The Order of the Scales (36 page)

He couldn’t see much of the battle any more. Didn’t matter. Hadn’t made much sense when he’d been the right way up, so it wasn’t going to make any now. They weren’t alone, that’s all he knew. Dragons were falling all around him. Riderless. Some with white bellies, some without. Half and half. Hard to tell who was winning. If you could count slaughtering almost an entire generation of dragon-riders in a single battle as winning at all.
What if there aren’t enough riders left to collect all the fallen dragons, eh? Jeiros isn’t going to like that very much, is he, eh?
Nothing like someone else’s misery to take your mind off your own. He watched with a dull interest.
Still need to ask him why he can’t just make more of his bloody potions.

Yes. That helps. Let’s make a mental list of all the things I can crack on with once I’m on my feet again.

Nice try. But how exactly is that going to happen? Are we going to hover over the ground while I dangle helplessly, waiting for someone to come and cut me loose?
Every dragon-rider was taught what you were supposed to do in this situation, but always with a twinkle in the eye from their teacher, as if to say,
Don’t bother with this. Nothing ever gets this bad without you being already dead.
First choice was to pull your knees into your chest, grab hold of the rope with your hands and pull yourself up hand over hand until you reached the place where the rope was tied around the dragon’s neck. Then haul yourself up onto the back of the dragon and ride it bareback to the ground. Jehal struggled to count how many things were wrong with that.
Climbing a rope hanging from a beam in a nice sheltered learning hall is all very well, but not much like climbing one with a dragon and the wind both trying to knock you off. Not quite the same thing, uncle. Silvallan once said that they took his riders out to a bridge across a gorge in the worst storms of the year, tied a rope around them and threw them off. Seemed like idiocy at the time. And then there’s the bit about riding the dragon bareback all the way home. Has anyone ever actually done that? Because if they have, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it. How does that work, exactly? How do you stay on? And even if you can stay on when it’s flying, how do you stay on when you land, eh?

All of which would be interesting to find out about and a vast improvement over his current position. His main problem was the first bit, the bit about pulling your knees to your chest to get your hands on the rope. He simply couldn’t do it. He could get about halfway and then the pain was so much that even screaming wasn’t any relief any more and he thought he might pass out. After the third effort, he had to admit defeat.

Second choice. Wait until you’re almost down, then cut the rope with a knife to fall and land in something soft, water being the obvious option.
Pity we’re over a hundred miles from the sea.
A lake then or a river. The Fury wasn’t all that far away, was it? There were canals too, in the Silver City.
Oh, but wait. I’m wearing dragon-scale armour, as a rider always does. So, let’s suppose for a moment that there
is
some water, what happens when I fall in it? Oh yes. I drown. Marvellous. Thank you for that one, uncle.

They were falling towards Zafir’s capital, the Silver City, which spread out between the three Pinnacles. Dragons still rained from the sky.
Can’t be nice to be down there. First you get a few thousand scorpion bolts raining down. Then bits of rider and saddle and the scorpions themselves falling around your head, and then a couple of minutes later there’s dragons everywhere, stomping about looking for the remains of their riders, wailing and shrieking their heads off. How long do they keep looking? Hard to imagine they’re particularly careful about what they tread on either.

He didn’t know, and if anyone else did, they weren’t here to ask. Not that it made any difference. The Silver City hardly counted as a soft landing.

He checked his belt for a knife. He had that at least. And then it occurred to him that to cut the rope he’d have to reach it with his hands. Which meant pulling his knees to his chest, that thing he couldn’t do, and he was right back to where he started. Dead. He tried to be philosophical about it, but that turned out to be really hard when it felt like someone had beaten you from head to toe with a hammer and was now busy rubbing various ends of broken leg-bone against each other. Shouting and screaming didn’t really change anything. Cursing didn’t help either. Felt rather futile. A bit like shouting at a dragon.

He was a bit blurry on how the afterlife was supposed to work. Your ancestors supposedly hung around in some sort of limbo, keeping half an eye on you, offering a little guidance here and there, maybe making subtle adjustments to fate and destiny. This had always seemed to Jehal at best a hobby for a few of the newly dead who really needed to keep themselves busy for a while, and most likely something that would be neglected entirely. Wouldn’t the dead have better things to do? Although he’d never given much thought to what those things might be.

