Lords of the Sky (79 page)

And we four stood watching, huddled fearful and patient under that stained and fire-filled sky. Watching our pursuers slain; wondering what our fate should be.

I held Rwyan, and I felt Urt’s terror. I wondered how Tezdal could stand so calm to see his kin slain. I was not afraid. I had passed beyond fear: I felt only wonder then, and I stood awed in witness of what Truemen said could not be, but was.

And then the dragons came down to land before us.

As I had done in dreams, now we all knelt under the beat of those wings. No more oneiric but real; lifting great clouds of swirling grass and dust, heavy as thunder. Awesome as dream—or nightmare—come true, shaped out in flesh:
real!

I looked into yellow eyes that took the moon’s place: there was nothing else. I saw bloodied fangs, hung with remnants of flesh. I felt hot breath on my face. I saw talons settled in the dirt before me, like roots sunk in betwixt ground and sky. I saw wings hung all leathery, spread in promise or condemnation. I could not tell or know; only marvel. I saw, beyond the massive body, a tail switch restlessly, lofting clouds of grass. I saw a paw rise: a pink tongue lap absently at crimsoned claws.

I heard a voice say, “So, you are saved. Do you come with me, then? Or shall you wait here like frightened sheep until your hunters come?”

I only stared, dumbstruck. It was Rwyan who said, “Who are you? I’d have a name ere I go with you.”

Laughter then, like any man’s; but more, as if he found amusement in her courage past my understanding.

“Your hope,” he said. “The answer to your … prayers? Surely to the calling of your dreams. Come now; or stay and die here. All of you.”

I could not quite believe that Rwyan rose so readily and went to him—toward those awful, bloodstained fangs. But she paused and reached out to take my hand, and said again, “Who are you?”

And past the dragon’s head I heard him answer, “I am Bellek. Now come with me.”

I followed Rwyan. Urt and Tezdal came behind us. I think not even the Sky Lord was unafraid then.

I
halted, wary as the dragon’s head descended closer. But it was only that the rider might dismount, clambering from the long neck to one great shoulder, springing from that to the ground. He grunted, though the distance was not so great, and straightened his back with a heartfelt sigh. The dragon turned its massive head a fraction, an eye observing him with an expression I could only interpret as concern.

He said, “By all the gods, I grow too old for this.”

I stared at him. His hair was the white of snow lit by a cold moon, tied back in a tail that hung to his waist. His face was leathery as his mount’s wings, as dark and seamed with wrinkles, like deep cuts in the flesh. He was shorter than I, about Urt’s size, dressed like some wildman, some hermit come down off his mountain; which, of course, he was. He wore a shirt of patched hide, sewn crude and belted with woven hair, and breeks in no better condition, loose and patched and stained. A wolfskin jerkin was stretched taut by his broad shoulders. Hides bound in rough semblance of boots covered his feet. He smiled, exposing teeth that were startling for their pristine regularity.

“So, you are Rwyan.” His eyes—I could not be certain of the color in the moonlight, but I thought them pale blue or perhaps gray—scanned us all, as if confirming our identities. “And you, Daviot. Then this must be the one called Urt, and this the Sky Lord.”

Tezdal said, “I am Tezdal Kashijan,” offering a deep, formal bow.

Bellek chuckled. “Tezdal shall do, Sky Lord. What ceremony we follow is theirs.”

He gestured at the dragon crouched beside him like some watchful hound.

I leaned on Rwyan and Urt and marveled at all this. I asked, “How do you know our names?”

He laughed again. I wondered if I heard an edge of madness in the sound. He said, “Blood calls to blood, Daviot; and there’s truth in dreams.”

That sounded to me like oracular riddling, but Rwyan said, “I told you! It’s the pattern.”

Bellek shrugged. “What’s in a name?” he asked. “The blood’s in you and called us. Is that a pattern? Perhaps it is. But we can discuss that later—in some place your hunters shall not find us.”

He hesitated then, head cocking toward the dragon, and nodded. “Aye, sweetling, I hear them. Soon, eh? Do you call them, and we’ll be gone.”

I felt then—you know those moments when it seems a voice whispers over your shoulder? Or from the corner of your eye you catch some movement? But when you tune your ear or turn your head, there’s nothing there?—it was like that. I knew Bellek and the dragon spoke together, and almost I could hear what they said. I saw the dragon raise its head and loose an oddly soft hooting call that was answered from across the fields. Then the air grew loud with wingbeats, and more of the terrifying creatures landed about us.

They settled, monolithic and magnificent, bathed in pale moonlight like barbaric statuary. I choked on blown dust, blind a moment. I heard Urt moan softly and felt his shoulders hunch under my arm.

Bellek said, “They’ll not harm you, Urt. Those days are long gone. But you must trust them and ride them.”

His tone was kindly but tinged with impatience and a hint of contempt. It crossed my mind that it was the tone a sated predator—a wolf or an owl—might use, did predators speak to potential prey when their bellies were filled and they hunted no longer.

Urt shuddered and shook his head. It was difficult to
discern that particular motion from the general shaking of his body.

I said, “Urt, you must! Trust him!”

Urt said, the words forced past chattering teeth, “I cannot! No—not dragons!”

Bellek said, “If he’ll not mount, we must leave him here.”

Tezdal said, “I do not go without Urt. Leave him, and you leave me.”

Bellek said, “There are more of your kind coming, Sky Lord; and Changed sorcerers. You die if you stay. I think it should be slowly.”

Tezdal said, “Then I shall die. I’ll not leave Urt.”

I broke from Rwyan’s grip, wincing as my weight fell on my hurting leg. I looked into Urt’s face; set hands on his vibrating shoulders. I said, “Urt, do you trust me?”

