water.’
‘Will it take long?’
‘And somewhere to keep it.’
‘Will it take long?’
She stared at the castle. Yes, it would take long to do properly, but there was a quicker way. She climbed out of the ditch and gave Skjorl back his sword. ‘Hold out the blade.’ When he did as she asked, she ran a finger along the edge. A drop or two of blood was all she needed. She dripped it onto a corner of Skjorl’s cloth. A shirt. It was a shirt. ‘My blood. Dragon blood. Now give me a moment.’
Blood was a path, nothing more. A way in. A way to touch the dragon, or what tiny essence was left of it, although even that was huge, an immense thing she could barely encompass.
‘Are you done yet?’ The castle had almost passed from overhead.
She sucked on the corner of the shirt and passed it to the Adamantine Man. ‘As soon as the sun sets, we find some shelter where I can make more and do it properly. Enough to take us to the Raksheh.’
Skjorl sucked on the shirt too. His lip curled. ‘Oh, I remember that taste.’ He waved the shirt at her. ‘That enough?’
‘To get the three of us to the Raksheh? More than enough.’ She took the shirt to Siff. Forced the corner into his mouth.
‘It’ll be dry by night.’
‘Then you’d better find me some water.’
Skjorl climbed down into the ditch with her, carefully not too close. ‘Back where we came from then. The tunnel to the Pinnacles. All the water you want and safe for as long as you need. We could tip the raft down the falls and ride the Ghostwater to the Yamuna. It’s only a few hours away.’ He pulled Siff up out of the ditch and slung him over a shoulder. ‘Best we stay under this… thing. Until dark. Castle will keep us hidden from dragons. Dragons will keep the castle soldiers safe in their beds. Works out nicely for us both ways.’ He offered her his hand. This time she very nearly took it, almost without thinking. It didn’t seem to bother him that she didn’t.
He turned and started to walk. ‘If your potions fail, alchemist, we’ll be dead out here in days. If they do what they should, I’ll get you to the Raksheh. No promises after, but I’ll get you that far. Night Watchman’s oath.’
Which, she knew, meant he’d do it or he’d die in the trying.
43
Nineteen days before the Black Mausoleum
Dragon battled dragon in the skies, a thing that Blackscar remembered from its first lifetime and then never since. The old ghosts in the half-made sky-home were silent. Hidden once more. Even the little one, the sorcerer who carried a touch of the broken god.
Strangeness upon strangeness. As it dived upon the eyrie and set its innards alight, a part of Blackscar tried not to give itself up to the battle, to the fury and the joy of it. Too many things to consider.
It failed. Thunder and lightning rose up to greet it, battering its skin. Fire swept in a wave before it. Little ones screamed and burned. It felt their fear, delicious like honey. It felt the little one it was looking for. Running. Fleeing. It turned and came at the sky-home again. There. Standing by the edge, rising out of the haze of smoke and mist and steam.
You are mine.
The little one saw it coming. Knew its end. Nowhere to hide. Fire swept towards it, yet at that moment another dragon fell from the sky, teeth and claws and tail, ripping and tearing. Small. Barely more than a hatchling. A year old, half grown at best, but it came nonetheless and the dragon knew it must turn to meet it or be taken crashing to the ground, and either way, the little one was granted a miracle and would not burn, not now.
But soon.
It met the other dragon, tooth and claw. Victory was certain, yet the other came with a furious zeal. A certainty of purpose. A righteousness, even, the sort that belonged in the head of little ones and their foolishness, not within a dragon. Not within a creature that had seen such zeal almost shatter creation.
But there nevertheless.
They skimmed the edge of the sky-home, cracking its shell with their wind and their tails. It saw the little one fall, but the creature’s thoughts did not fade and flicker and so the dragon knew that it lived on. They crashed into the castle together and hurled themselves back into the sky. Blackscar threw the other dragon aside. Gently. Or gentle as a dragon could be. Wings intact and no bones crushed beyond repair. It turned for its little one once more, but now there were more dragons. Lightning struck it, sent it plunging spiralling through the sky. When its wings were its own again, the dragon turned its thoughts to the sorceries of glass and gold that spat thunder. The little one could wait.
Lightning met him, a storm of it. The little ones; and then their half-grown dragon servants fell from the sky and tore their own kind to the ground with teeth that struck to kill.
Dragon servants. Its rage could melt mountains. Fill seas and burn skies. Yet it withdrew. Some did not. Could not. One by one they fell.
Defeated.
The thought was enough to pierce any fury. It had never, in any lifetime, been left to savour the word.
A surge of something ancient burst from the sky-home. It echoed across the plains and faded and died. The dragon felt it. Saw it. Saw something cut loose. Saw one of its own kind it had known for fifty lifetimes lying crippled and broken in the folds of the sky-home’s womb and then die at the touch of an old goddess who always took something away.
The other dragons murmured among themselves. One by one they left, but the dragon called Blackscar lingered. One last thing. The little one was still there and so the dragon watched and waited, carefully and from a distance, touching the edges of the little one’s thoughts as it climbed back down from the sky-home to the ground. Watched as a magic made of dragon blood blinked its mind away and the little one it had hunted for so long vanished, finally, from its sight.
Such a thing might drive another to rage, it mused, but for once the dragon was unmoved.
After all, it knew by now exactly there this little one meant to go.
An expanse of largely unbroken forest that occupies the south-west corner of the realms, the Raksheh stretches over several hundred miles from Drotan’s Top and the Gliding Dragon Gorge in the north to the Sea of Storms in the south. Its east-west borders are less sharply defined: in the west the forest merges with the valleys of the Worldspine, while in the east the wooded areas peter out more gradually into the plains of the Silver City. Several large rivers flow through the forest, ultimately draining into the Yamuna and emerging close to the town of Farakkan. Numerous large round lakes dot the more mountainous western fringe of the forest; from the air these are similar to the Mirror Lakes of the Purple Spur. Various deep gorges and several spectacular waterfalls have been reported by dragon-riders who have ventured to cross the forest. The best known of these are those around the Aardish Caves.
The forest is largely uninhabited, although rumoured to give shelter to numerous settlements of outsiders and other feral tribes. Bandits and outlaws also frequent the fringes of the forest, particularly in the north.
The forest may be the home of many unique creatures. Earthworms as large as horses have been reported, together with six-legged lizards of various sizes ranging from the minuscule to the giant. Several breeds of venomous snakes and poisonous frogs are known to inhabit the forest. Snappers are also a constant danger, although their numbers are less than in the more northern fringes of the Worldspine. For those of our order, the forest offers a concentration of valuable and unique ingredients the like and diversity of which can only otherwise be found on the distant Oordish Moors. Frogsback, for example, is harvested from the southern fringes of the Raksheh
