jostan watched them go in disbelief. Maybe the ease of today's victory had gone to their heads. Maybe that was it. Maybe that's why they weren't thinking. The speaker's palace was guarded by two hundred dragons and ten thousand Adamantine Men. In times of war, the walls and towers could be be lined with five score scorpions on every side, exactly according to the rules of Prince Lai's Principles. Even a hundred dragons wouldn't be enough, and the Red Riders had what? Twenty?
'Jostan, walk with me.' Semian was offering Jostan his hand, Jostan stood up. He glanced uneasily at Nthandra and Kithyr, the last left in the tent. He never felt comfortable leaving them alone. The blood-mage had had a sickening interest in Nthandra from the very day they'd arrived.
Semian was tugging him away. 'Leave them, Jostan. I know you mean well but she doesn't need your protection.'
'She's not even old enough to be called a rider, not really.' But he didn't resist. He let Semian push him gently outside.
'That's war for you.'
'Are we at war?'
'Yes.' Semian put an arm around Jostan's shoulder, something the old Semian would never have done. 'We all loved Queen Shezira, but there's nothing we can do for her. We have to look past that. Zafir will execute her and nothing we do will change that.'
As if you cared. 'Rider Hyrkallan doesn't agree.'
'I lyrkallan should go home. Jaslyn will need riders like him for the war. She needs riders like you too. And there will be a war, Jostan. The Great flame has shown it to me.'
Jostan felt something inside him break. 'Are you sending me away, Semian? Are you telling me you don't want me here with you?'
Semian shrugged. 'You only came because Jaslyn sent us both away. I know how you used to look at her. I felt the same way for a while. And yes, she's a princess, soon to be a queen, but in war who knows what could happen? The Red Riders don't mean anything to you, Jostan. You came because you had no dragon and nowhere else to go. Well now you have a dragon, and if you go with Hyrkallan then I'm sure Jaslyn will have you back. She will need every rider she can get. Please understand: I don't want you to go if your heart is here, but it isn't, and I don't want you to stay while your heart is elsewhere.'
Jostan looked back. Semian was walking them steadily away from the tent.
'Don't tell me you want to be with Nthandra.' Semian shook his head. 'She's not right for you, Jostan. She's one of us. She's given herself to the Great Flame. She embraces the fire and the fire brings her joy. Have you given yourself to the Flame?'
Jostan shook his head. 'I don't even begin to understand it.'
'You see. You belong with H
yrkallan and Princess Jaslyn and the riders of the north. What we're doing here is…' He frowned, reaching for something. 'It's something special. You were a good friend, Jostan, almost a brother to me, but do you see how our paths must move apart? And Nthandra has chosen too. I'm sorry for you that she didn't choose you.'
Jostan closed his eyes. 'She's a girl, Semian.' Even more than Princess Jaslyn was. He wasn't sure which one he feared for the most.
'Yes. And I will look after her.'
'That's not what I mean. I mean that's not why I'm going to stay, Semian. I'm not going back to the north, and I doubt you'll rid yourself of Hyrkallan so easily either. But even if you do, I'm staying with you because I remember who you are and because of what we endured together. Because you are almost a brother. Because I don't trust your new friend the blood-mage, and I think someone should stay to look after you. Besides, who knows, maybe the Great Flame will touch even me given time, eh?'
Semian stopped. He shook his head and looked Jostan up and down, and for a moment Jostan thought he was going to get a rebuke, but then Semian smiled. 'Then you're as good a friend as I'm likely to find and I shall be proud to fly with you. There may come a time when you wish to change your mind. You know you can leave whenever you want. We'll give you everything you need to get back to one of our queen's eyries. I'll even give you a dragon.'
Jostan laughed too. He couldn't help himself. 'You realise you're talking as though the Red Riders are already yours.'
'Oh, they are.' Semian was still smiling. 'Hyrkallan just doesn't know it yet. He and the others who haven't been touched by the fire, they'll leave soon enough. But you can stay. I still have hope for you. Come.' He tugged Jostan into motion again. 'Whatever Kithyr and Nthandra had to say to each other, I'm sure it's said.'
