by William King
The old man shrugged and opened the way. Down in the gloom of the caves something enormous shifted its weight, the echoes of its movements loud. At least Ironfang was awake, she thought, then told herself to wait and see. Perhaps the old beast was simply fidgeting in his sleep. She would not let hope cloud her mind.
They walked down into the darkness. For a long moment, the illusion that she was walking down the gullet of some gigantic monster filled Tamara’s mind. The smell of dragon, and dragon excrement became stronger. They entered the caves proper, and the beast loomed before them, its plate-sized eyes glittering in the dark, as it studied those who had dared disturb it. She could feel its ferocity now, and the power of its aura. Ironfang was old even for a dragon. He had hatched when the Terrarchs first came to this world, one of the last clutches to breed true. As always, confronting a dragon Tamara was acutely aware of how a mouse must feel in the presence of a wildcat.
The Keeper muttered reassuringly, and moved closer to the dragon, showing no signs of fear. He took the grooming pole from his apprentices and began to work on Ironfang’s scales. The dragon let out a hiss of pleasure, for all the world like a dog having his stomach scratched.
Tamara inspected him in the lantern light. He was massive, large as a bridgeback wyrm. The eyes that stared back at her were far more intelligent than any wyrm’s.
“Your father will be wanting his flying suit,” said the Keeper. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the apprentices and told them to go get it.
“Bring a second,” said Tamara. The Keeper raised an eyebrow and kept scratching away where scale joined scale. He had known about her secret flights with her father. Or at least about the fact that she had accompanied him.
“Do as Lady Tamara says,” he said, almost as if he was the master here, and her orders might not be obeyed without being reinforced by his own. Maybe he was right. It had been a while since she had been down here.
“How is he?” Tamara asked, pointing at Ironfang.
“He’s had a good long winter sleep. He’s been awake and hungry for some time. He should be ready to fly. It’s odd. Most dragons are hibernating longer this year or so I heard, but he’s awake. It’s as if he senses something. I’m not sure what. A lot of strange tales being told, mistress, so no wonder.”
“What tales?”
“Dead men walking. The Elder Races stirring. War and rebellion. Maybe it’s the war that’s got him all riled up. He’s a fighting dragon of the old breed, and war calls his sort. Born for the slaughter they are.”
He said that as if he had sure and certain knowledge of it although the last time Ironfang had flown to battle was in the time of Koth over a century before. It was amazing how the keepers transmitted their lore down the generations. She reached out and touched a scale. It was cool and hard and the dragon paid her no more attention than if she had been a fly.
“War is coming for certain,” Tamara said softly. Her father had always claimed that there was some sort of bond between him and this old beast. Might it have sensed his death? She flexed her mystical senses and touched Ironfang with her power. It roared softly in response. The old man looked at her. He was human, so he could not have sensed what she was doing, but he was keenly aware of the dragon and its responses. The beast’s great head rose on its long serpentine neck and then looped down to inspect her. She could smell its carnivore’s breath, and see its dagger-like teeth. The Keeper did not even flinch.
“Aye, he remembers you well enough. Has done ever since you were a lass. They don’t forget you know.”
“I know,” she said thinking that might be a few more betrayals before this particular adventure was done. Ah well, what was one more act of treachery in a life full of them.
She waited for the sun.
“I see no sign of your father, mistress,” said the Keeper, squinting out into the gloom.”
“Saddle Ironfang. I want him ready.” The keeper made the signal with his staff, and Ironfang crouched, wings flexing slightly. He sniffed the air, his long tongue flickering outward, a sure sign of excitement in a dragon. He knew he was going to fly.
The handlers wheeled the saddling platform into place, climbed up it and strapped the saddle on at the base of his neck. Ironfang growled as the hooks of the control harness went into his nostrils and inner ears, but he knew better than to fight it. Tamara was relieved. Sometimes dragons became rebellious just for the sake of it, and that might prove disastrous this morning.
She had to fight down the urge to go outside and check for Xephan’s men. They might be waiting for her even now. Well, if they were, they would be in for a surprise. Ironfang was a war-dragon, and a fierce one.
After what felt like hours the Keeper was satisfied. Tamara did not rush him. A badly fitted saddle and harness might be fatal once she was in the air. A broken strap could result in a long fall.
“Take him out,” she said. The Keeper looked at her again. Technically that was an order that only a dragon’s master could give, and that was her father. “Hurry. Every second counts.”
The Keeper grumbled but gave the signal to the handlers. He was used to her father’s strange comings and goings. The handlers took the control reins and led the old monster out into the light.
He looked magnificent as the sun caught his scales. In daylight, there were few sights to compare to an old dragon getting ready to fly. Ironfang was excited now, flexing his wings experimentally. Even in the tunnel’s mouth she could feel the backdrafts of air swirling as they caught the breeze.
She pulled the heavy leather flying suit over her courier’s costume, ignoring the stares she got from the servants. It was good to have as many layers of clothing as possible on while dragon-mounted. It got very cold up there. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and put on the helmet. It had been designed with a slit to trap her plaited hair. She took the crystal goggles and strapped them on to her forehead. She settled her bag over her shoulders and pulled on the leather gloves.
