Lords of the Sky (88 page)

We reached that strait by noon.

I had never seen the Slammerkin, nor the Border Cities, and I was startled by the size of both. The dividing waterway was vast, far wider than the Treppanek, and I wondered how any Changed succeeded the crossing. I supposed only the most determined—like Urt—could hope to bridge that great expanse. And the Border Cities—they were each of them near large as Durbrecht, like vast fortresses spread all along the southern shore. I felt a pang of alarm then, thinking of the sorcerers in those sunlit towers and the magicks they could throw at us.

From Deburah, then, I got a sense of calm, of tremendous confidence, an absolute certainty that we should cross this barrier unscathed. That no mortal magic could harm me so long as I sat her back. I hoped she was right: I had no choice but to trust her.

I watched the cities come rapidly closer. Even had they not already sensed our approach, they must surely see us now—we filled the sky. Squadrons of dragons spread to either side, and more behind. The land and then the water below us was shadowed under our passing.

They did see us, but no occult blasts were sent against us: as Rwyan had promised, we took them by surprise, and our passing was so swift, the sorcerers there had no time to link and draw on the crystals’ power. We were come and gone fleet as the shadow of a wind-driven cloud on a summer afternoon. We left the Border Cities behind us, our destination Kherbryn.

That was another proposition entirely: Kherbryn was a citadel, fortified even stronger than Durbrecht; and warned of our approach.

We were met with magic and, as we closed, those bolts Gahan’s war-engines threw. I saw a bull—a magnificent silver-skinned creature—turned from his path by occult power. It spun him in the bright afternoon light, holding him like a cork tossed on contrary tides, even as he beat his wings and fought to free himself. Before he could, he was struck by a gleaming shaft. His wing was pierced, close to the shoulder. Through Deburah I heard him shriek, less in pain than in rage and wounded pride. I had not seen dragon’s blood be
fore: it is red, like yours and mine. It spread along his ribs as he attempted to gain height, but then a second shaft took him full in the chest and killed him. I felt that as I’d never felt a death before. I knew what it was to see a friend die; I knew what it was to put a sword in a man and feel his life spent. But this … I’d not felt this, ever: I shared the outrage of the dragons.

And even as the great body tumbled from the sky, the horror began.

The bulls came down like those demons the Church threatens. Even as Deburah—as
we,
for there was no longer, not then, any difference between us—followed them, I saw two bulls plummet like stooping falcons on the engine that had flung the bolt. One caught it in his hindpaws and lifted it, the soldier-mechanics falling from it like insects shed from a raised carcass. He beat his wings and carried the engine high above the walls. I saw a luckless soldier clinging to the machine, and then falling down as the bull loosed his hold and let the engine drop into the streets below. The other, meanwhile, was landed on the ramparts—I had seen this before, in a dream; but then it had been Kho’rabi knights the dragon snatched and tore and chewed, not Dhar warriors, not soldiers of the Lord Protector’s warband.

Then I was too close to observe anything more than what Deburah did. What
we,
locked in our gestalt identity of dragon and Dragonmaster, did. And that was terrible enough: a bull was slain—our wrath must be delivered in full measure, these upstart creatures taught a lesson.

We swooped low over the ramparts of Kherbryn, slaying as we went. Not pausing but driving on, talons and jaws slashing and snapping, our tail a sweep that dashed men down, screaming, to the stones below. We left only ravaged bodies in our wake. The war-engines were too heavy for us—we left those to the bulls, who left them wrecked. We took the men; like a fox in a chicken coop. We knew only the venting of our fury, and when there were no more left on the walls, we swooped over the city, all of us. Rwyan was there, and one with the dragons’ anger; and Tezdal, and Urt, with Bellek fearsome on Kathanria.

And when it was done, when Deburah sat in the yard before the Lord Protector’s great palace, and dragons sat like the God’s judgment upon the walls and more hung in
the sky above, I climbed from the saddle and became, a little, myself again. Enough that I looked around, and felt my stomach churn, and fell to my knees, and emptied my belly, as Urt had done in Trebizar. And when I rose, telling Deburah that I could not properly explain why the slaughter should upset me so, I saw Rwyan’s leathers all discolored with vomit, and her face so pale, I thought she must faint.