He was right: the blood-mage was gone when they returned. Nthandra was almost asleep, and as Jostan and Semian lay down one either side of her, she made no move to go to either of them. Jostan felt the weight of his arms and his legs and his head pressing him into the ground. A good fight was always a guarantee of a good night's sleep. The last thing he remembered was Nthandra's hand, snaking between the blankets, reaching out and holding his own, squeezing tight. She almost seemed happy. And then the darkness engulfed him and sucked him down into a place so dark and so deep that he thought he might never escape; and as he sank he dreamed, and in his dreams he saw his friend Semian, crying out against the tyrannies of the speaker. He saw riders rally around him, a few at first, then dozens, then thousands, and among those laces were riders he knew were his friends. He saw the riders rise as one and descend upon the Adamantine Palace from all sides, an irresistible tide of fire and scales. He saw the speaker and her lover caught naked and whipped: he saw Queen Shezira freed and given the Speaker's Ring. He saw the realms rejoice and sleep in peace. And amid the teeming happy crowds, through the endless celebra-tion, he saw Princess Jaslyn, smiling at him, reaching out her hand. He saw everything that he wanted to see and he felt a presence at his shoulder, an old and wise and respected mentor whose name he couldn't quite remember, whispering softly in his ear.
Do you see? This is how the world should be…
The dream stayed with him, more real than the waking world, when Semian shook his shoulder an hour before dawn and told him to get dressed and put on his armour.
'I had a dream,' he said. 'I dreamed that we set the realms to rights.'
In the moonlight he saw Semian smile, no trace of surprise on his face, as if he'd seen it all too. 'Yes. And that is how it shall be.'
He dressed and then reached out to wake Nthandra but Semian stopped him.
'No, Jostan. Let her lie. Let her sleep. Come. It's time to wake the others.'
In a daze he followed Semian from tent to tent. Everywhere riders awoke with a happy puzzlement in their eyes and spoke of dreams. They dressed as Semian asked and followed him until they all stood outside Hyrkallan's tent, waiting patiently. I know what this is, Jostan thought, and yet it was a dreamy thought, and one that didn't seem to have much weight. He half noticed Kithyr sidle in among the crowd, the last of them, pale and shaking and yet with a hungry gleam in his eyes. His head felt full of clouds. Am I drunk?
As Hyrkallan emerged, the riders watched him in silence. Twenty pairs of eyes followed him as he moved among them. Semian was in the middle, standing awkwardly, tipped slightly to one side from the wound that Zafir's mercenaries had given him.
'What?' Hyrkallan shouted, when he couldn't bear their stares any more. 'What?'
They were looking at him, not at Rider Semian, but somehow he was their heart. Jostan could feel it, even in himself. And the blood-mage, standing next to Semian now. Shanzir, Hahzyan, even GarHannas, who really ought to have known better. Hyrkallan was looking at them all, sizing them up. Jostan could almost read his thoughts. Why did I do this? Why did I even start this stupid, doomed crusade?
For Queen Shezira, Jostan wanted to say, to him, but his mouth stayed firmly closed. For the queen you served for all your life, the queen you love more than anyone can know. Except me. I know.
Hyrkallan threw his helm to the ground. 'You want glory?' he screamed at them all. 'Then do what riders have done since time began and serve your queen. You!' He pointed at one of King Valgar's men. 'Go home. Serve your queen. When Speaker Zafir turns her eyes to the north, Almiri will need every dragon Valgar had. You!' He was pointing straight at Jostan. 'Go home and serve yours. Serve Queen Jaslyn.' Jostan blinked and tried to listen, and yet the words seemed slide over him like water over a stone, never sticking in his mind, never quite heard. Hyrkallan clenched his teeth and a shiver of fury ran through him. 'You!' He stabbed at GarHannas. 'Why are you even here?'
GarHannas turned a dangerous shade of red, but he didn't move. Didn't speak.
Jostan bowed his head. Hyrkallan had gone too far. Even he knew it. Screaming and shouting at young blades like Jostan and Shanzir was one thing. Screaming at someone like GarHannas only made him look stupid. He'd lost them.