“Looks like your father has arrived, Milady,” said one of the handlers. Tamara followed his pointing fingers and saw the cloud of dust as a pack of riders raced up the driveway towards the mansion.
Tamara smiled at them as she pulled herself up the ladder and into the foresaddle. She began to strap herself in.
“Milady, you are in the wrong saddle,” said the Keeper. “You should be pillion-mounted.”
Tamara checked the oncoming riders. They had noticed the dragon on the hillside and milled around outside the mansion. Dragons frightened horses and normally they would not approach save under sorcerous control. After a few moments, they began riding towards the Dragon Pit. That was one question answered. There was at least one magician down there, most likely more. It was time to be going.
She took up the reins. She heard warning shouts from below. She had definitely strayed into dangerous territory now. The Keeper and his men shouted for her to stop. She shook her head, feeling she owed them a warning.
“Run before those riders get here. They will kill you,” she shouted. She extended her power once more. She was not the sorcerer her father had been, nor would she ever be so great a dragon rider, but she had enough strength to forge the link between mount and mage.
She felt Ironfang’s presence in her mind, just as he could feel hers in his. She touched that jagged alien intelligence, felt the complex weave of calculation floating above the sea of raw animal appetite. She felt the old dragon’s enormous strength of mind flow over her. To complicate matters she was female and Ironfang was male, and there were reasons why male rider and male dragon were usually paired.
She pushed back, letting Ironfang know she was not be intimidated or dominated. She sensed something like amusement in his mind at her daring, and then the fierce thrust of his will against her own. She gritted her teeth and called upon her internal energy, pushing back hard, and the moment of crisis passed leaving her in control.
Exultation flowed over her. The dragon was hers. She t
ugged the upper reins and its wings snapped open. The dragon bounded forward. She felt its enormous muscles bunch and swell beneath her. The wind whipped past her face. The wings cracked like the sails of a schooner catching the breeze and moments later Ironfang was aloft.
It was all she could do to keep from crying out with triumph. She looked down on the tops of trees, and watched fences and hedges dwindle beneath her as the dragon gained altitude. In the distance some of the onrushing cavalry had drawn pistols. One of the mages had produced a lightning lash, an ancient weapon of formidable power, strong enough to harm a wyrm or even a dragon. He waved it backwards and forwards and its tip glowed as bright as the sun. In seconds he might even have gathered enough power to strike the dragon.
She tugged the reins and used her mental link to urge Ironfang ever higher. He responded magnificently, wings beating harder and faster he raced towards the clouds, and then banking hard she sent him arrowing towards the distant West.
Chapter Fifteen
“I don’t like the look of this,” said the Barbarian. “Not at all.”
Sardec had to agree with him. There was something about this place that set his teeth on edge. The village was quieter than any he had ever seen save those ravaged by war, and this place looked untouched. All the buildings were intact. There were no signs of pillage but the chimneys gave forth no smoke and no animals or children played in the street.
The cavalry had swept through the place earlier and detected no signs of life. It was not along the main route of the army, but perhaps it could provide supplies. They had been assigned to investigate it, just in case. Rumour had it that they were fast approaching the outriders of the Eastern armies and Azaar wanted everything looked at it.
“Maybe the villagers fled when they heard we were coming,” said Toadface, licking his lips with his long tongue.
“Can’t say as I would blame them,” said Weasel. He radiated a feral alertness as he surveyed their surroundings. He obviously felt uneasy too. The sun was low in the sky and something told Sardec that this would be no place to be after dark.
“Deaders,” he said. “I think we’re going to find them here, if anywhere.”
No one disagreed with him. “May as well check out the tavern. See if there is anything worth taking. Check the houses as well. Groups of four. Cover each other. Be careful.”
“No drinking if you find any booze,” Sardec ordered. “I want every man able to fight if we’re attacked.”
For once there were no protests. All of them felt as he did. There was something wrong about this place. Sergeant Hef looked at him meaningfully.
“The locals might have left in a hurry, sir. Taken to the roads. Maybe they wanted to get out of the way of the war.”
“You sound about as convinced of that as I am, Sergeant.” Hef made a rueful grimace and spat on the ground.
“It all feels wrong, sir. All of it. It’s been bad since we left Talorea and its getting worse.”
“You’ll get no argument from me, Sergeant.”
“I was rather hoping I would, sir.”
“We’ve seen nothing but plague and dark magic and assassination since we left the homeland. The Elder races are stirring. The dead walk. I’d be a fool to try and convince you things were fine, and you’d be a fool to believe me. And we’re neither of us fools, are we Sergeant?” Sardec scanned the street as he spoke, watching for any signs of violence.
“I’d like to think that was the case, sir.”
The Foragers had started to emerge from the buildings. A few of them shook their heads. They looked confused. Sardec gestured for Weasel to come back over.
“What did you find, Weasel?” he asked.