She leaned against Anryäle, who radiated the same satisfaction as Deburah, and wiped her mouth, and said, albeit thickly, “We did not think it should be easy, eh?”

I shook my head, and spat, and answered her, “No. But neither like this.”

Tezdal said, “This is war. In whatever cause, it is still war, and war is a bloody thing. When we go east, it shall likely be worse.”

I thought there might be some measure of pride in his voice, or even satisfaction, but I offered him no response, because just then I caught sight of a bull across the yard. He was digging claws between his teeth to dislodge something caught there, and when it came loose, I saw that it was the head of a man, trapped between the fangs by the column of the spine the bull had torn from the body. There was a helmet still locked in place, and from it hung that slender length of linked bones. It fell loose and rolled across the flagstones. I had thought my belly quite emptied, but I managed to vomit again at that.

It was Urt who helped me up, and his face was drawn as Rwyan’s. He said soft in my ear, “This is not easy, Daviot.”

I said, “No,” and heard my voice come thick. “I never thought …”

“Nor I,” he said. “But we can do it. We must, now. Now more than ever. Or it means nothing, any of it.”

I felt his hand firm on my shoulder and remembered the touch, from Durbrecht. I spat again and ducked my head and told him, “Yes. For all the world.”

He smiled, and it was not dissimilar to that expression I’d seen on Bellek’s face when he told me of Aiylra’s demise. It was not dissimilar to the smile of the Pale Friend.

I said, “Then let us do it. But I think it must be hard to fight our way down those long corridors. The palace must be filled with warriors intent on defending Taerl and Jareth
both. We could scarce dare hope to win through. Not without terrible carnage.”

Bellek said, “It should not take long to destroy it—the bulls would welcome it. Or we could send the dragons out to scour the streets until our quarry comes to us.”

I said, “I’d see no more blood spilled, can we avoid it.”

Bellek looked, I thought, disappointed. His pale eyes glistened in the afternoon sun, and there was an excitement expressed in his stance; like the restless flexing of the bulls. I wondered then, even when my blood knew it, how close Dragonmaster grew to dragon, and how much humanity was left after that bonding was complete.

I said, “Do we send heralds in and ask that the Lord Protector and the regent attend us?”

And Bellek laughed and called a bull forward who—before any of us had opportunity to disagree—rose on his hindlimbs and tore the door that barred our passage from its hinges.

Wood lay in splinters before us as a Changed servant came out, the yellow rag of submission waving on a pole that trembled in his shaking hands. In the hallway behind him I saw a squad of crossbow men.

Rwyan moved to speak, but I sprang before her: I’d not see my love slain now.

I shouted, “We’d speak with the Lord Protector, Taerl; and with the regent, Jareth. There need not be more bloodshed.”

The frightened Changed sprang back, and a moment later a commur appeared. His plaid was immaculate, his armor polished. He’d not seen battle yet, but still his sword was steady in his hand, and his voice was firm as the steel. At his back the archers held their crossbows leveled on my chest. I felt a great desire to be elsewhere.

The commur demanded, “Who are you to ask this?”

I could not see his face behind his helmet, only his eyes, but they were indignant. I studied him a moment and saw that his plaid was not Kherbryn’s but that of Mardbrecht: Jareth’s man.

I heard Bellek say, “Let the dragons have him.”

And Rwyan, “No! We come to parley, not to slay.”

I said again, “We’d speak with the Lord Protector.”

The commur eyed me past the bars of his helm. I saw his
gaze move on to the awful beasts surrounding me, to those upon the walls and those in the sky above. It is difficult to read the body language of an armored man, but under his pauldrons I thought I saw his shoulders droop a fraction. I said, “We need fight no more. But do you choose it, then these dragons will tear Kherbryn apart. Do you doubt they can do that?”

His eyes gave me answer first, and then his voice: “No. Do you wait here?”

I said, “A while.”

He ducked his head and turned away. The archers remained. I could see their faces clear. I could see the terror there. I applauded their courage, for none ran or lowered their weapons.

We waited in that yard baked hot by the magic of the Attul-ki, and I had time to see what that had wrought. I saw dead plants and dried fountains, wilted vines and withered trees. There was an aura of despair, of sun-dried hope; flagstones were cracked, weeds climbing up, even they yellow and enervated. The dragons luxuriated in the heat. I shed my furs and still felt sweat mask my body.