'Lead us, Rider Hyrkallan.' It was GarHannas who spoke. None of the rest wanted him.
Hyrkallan shook his head. 'No. I'm leaving you. I'm going back where I belong. Where we all belong. I'm going home, and I'm going to serve my queen by making the north so bloody dangerous that Zafir won't dare lift a finger against a single hair on Queen Shezira's holy head. You should join me.' He looked straight at GarHannas now. 'You can piss about in the mountains all you like, but twenty dragons aimlessly burning peasants in the Spur won't even get Zafir's attention. I'm going, and if I ever have to come back, I'll have the whole fucking horde of the north with me, five hundred dragons and fifty thousand men. That's where I should be and so should all of you.'
Jostan was barely listening now. Hyrkallan shook his head in disgust.
Semian spoke so softly that it seemed he was whispering, yet his voice was clear. 'Jaslyn needs a knight-marshal. Shezira needed a knight-marshal, a proper one, not one who could barely hold a sword. A marshal who would lead and conquer, not one filled with so much guile that she was strangled by her own schemes. Lady Nastria is dead, and now you're going to have what should have been yours a long time ago. You would never have let this happen.'
Hyrkallan's brow furrowed and for a moment he looked lost and confused. Then he shook it off. 'Sell-swords. Shit-eaters. That's what we're worth to Zafir. She probably doesn't even know we exist.' He grinned then and laughed. 'If you really want to sting her, burn her eyries.' He spat. 'Yes, Rider Semian. Go burn her palace. If you can.' They were all still looking at him in silence. 'A pox on all of you.'
They watched as Hyrkallan left them, great in his day yet now old and worn. No one said a word. Or maybe GarHannas had said something. Jostan wasn't sure. They all watched B'thannan fly away into the dawn sky and vanish, and then they stared, lost in thought perhaps, or lost in wonder, or simply lost.
'Riders!' The crack of Semian's voice jerked Jostan awake. He felt as though he'd been sleeping and someone had tip
ped a bucket of water over him. He shook himself and looked around.
Next to him, Shanzir almost fell over.
'What happened?' she whispered. She looked confused.
A dozen yards away, GarHannas held his head in his hands.
'What have we done?'
'Riders!' shouted Semian again. 'Red Riders! Hyrkallan is gone. He has left us, but we remain. We are the Red Riders! We were forged together and we will follow our purpose to our death if that is what the fates demand. I say again, we alone remain! I will lead those who will have me, and we will take the fight to where it belongs. We will fly our dragons to the walls of the speaker's palace and we will make her burn! Stay or go, but do it now.'
Most of them stayed. All except GarHannas and a couple of others, who milled around aimlessly, confused and desolate, only to be herded towards their dragons and sent on their way with rude haste. Semian couldn't hide his glee once they were gone. He stood with the blood-mage beside him and smiled, nodding. It made Jostan feel sick. And yet I stay. Why?
He couldn't listen to another of Semian's speeches so he stumbled back towards their tent to find Nthandra, only to be met by a scream. As he drew near, she staggered out, wearing only a shirt, her hands pressed between her legs. There was blood running down her thighs. Jostan froze; his stomach turned to lead. His face and his hands went numb. He felt distant tears roll down his cheeks. In a flash, he knew exactly what this was. This was the sacrifice Kithyr had demanded.
'Oh…' He couldn't speak. His lips were made of wood and his tongue tasted of ash. He reached for her and she recoiled, shrieking and wailing like an animal. Then she looked at him as though he was mad. He wasn't sure, through her grief, that she even knew who he was.
'The blood-mage. He did this.' He shook his head. Any moment now he was going to be sick. She's just a girl. 'I am so sorry. I knew…' He was shaking, horror and rage flooding together. She's too young to be a rider. 'I should have…' He was after her right from the start, from the moment we came… 'I'm sorry, Nthandra of the Vale. It's too late, I know, but I'll stop him, Nthandra. Whatever it is, I'll stop him.' He sighed and held his head in his hands, then screwed up his face and screamed at the sky.