The fire swallowed him up, weak and at the end of its reach, not enough to even stagger him. His dragon- scale shrugged off the heat. He whipped around for Lystra, his heart in his mouth for an instant, but she was still there, reeling slightly, open-mouthed, maybe a little red-faced and singed at the edges, but otherwise unhurt. The baby, wrapped in its blankets, started to cry again. Meteroa pushed her back down the hallway.
‘Wait here out of sight! If I shout at you to come, then run!’ If we manage to get out of here, a red face and scorched hair will be a small price to pay.
He reached the outside of the eyrie, cowering in the grand doorway, blinking in the sudden sunlight. The sky was bright blue, the air filled with fire and dragon-cries. Circling the Pinnacles were the dragons themselves. Hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds.
Vishmir’s cock! He ducked back inside as another dragon strafed the eyrie-top and then another.
So much for getting out.
Two riders cowered beside him. He cast his eyes about, looking for something – anything – that might inspire him. Low battlements surrounded the top of the fortress, carefully designed to give cover from dragon-fire. Tall spikes littered the place. They looked like decoration, but Meteroa knew better: under clay tiles were solid iron prongs embedded deep into the mountain, there to deter dragon-landings. Most of the rest of the flat top of the peak was taken up by the Reflecting Garden, a bizarre relic of the Silver King, with its fountain that conjured water from the air, its channels and pools where water flowed upwards and wouldn’t lie flat. The handful of ornate little buildings between the garden and the tiny eyrie that made up the rest of the fortress were no more than a glorified entrance hall into the labyrinth beneath.
Or a place to hide when dragons were burning the shit out of everything. He crouched down and squinted, looking for a dragon he recognised, Prince Hyrkallan’s B’thannan or King Sirion’s Redemption. He didn’t know what dragon Queen Jaslyn rode any more. He didn’t see either of those, though. What he did see was Prince Tichane’s colossal Unmaker, heading straight towards the eyrie-top. The dragon was clutching a cage in his fore-claws, the sort of cage that the Mountain King used for carrying slaves. And soldiers. Meteroa ducked as another flight of dragons flew overhead, raking the top of the fortress with fire again. Clearing the ground for a landing.
The King of the Crags. Ancestors! If they knew how few men he had here…
He bolted back down the entrance stair and ran through the huge hall below. The High Hall, where Queen Zafir and Queen Aliphera before her had welcomed kings and queens and even speakers. One wall was open to the sky, letting the sun sweep in through a row of ornate carved columns while the rest lay in thick shadow, littered with paintings and statues, layered with exquisite rugs and tapestries – or at least that’s the way it had been before Valmeyan’s dragons had filled it with fire. All that was left now were blackened statues, a few charred shards and a haze of smoke. Meteroa hugged the far wall, away from the light in case one of the dragons came back for another go. His riders and his men-at-arms were waiting for him in a second hall lit by shafts of sunlight from above. Milling about, scared, uncertain. Useless.
‘Down!’ he shouted. He paused. Valmeyan could bring as many men as he wanted. The tunnels and halls of the Pinnacles were the perfect place for a small band of riders to hold off almost any number. They’d been built for exactly that. And as for dragons… The fortress had been carved out of the stone long before the coming of the Silver King, back when the dragons had flown free. He could seal himself inside and live off Queen Zafir’s siege stocks and probably last almost for ever. Question was, should he bother? There were rules to war. Written in Principles. His dragons were already lost, and to add to his problems there were men still loyal to Zafir lurking in the lower tunnels. If you believed the stories, there were ways out down there, catacombs and tunnels that led all the way down to a scattering of secret doors among the cellars of the Silver City a mile below. There were supposed to be tunnels that ran for a hundred miles and more, as far as the banks of the Fury. There was even supposed to be an underground river, fed by the waters of the Reflecting Garden, which tumbled and splashed through the heart of the mountain from its very top. If any of those rumours were true, Zafir’s men would know them. Whereas he didn’t.
Not a nice thought. Of course, if you believed all the stories, the tunnels were also filled with dark devices of the Silver King that would rip a man’s soul from his flesh. So maybe not such a troublesome thought after all.
