The war-dragon was heading for the ground now. Nthandra was following it down. She had every right, since she'd made the kill. Hyrkallan tipped B'thannan skywards once more. Let her pick up the grounded dragons while he flew circles overhead, watching in case the hunter came back.
'It's a good day!' he bellowed back to Deremis. 'Three new riders and now three new dragons. That's twenty wings we have now. We'll have to start our own eyrie soon!' He laughed. Deremis and Shanzir didn't answer, but that was probably because they hadn't heard him over the noise of the wind. Or else they had, and he hadn't heard them. He let his eyes scan the skies one last time, then turned back to them.
Not the wind. Deremis was sprawled away from the scorpion, speared by a shaft half the length of a man. It had gone right through him and nicked at Shanzir as well, caught her in the top of the thigh. Blood was everywhere. Hyrkallan blinked, as if that might somehow make the blood and the scorpion bolt go away. Deremis? My brother? He couldn't see properly. For a moment he didn't know why. Then he understood. His brother was dead. He couldn't see because his eyes had filled with tears.
'Shanzir!' He put a hand on her shoulder and shook.
He didn't hear her, but she moved an arm, made a jerky gesture to tell him that she was hurt, and badly, but that she wasn't about to die. He promptly forgot about her and stretched out past her for his brother.
'Deremis!' Their harnesses held them both too tightly for him to reach. He couldn't even see his brother's face, hidden behind his helm.
He hadn't seen the enemy riders fire their scorpion. Couldn't even think when it had happened. He shook his head. They must have fired as the two dragons passed and pulled apart. He'd felt the shudder as Deremis had fired. They must have fired back.
He shivered. A foot to the left and Deremis would have been alive and Shanzir dead. A foot the other way and perhaps he himself would have been hit. Two or three feet and they'd all be alive. Two dragons passing at speed, in such a way… A desperate piece of luck to hit a rider like that, and yet there was his brother, right in front of him. Dead.
Below, Nthandra of the Vale circled over the riderless war-dragon. Someone was going to have to bring that one home without a harness. Most riders tried that once, when they were young and stupid and thought they were immortal. Most of them didn't try it again.
I'd do it. Hyrkallan reached out for his brother again. I'd do it for you. But Shanzir was hurt and someone had to fly B'thannan. As he watched, Nthandra looped her hunter through the air, dived and almost landed on the war- dragon's back. She pulled up at the last possible moment, and as she did, one of the riders with her jumped. He landed on the war-dragon's back and somehow managed to stay there. Nthandra made one more pass and then flew on, chasing the fallen hunter.
You'd do that would you, old man? He could almost hear Deremis laughing at him. You'd do that? I seem to remember you tried the same thing twenty-five years ago, before you went fat and half blind.
You slid off, broke one arm and three ribs and almost got trampled if I remember it right. We were all very impressed. After we'd finished laughing at you.
'I didn't see any of the rest of you try.' Hyrkallan swallowed hard. Up here, where no one could see, he could afford to shed a tear and whisper words to the dead. Up here, but not on the ground. There will be a pyre, my brother. We'll send you on your way as though you were a king. We'll sing your name and send you to the ancestors, and then I swear to you, one way or the other, I'll bring this Usurper to her knees.
Later, back among the rest of the Red Riders, Hyrkallan took his brother's armour. They burned his body and sang old songs of battle and victory and loss. After that, Hyrkallan gave them leave to celebrate what they'd gained. Three dragons, three riders, an alliance with Almiri's eyries and a bloody nose for Zafir. Enough to make any young rider drunk with excitement.
He left them to it and slipped away. Without Deremis, their victories felt hollow. Others might have drunk themselves into a stupor or lost themselves in Souldust, but Hyrkallan had no use for such things. Instead he sat alone in his tent, still and straight, and recited the names of all the riders who had died on the Night of the Knives, all the riders killed by the Adamantine Men on the Usurper's order. He added his brother's name to the list, and then did what he did every night. Planned Speaker Zafir's downfall in fierce detail, step by step by step by bloody step.
4
Jostan hadn't brought a tent with him. He hadn't brought a bedroll or any blankets either, or indeed anything that might have been useful. Semian was no better off. Nthandra had some blankets but no tent. They ended up, all three of them, in the tent that had belonged to Hyrkallan's brother simply because it was there, and because Deremis didn't need it any more. They watched Deremis burn. Hyrkallan and some of the other riders sang songs and Jostan sang with them. Nthandra stared at the fire. On and off she wept. Thinking of Deremis perhaps, but more likely of all the menfolk she'd lost. From time to time Jostan wondered where he was. He had almost no idea. They'd crossed the Great Cliff and the Silver River valley and then veered west and then south again. Somewhere near the merging of the Purple Spur and the Worldspine. That was about as close as he could guess. Somewhere in the mountains.
Semian stared at the fire as well. Jostan had no idea what he was thinking at all.
When the first flash of the burning was done, Hyrkallan stood up and with a simple gesture he silenced them all. He raised a drinking horn. 'To Deremis, my brother. Another brave and noble and honest rider slain.' He emptied his horn. 'I will mourn him as a kinsman should, but you should not. We are at war, and in war the noble and the brave die. We will be the spark that ignites the realms. We have a victory today. Three dragons gained and three new riders too. That is how my brother should be remembered. So I give you another toast, one to celebrate. I give you Queen Shezira and King Valgar, freed from the dungeons of the Adamantine Palace. I give you Speaker Zafir's headless corpse rotting on a rope!' He raised his horn a second time. 'So warm yourselves at my brother's pyre. Know that he died a fine death and that he would be proud of what we have done, of what we will do tomorrow, and of what we will do every day after that.'
Hyrkallan threw his drinking horn into the fire, turned his back and vanished into the darkness. Nthandra started to sob. Semian stared at the flames.
'It's a strange day,' Jostan muttered.
'He doesn't believe,' whispered Semian. Jostan didn't know what to say to that. Doesn't believe what? It was hard to feel much of anything except bewildered, and perhaps a little pleased that he found himself with a dragon again.
Nthandra reached out a hand and rested it on Semian's shoulders. T believe,' she said.
'Oh, believe what?' complained Jostan. When Semian turned to look at him, Jostan wished he'd kept his mouth shut. In the flickering firelight, Semian looked demonic.
'Rider Hyrkallan does not believe in the name he has given to the men who follow him,' said another voice, standing behind them. Jostan twisted around and found himself looking up at a nondescript man leaning on a staff. About the only thing Jostan really noticed was that the man's hands were scarred and burned and that some of his fingers seemed to be missing. The man with the staff was looking at Semian, and Semian's face had changed. The expression on his face was suddenly one of shock, and even awe. Jostan frowned.
'You do though, don't you?' said the man with the staff to Semian. Semian nodded. 'The problem,' the man went on, 'is that Hyrkallan has no faith.' He crouched between Semian and Jostan. Now the man's face was closer, it seemed familiar.
'I've seen you before,' said Jostan.
'Yes. We both served the same mistress. I am Kithyr. I served Lady Nastria. I was her blood-mage.'
Jostan felt himself turn rigid with a mixture of distaste and fear and anger. Blood-mage. Abomination. He half expected Semian to jump to his feet and reach for a sword, but Semian didn't even blink.
'Rider Hyrkallan chose to call these men his Red Riders because its a common enough piece of folklore. Everyone knows the stories, little parts of the prophecies, handed from village to village, from generation to