Then horns sounded and a herald appeared. His hair was lank, and droplets of perspiration trickled down his face. His tabard was stained, but his voice was loud: “The regent Jareth grants you audience. Do you follow me?”

I said—it seemed I was for the moment appointed spokesman—“No. Do you bring the Lord Protector Taerl and the regent here.”

I did not envy him. He swallowed hard and stared harder at the dragons, then ducked his head and said, “I shall convey your message.”

I said, “Do that. And also, that if they fail to appear before”—I glanced up and found a bull perched atop the wreckage of a pergola—“before the sun touches that dragon’s head, I shall send him and all his kin to find them.”

Power corrupts: I enjoyed the paling of the herald’s face. I heard Bellek chuckling as the luckless fellow went scuttling away. I was still aware of the crossbows aimed at my chest. I did my best not to stare at them.

Then Taerl and Jareth appeared.

The Lord Protector, for all he was not that much younger than I, seemed an innocent child. He wore a soldier’s
armor, but not easily. He seemed, clumsy in the steel, and the sword belted on his waist seemed somehow an embarrassment, awkward and more likely to trip him than be drawn. He carried his helm under his arm, so I could see his face clear. It was a young bland face, unlined for all it was creased in worry. His hair was fair and long, as I’d heard Gahan’s was, and his eyes were large and blue, opening in naked wonder as he surveyed the dragons. I liked that: that he showed not terror, but wonder.

Jareth was a different matter. He was tall and thin, wide-shouldered under armor more resplendent than the Lord Protector’s, all gleaming silver plate and gold-etched rococo. He wore such a helm as aeldors wear, but grander: crested with a rolling comb and decorations at the temples in resemblance of eagles’ wings. It had a visor shaped in facsimile of a lion’s snarling face, lifted up so that I could see his own arrogant visage. That held no wonder but only spiteful anger, as if he found our dragonish intrusion tiresome. His nose was thin, the nostrils flaring as he scented the air—which, I must admit, was noisome with the stench of spilled blood and dragons’ breath (and be I honest, the emptying of their bowels). But still I thought he had no right to assume that arrogance. I looked at his eyes and found them cold and dismissive. I liked him not at all.

From Deburah I felt a surge of anger: she felt my distaste and sent it back, augmented by her own. I felt a great desire to draw my blade and cut this strutting charlatan down.

Rwyan said (aware of that unspoken conversation betwixt dragons and Dragonmasters), “Easy, Daviot! No more bloodshed, eh?”

I said silently, knowing it should be sent back to her,
No; save he force us to it.

I looked at his arrogant face and almost I hoped he should.

He said, “I am Jareth, regent of Dharbek. What do you ask of me?”

I said, “Nothing. I’d speak with the Lord Protector of Dharbek.”

Jareth’s nostrils flared afresh at that, and I saw clear the outrage burning in his eyes. I held his gaze and prayed he’d not be so foolish as to order his archers open fire, not unleash the slaughter that should inevitably follow. Taerl
seemed embarrassed. He shifted inside his armor and dragged his gaze from the dragons to me. I looked past him and saw that the archers were now augmented with sorcerers. There were nine of them.

Inside my head Rwyan told me,
They are Adepts, Daviot I doubt I can defeat them all

I gave her back,
All well, you’ll not need to. But ward yourself.

And you,
she asked.
Shall you survive?

I looked at the sorcerers and the archers and wondered if I should. But I had no choice anymore; no other way to go than forward. So I looked the Lord Protector in the eye and told him, “I’d speak with you, Lord Taerl; with you alone. About the future.”

Jareth said, “I speak for the Lord Protector. Have you demands, put them to me.”

I sent a message to Deburah then, and she came strutting forward across the yard, letting her wings loft idly and her jaws drop wide. She halted at my back, looking over my head. She spread her wings, and the regent sprang back.

Power corrupts, but its usage can be most enjoyable. Certainly, I enjoyed the sight of Jareth sprawling, armored buttocks over head, across the flags as I took Taerl’s arm—I think that had I not, he would have stood marveling at the dragons until we quit Kherbryn—and took him a little way aside.