Meteroa slammed his fists together. Plenty of Princess Kiam’s servants had chosen to stay and serve their new masters rather than flee into the tunnels. They weren’t soldiers. To them, one dragon-lord was as good as another. Maybe one of them knew the way. If they did, they’d sell their knowledge. ‘Jubeyan, Gaizal, Xabian, you stay with me to welcome our guests. Hyaz, take Queen Lystra down past the Grand Stair. Hold there. If there are tunnels down to the Silver City, it’ll be the servants who know them. Find a man who can show you the way. If I do not return ahead of Valmeyan’s soldiers, do whatever you must to escape. Above all else, your duty is to preserve the life of your prince and your queen and bring them to King Jehal. Do you understand?’ Outside, everything had fallen dangerously quiet. No shrieks of dragons, no roars of fire. Valmeyan must have landed. ‘Don’t take any other servants with you. Lock them away if you can. I’m sure they’ll all be just as keen to serve the King of the Crags as they were to serve us. They’ll none of them mind the purse of gold that will doubtless be their reward if they help Valmeyan to catch you.’ Best if you slaughtered them, but I suppose I’ll not mention that.
Hyaz nodded sharply and turned to go. You could see the eagerness in him, fluffing him up with his own importance.
‘Hyaz!’ The rider froze, mid-step. ‘If you do escape, whoever shows you the way will deserve a reward. A generous one, fit for the service he has done for us. Enough that he has no reason to help others follow you.’ In other words, gut him as soon as you don’t need him any more; but since I can hardly say that with Lystra standing right in front of me, you’ll just have to work it out for yourself. Meteroa could hear shouting now, echoing down from the passages above. The King of the Crags was coming. He shooed Hyaz and Lystra and most of the rest away and strode back towards the little eyrie with the three riders he could best trust not to stab him in the back. At least there isn’t space up there for more than half a dozen dragons at once. It’ll take time for Valmeyan to mass men for an assault.
Hazy figures were moving in the smoke at the other end of the High Hall. They shouted, their words lost in the echoes of the hall. An arrow ricocheted off the wall beside him. He ducked back out of sight.
‘You should know that you’re shooting at Prince Meteroa,’ he shouted. ‘I hold the Pinnacles in the name of King Jehal, who, if you haven’t heard by now, is in the Adamantine Palace, sitting on the Speaker’s Throne.’ Unless Valmeyan had gone there first. That was always a possibility. Oh well, if Valmeyan’s men know any better, they’ll tell me soon enough. ‘Have you come to negotiate your surrender? Because if you have, I’m all ears.’
The High Hall went very quiet. He risked a glance back out, but nothing was moving in the smoke.
‘Show yourself,’ shouted a voice.
‘So you can shoot at me again? I don’t think so.’ There was always the chance that Valmeyan had simply sent in a couple of hundred of those slave-soldiers he was so fond of. They weren’t known for their tenderness. ‘Perhaps you might tell me to whom you answer?’ He toyed with acting all outraged and ranting about acts of war and terrible consequences, but that would have been a bit rich, all things considered.
‘We fight for the King of the Crags,’ called a rousing voice. A few ragged cheers echoed after.
‘Valmeyan himself is here? Well I certainly won’t mind talking to him about which one of us is going to surrender.’ Time. The more time he gave Hyaz, the better.
There was a pause and then a different voice range out. A woman’s voice. ‘Lord Meteroa. Do you still have my sister, or have you murdered her like you murdered my uncle. Like Jehal would have murdered me?’
Zafir!
Meteroa’s skin tingled. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t even think. Zafir? But she’s dead. She fell at Evenspire. Jehal told me! Yet there was no mistaking the voice. Zafir, very much alive. Which meant that maybe Jehal wasn’t the speaker after all. Which meant that…
Which meant that he could piss all over whatever Principles had to say about the rules of war.
Shit!
Zafir was here for Lystra. Probably for her little sister Princess Kiam too. But mostly here for revenge and blood and plenty of it. Zafir alive! Zafir and her cages… He signalled to Jubeyan and the others behind him. Back. Retreat. No quarter. Then he waited as they slipped away. So let’s see how much time I can buy for you. Jehal, if I die here, I am going to come back and haunt you for a very long time. You were supposed to get rid of her.
‘Speaker Zafir! What a pleasant surprise. We’d heard you were dead.’
‘Well I am not, Meteroa. Is my sister alive or dead?’
‘I am at a loss, Your Holiness, to know which you would prefer.’