Zafir has probably murdered Lystra. This way maybe I get to see her again.

The ground came slowly closer. Wraithwing was now gliding in gentle circles and the wind had let go of him. It was almost quiet. Almost peaceful. Almost. If he ignored the distant falling dragons and the fires starting in the city below.

All the people I murdered, will they be waiting? Hyram, Aliphera, are you watching me now? My father. My brother, my sisters, my mother, my ever-loyal uncle, Meteroa. I’m sure he’s told you all that I was the one who played with Calzarin’s madness. Are you all waiting for me? What about all the people who died at Evenspire? The Red Riders? The people dying here and now? Are you there?

No. Maybe he didn’t want to die just yet. Prayers were for fools – he’d believed that for as long as he could remember – but he prayed now, prayed to any of his ancestors who might be in the mood to listen and forgive him. Prayed to the old gods that no one except the dragon-priests worshipped any more. Prayed to anyone who might listen.

The only response was a sudden jerk on the legbreaker, sending whole new spasms of pain through his hip and down his spine. Above him, Wraithwing clenched his claws. The dragon’s head whipped back and forth, searching. Jehal had enough time to catch a glimpse of something sticking out of the dragon’s side.

Scorpion bolt. And then the dragon pitched down and hurtled towards the nearest of the Pinnacles.

‘No!’ Jehal screamed. ‘Don’t!’

Another scorpion bolt shot past and then another. Jehal whimpered. Couldn’t be bothered to argue though. A scorpion bolt through the head would be a mercy, wouldn’t it?

The top of the Fortress of Watchfulness loomed up towards them. Exhausted, Jehal put his hand to his visor. He could see Wraithwing getting ready to douse the irritating little stinging things in flames to shut them up. He could see the scorpions, the men behind them starting to back away, turning, running for cover . . .

Here it comes.

He flipped his visor shut, closed his eyes. Instinct really, as Wraithwing belched flames and washed the top of the fortress clean. No reason to add a singed face to his list of woes. Although with the ground racing up to smash his bones, it hardly made a difference, did it?

The fire came again and again and again. Jehal felt each blast ripple and tremor down the legbreaker. Then he felt a long steady pull and something very hard and solid but curiously not as bone-shattering as he had expected clocked him around the head. He gasped and swore and braced himself for more. Cringed. He could almost feel the spirits of the dead rubbing their hands in gleeful anticipation.
Here he comes . . .

A huge wave of something that wasn’t pain surged out of his leg. It took him a moment to realise that it was
relief
. The simple absence of pain, or at least a good lessening of it. The pull was suddenly gone. For a moment he had the mad idea that the rope must have snapped – he was falling, that was why the rope wasn’t killing him any more. Except that wasn’t right either. Something huge had taken hold of him.

Wraithwing. The dragon’s claws were wrapped around him.

He opened his visor. He was lying flat on hard stone. Wraithwing was standing over him, one fore-claw unwrapping itself from him. The dragon roared and again hosed the battlements with fire; then it looked down between its legs at Jehal and made a clumsy grab for the legbreaker. Its talons were too big and crude to do anything more than move it about. Wraithwing gave an angry snort.

Alive!

Jehal sat up. Pain burst through him again as though he’d been shot.
But alive!
He took a few shallow breaths and then leaned forward and reached for his feet. Another bolt of pain stabbed him. Always in the same place. Always where Shezira had shot him.
But still, alive!
Deep breaths this time. His ankle hurt but his foot wasn’t at some funny angle. His knee felt like someone had had a good go at ripping his shin-bone out of its socket. Which probably wasn’t that far from the truth, but nothing was obviously broken or twisted. He poked and prodded himself to be sure, but the rest of his leg looked like it was going to work again one day. He lay back on the stone and started to laugh.
Alive! See that, ancestors! You don’t get me yet after all!
He lay still, whimpering, weeping and laughing all at once.