“A couple of corpses, sir. Dead a while. Looked like someone had eaten bits of them.” They had seen more and more of that recently. The deaders liked to feed on human flesh. Sardec wondered why that was. He could see no pattern to any of it. Why did some corpses rise and others not? Did the undead feed only on those that did not rise or did they attack each other? He had no answers and he was not sure he wanted any.
“There’s something odd, sir.” Weasel sounded genuinely puzzled.
“Out with it, man.”
“Not enough bodies, sir. Not nearly enough for a village this size.”
“Maybe the cannibals ate them.”
“No bones, sir. Not many half-eaten corpses. There ought to be a lot more about if there was an outbreak of long-pig feasting.”
“Maybe the people fled when the plague hit.”
“Could be, sir. There’s tracks leading out all heading East.”
“And…”
“Something strange about the spacing of the prints, sir. As if all the people making the tracks were staggering drunk or…”
“Walking dead,” Sardec finished.
“Precisely, sir.”
They waited for the Foragers to finish checking the houses. They found nothing save a few gnawed bodies and putrefying corpses. Sardec looked at Hef and Weasel.
“Where did the corpse eaters go?” he asked.
“They might be hiding, sir,” said Hef.
Suddenly Handsome Jan came running up. “You’ll want to see this, sir,” he said. He sounded very frightened. Sardec followed him back to the local Temple and together they climbed up into the spire. “I came up here to get a look at the lie of the land as you ordered, sir.”
They reached the top of the Tower, emerged onto the open platform beneath the bell. Sardec had a clear view for leagues around. He did not need to follow the soldier’s pointing finger to see what had him so frightened. An enormous dust cloud was rising along the horizon, out of it loomed the massive forms of Bridgeback wyrms. He could hear something as well, the thunder of strangely powerful drums, beating like the heart of some world-eating monster.
Sardec flicked open his spyglass with his good hand and raised it to his eye. He picked out details, as figures emerged from the dust cloud. There were soldiers there in the purple and black uniforms of Sardea, thousands of them. Judging by the size of the cloud there must be hundreds of thousands marching behind them. How had the Sardeans mustered an army so large, so quickly?
Sardec came to a decision. “We need to take word of this back to Lord Azaar. Now!”
There were really two camps, some people claimed: the one where the soldiers were, and the one where the camp followers slept. Rik knew it was not quite so simple. Many of the troops had families, lovers and friends in the second camp and spent their time there. Others, like himself, sought some form of escape or anonymity there.
The first camp was laid out along Terrarch military lines, all the tents in ordered ranks with the regulation amount of space between them. It had been built around the outskirts of a village marked on the maps as Weswood.
The second camp was anarchic, with lean-tos and tents and people lying in blankets beneath the sky. Fires blazed everywhere, and the smell of smoke and cooking surrounded him. Musicians played, singers sang, and camp-girls called for custom. There were vendors here, selling skewered bird and rabbit and toasted bread. Makeshift bars made from planks set across empty barrels served beer to those who could afford it. Laughter and conversation rang out all around him. He listened to it all, drinking it in, sad that he could no longer feel entirely a part of it. For many years camps like this had been his home. He missed them sometimes.
It was a pity that none of his old company had returned from their patrol sweep yet. He had wanted to talk with them, escape for a few hours the feeling of being trapped in Terrarch intrigue, listen to tales of what they had found on the march, swap lies. He liked Asea well enough, and enjoyed her company but there were times when he needed to get away and this was one of them. From the scouts reports he knew that battle would be joined within the next day or two. The Eastern armies had been sighted by the light cavalry scouts.
“Rik,” a voice he recognised called out to him. “A word.”
He turned and saw Rena sitting there b
y a fire with a couple of girls he recognised. She rose from the spread blanket on which she had been sitting, adjusted her scarf and walked towards him. He smiled, pleased to see a familiar face in the whole lonely mass of people.
“You decided to come with the army, I see.” He smiled but she did not respond in kind. She looked drawn and worried. “Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“I don’t know. But I think you and Sardec are.”
He felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle, knowing what she was going to say before she said it. “The Inquisition have been asking about you.”
“They picked you up?”
She nodded. “Back in Halim not long after I spoke to you. They dragged me off to the Palace. Threw me into a cell. Held me there overnight.”
“Then they asked you questions.” He suppressed a cold laugh. The thief-takers back in Sorrow worked in exactly the same way sometimes- picked you up and then left you to stew in a dank cell with no knowledge of why you had been lifted or what they knew about your activities.
She nodded again. Tears ran down her face. The memory had shaken her. “They asked how I knew you and how I knew him.”
“You told them?”
“I told them about Mama Horne’s.”
“What else did you tell them? What else did they ask you?”
“They asked about hill-men.”
“Did they give you any clue why?”
“There had been some murders. One of them was a scout who led the Foragers into the hills to find the Prophet Zarahel.”
“Vosh?”
“That was his name.”
“What did they want to know?”
“Whether either of you had ever talked about him. What happened to him in the end. It seems you were seen talking to him the night he died.”