He moaned back, “Yes, but I cannot ride a dragon.”

I thought it must take all his will to stand upright and speak; I admired him. I said, “You must. Do you not, then Allanyn shall take you and punish you in ways far worse than any fear you feel now. Worse! She’ll have her way and bring the world to bloody war for only her ambition. Would you allow that?”

He said, “I’d not. But—” His eyes roved wild and white-rimmed over our encircling audience. “Dragons, Daviot? I cannot!”

I asked again, “Do you trust me, Urt?”

He nodded again and began to speak. I shifted my grip from his shoulders to his neck. I was afraid I’d do it wrong; that my hurting leg would refuse my weight, but it did not. I found the nerves there and squeezed, whispering, “Forgive me, Urt,” as he started and fought me. It was too late. I saw his eyes jump wide, then glaze. For an instant they held an outrage that filled me with guilt. Then he fell loose from my hands. I fell down with him.

Rwyan and Bellek helped me to my feet. Her eyes were clouded with doubt and approval, all mixed. His were entirely approving. He said as I rose, soft in my ear, “You’ve the makings, Daviot.”

Tezdal lifted Urt, and on his face I saw only disapproval.

I said, “Does he stay—do either of you stay—you’ll die. I’d not see that. Do as Bellek says.”

Tezdal’s face shone angry in the moon’s light. “Does he not have the right to choose his death? Is there no honor in Dharbek?”

Rwyan spoke for me: “We’ve larger concerns, Tezdal. I’d not see Urt die for fear of going with friends. I’d not see you die needlessly. Do not forget your vow!”

Her voice was forged steel, hard and unyielding. Tezdal stared at her. I thought he’d argue. Stay here to take his Way of Honor, Urt his squire; and both lost.

Rwyan said, “We’ve hope, Tezdal! Bellek offers us hope, and I hold you to that vow.”

The Sky Lord’s face was black as he nodded. “What shall I do?”

Rwyan looked to Bellek. He said, “You must all do what none save I have in too long—you must ride the dragons.”

Leaning on Rwyan’s shoulder, I stared at the beasts and wondered how.

Bellek said, “And soon. More of those little flying craft come after you; and horsemen. I cannot command so many dragons as to defeat them all—so you mount, or I leave you here.”

Rwyan said, “We mount.”

I said, “How?”

Bellek gusted that crazy chuckle again and beckoned to us.

“Set Urt on Kathanria,” he said. “I’ll show you how.”

He gestured at the beast he had ridden, which raised a sky-consuming eye as if in inquiry of mention of her name. He spoke to her, and she lowered her great head against the ground as does a cat or a dog eager to be stroked, anxious to obey that it earn the approval of its …
master
is the wrong word. There is a relationship between species, between dogs and their owners; between cats and their owners. It seems to me a thing born of trust and mutual dependence—that one species gains from the other in equal measure.

Then, I knew only that this formidable creature laid down her head, stretching out her neck so that I saw a saddle set forward of her shoulders. It was a kind of bucket, high at cantle and back, with straps hanging loose and bags beside. It was not dissimilar to the saddle I’d long ago set on my gray mare, but far larger; in keeping with this mount’s size.

We climbed up the splayed foreleg. The dragon stretched it like a ladder. Bellek went first, and Tezdal passed him Urt’s loose body. The silver-haired man beckoned the Sky Lord up, and he climbed as if familiar with dragons. I stood with Rwyan by the massive forelimb. Kathanria lay still, but I could feel the heave of her ribs as she breathed and smell the dry-dust odor of her skin. I saw insects crawling there, but they paid me no heed. I. thought I was likely too small to merit their attention.

Aided by Tezdal, Bellek stretched Urt’s limp form behind the saddle. From the bags, he brought cords with which he bound Urt secure. I wondered how far we should travel, how long, and dreaded that Urt should wake and panic. I feared he might step over that line betwixt sanity and madness did he open his eyes to find himself in flight, across a dragon’s back. I feared he would not forgive me.

Bellek clambered down. “He’ll be safe enough,” he promised. “Kathanria’s a gentle lady.”

I eyed the beast, which eyed me, unwinking, back, and wondered how so dreadful a creature might be described as “a gentle lady.” I think that then my mind was so occupied with thought of pursuit and escape, the full realization of what I was about to do had not sunk in.

It was driven home by Bellek’s next words: “So do I introduce you to your mounts?”

He did not await our response but waved us after him as he marched briskly toward another dragon.

Kathanria’s hide was brown, the reddish hue of a deer. This beast was darker, mottled gray and black. Her eyes were tawny. I could not understand how I knew her name (or how, again, I knew she was female) before Bellek spoke.

“This is Anryäle,” he said. “Rwyan, do you take her?”

Rwyan nodded and reached out to touch the dragon’s snout, for all the world as if she stroked a beast of no more import than a horse. Anryäle blew a gusty exhalation, and I knew she took pleasure from the contact. I gaped as Rwyan followed Bellek’s instructions: up the splayed forelimb to the shoulder, a foot set in the stirrup dangling there, that the leverage she needed to settle herself in the saddle. Bellek climbed after her, showing her straps and buckles that were swiftly fixed in place. Rwyan clutched the frontage of the saddle and looked down on Tezdal and me.

Bellek sprang down; winced, cursed volubly, and said, “You need do nothing. Only sit and try to contain your fear. If—this with a grin at Rwyan, who was beaming wide as any child embarking on some great adventure long dreamed of and now come true—“you are afraid.”

She said, “I’m not.”

It seemed to me her voice came from high above.

Bellek turned to Tezdal: “You shall ride Peliane, Sky Lord; and know what flight is.”