Wraithwing shifted and growled. Soldiers were up on the battlements again. They had dragon-scale shields. Crossbows too. Pointing at him. The dragon belched fire; the soldiers hid behind their shields, but as soon as Wraithwing paused, they raised their crossbows. No asking him who he was or offering to take his surrender or any such nonsense; they simply wanted to kill him. The first bolt went about ten feet wide. The second hit Wraithwing in the foot and stuck, and then they didn’t have time for any more before the dragon roared fire back at them again. Jehal tried to ignore them. He rolled, squealing, behind Wraithwing’s legs, pulled the knife out of his belt and set to work on the legbreaker. He felt rather than saw Wraithwing’s fire burst out again.
Cut the rope. Don’t look at the archers.
Just cut the rope.

Alive!
He still couldn’t stop laughing.

The sun went out. It took him a moment to realise that Wraithwing was shielding him with his wings, blotting out the light but blocking the arrows too.

Clever
. The legbreaker yielded to his knife. Jehal took a deep breath and collapsed again, too drained to move.
Now can we just stay here until they all go away?
As long as he stayed still, the pain was almost bearable. If he moved, that was a different matter, but with a dragon standing watch over him, he couldn’t think of any reason why he should. He closed his eyes.
Only for a few minutes
, he thought.
Only until I can summon some sort of energy
. He felt almost delirious.
Alive!
He’d fallen off his dragon and he was alive. For those few moments nothing else mattered.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there. Might have been a few minutes or might have been a few hours. He drifted, floated, swayed up and down, tossed from wave to wave of joy and pain, until the light suddenly crashed in again and there was a voice. Jehal opened his eyes and blinked. The light, it seemed, had become quite fierce. The sun was back again.

‘Hello?’

He took a deep breath, which hurt, and sat up, which hurt a lot more and quite enough to convince him not to try and stand up. On the battlements where the soldiers with crossbows had been there was now a single rider, arms spread wide.
I surrender.

‘Hello?’

With agonising slowness, Jehal crawled out from under Wraithwing. Just far enough to look. Even that was almost more than he could do. He looked at the rider. Had no idea who it was.
What a sight I must be, peering up at you on my hands and knees, barely able to move. But I have a dragon and you don’t.
Far above in the bright blue sky there were lots of specks. Or maybe he was imagining them. Either way, it didn’t help him tell whose side had won.

‘Well?’ he croaked.

The rider peered down at him then shouted, ‘In the name of King Valmeyan, King of the Crags, I submit my person and all those here to the authority of the Speaker of the Nine Realms.’

Jehal beamed through the pain. He managed to get as far as kneeling. ‘Does that mean I won?’

The rider stiffened. ‘I am offering my surrender to anyone who serves the speaker.’

‘Oh. Pity. I don’t serve the speaker, you see.’ The scale of what fate had handed him slowly dawned on him.
I was the first to land . . .

‘Oh.’

‘Because I
am
the speaker. I am King Jehal, King of the Endless Sea, Lord of the Adamantine Palace and Speaker of the Realms, and I will accept your surrender on one condition. You will bring me my son and you will bring me my wife, and you will bring them to me in exactly whatever state they are to be found, since, as you can see, I can’t really go looking for them at the moment.’ With an enormous effort, he gripped Wraithwing’s wing and pulled himself onto his feet. Or onto the one foot that would bear any weight. ‘And if you can’t do that because Zafir took them away with her, then I don’t want your surrender. You can all burn. If they’re dead and she left the bodies here for me, then whoever has the courage to bring them out can live and everyone else dies. Unless I suffer a sudden fit of uncontrollable rage, in which case maybe it’ll be the other way round.’

Jehal stared across the open space and grinned, although inside he only wanted to curl up and cry. For a little while he’d been too busy with his own misery to think about Lystra. Now she was back. It didn’t hurt quite as bad as hanging upside down from his ruined leg being battered by the wind against the belly of a dragon – he doubted anything could ever hurt as much as that – but it hurt a lot, nonetheless. Enough, maybe, to burn Zafir’s home to ash along with everyone who lived there.
Not exactly fair, really. It’s not as if they all took turns to murder Lystra. But it’s the principle. That’s how you teach people not to throw in their lot with the wrong side.