More laughter erupted from the depths of the priest, and suddenly he appeared to Pagaloth as a man in robes of red flame, with fire leaping from atop his head, an inferno burning in his eyes. The dragonknight stepped away from him, backtracking, tripping on something underfoot, slipping into the sodden grasses. Through the fogs the priest was walking closer, whispering all the while. “Come, child, join us. It is no use to resist. If not me, another will ensnare you…”
Never, Sir Pagaloth thought, closing his mind to the man. He stormed to his feet and ran, charging back down the hill. The clamour of combat rang out, the peal of steel on steel. Men were roaring in a dozen tongues. He saw the Agarathi deserters leaping and lurching, reaching for the men of the empire, scratching and biting. Sunrider Bellio was on his horse, wheeling, swinging with his scimitar sword. The slaves moved in around him with their grasping fingers and pulled him down. One snatched away Bellio’s dagger and began stabbing down and down and down; another disarmed him of his sword and began hacking in a wild frenzy.
Pagaloth could hear Sunrider Moro roaring somewhere in the fog. He caught a glimpse of Sir Quento stirring his own guards to the fight. The waterlogged lands at the base of the hill were growing red with blood and bodies. From the north, hundreds of Agarathi were charging, screaming their warcry…
A hand came down on his shoulder. “Join us.”
He spun. The face was not one he knew. A braided beard, hair in rings, almond eyes glazed red. Pagaloth knocked the man’s hand away and turned.
“Join us or die,” another man said, standing before him.
Pagaloth put his shoulder to the man, bursting past. Ahead he saw Sir Hadros and Ruggard Wells fighting back to back, their blades misting, Agarathi after Agarathi dying on their steel. The bodies were piling high, but they would soon be overwhelmed. The shadows were closing, closing…
“Pagaloth.”
The voice was weak as a whisper, but he heard it amid the din. His gaze surged toward the sound and he saw him. Sa’har Nakaan, standing with that glazed look in his eye, a shrivelled old man in his limp red robes, soaked and stained and frail.
“I’m sorry, Pagaloth.” The Skymaster reached down to his side and drew his dragonsteel dagger. “I cannot go back…I…I will not go back…” His hand was shaking, his eyes were tortured. Slowly, forcefully, he lifted the blade to his neck.
“Sa’har! No!”
Pagaloth set off, but too late. The steel bit through skin and flesh, its red edge slicing open the meat and muscle. Pagaloth reached him, snatching out at his scrawny wrist, pulling the blade away, but the damage was done. The Skymaster collapsed into his arms, blood pulsing from his open throat. Pagaloth brought him down to a knee. He looked into the old man’s eyes and saw the deep grief there, the fractured soul, saw the light fading and the red glaze clearing.
“Sa’har…Skymaster…” Tears welled in his eyes. “What…what am I to do?” He looked around. He did not know north from south, friend from foe, he did not know where to go. “I…I…”
A trembling finger reached to his lips, old and thin and grey. The blood was sluicing from Sa’har Nakaan’s neck, weakening with each pulse, running down into his robes. He opened his mouth, tried to speak. Pagaloth could not hear. He turned his head and leaned right down and from the lips of his friend he heard the faintest whisper.
“Run.”
32
Saska had always wondered what it would feel like to fly.
Who hasn’t? she thought. Didn’t everyone have the same dream?
She’d first imagined it in Lord Caldlow’s kitchens when she was just a little girl. There was an old scullery maid there called Ada Smalls - an ironic name, Saska had always thought, because Ada was far from small - who would sit her down on her massive squashy knee sometimes, and turn through the pages of a picture book, one of heroes and villains and gods and monsters going back ten thousand years.
The illustrations had been awe-inspiring to the little outcast with the olive skin. Even now she could remember them; the huge great sprawling battles across monstrous forts and windswept plains. The legendary heroes of both north and south, with their misting blades of many colours and fearsome dragons of the same. She could still see them all so clearly. The fiery swirling form of Agarath in a death duel with Vandar, bright and silver and mighty. Tukor, forging his Hammer to help shape the world. Rasalan rising from the ocean to present his Eye to Thala. The famed fight between Varin and Drulgar, with his son Elin and daughter Iliva lying dead and defeated upon the field. The Battle of Ashmount, where Varin slew Karagar, son of the Dread, and drove Eldur away into shame.
Back then they’d all seemed like myth and legend to Saska but old Ada always assured her they were true. The sand giants of the god Pisek. The eagleriders of the Calacania. The great Rasalanian hunters who would take down giant leviathans with their ships. Saska had marvelled at them all, always tugging at the old woman’s skirts to go fetch the book and sit her down so she could look at them all again. Sometimes Ada would swat her away and tell her to get back to her chopping, and Saska would have to cut another hundred onions or turnips or carrots before she might get another glimpse. At other times she’d find Ada asleep on her kitchen stool, snoring softly between meals, and would sneak into her room and take a look for herself. Once, the scullery maid had caught her, and spanked her red as the dawn, but Saska didn’t care. Back then that was the only punishment she ever got. Life was easy in Lord Caldlow’s keep, before he sold her to Modrik Kastor.
But of all the illustrations, perhaps her favourite ones were of the dragonriders. The ones that showed them close up, showed their faces, as they soared the skies like gods, their hair whipping behind them, colourful capes trailing like banners in the breeze. She liked to think of what it would feel like, to have the wind rushing past her cheeks and rifling through her hair, to hear the roar of air in her ears, to feel the soft wet touch of the clouds and see the world from high up there, spreading to the edge of sight.
But today, she had to imagine it no more.
Today she knew how it felt.
Neyruu banked left, turning with the wind, and Saska’s heart gave a sudden leap.
“How was that,” Talasha called to her, as they soared high above the arid plains. “Too much too soon?”
Saska’s lips split into a smile. “No,” she shouted into Talasha’s ear. “More. I want more.”
She grinned like a goon, looking out at the lands below, wondering if this was all some dream. She could see so much from up here, the whole world it felt, but the skies went so much higher still.
All the way to eternity, she thought. To the Blackness Above and beyond. She could see the coast to the east, see the city of Cloaklake to the north, and Eagle Lake beyond it, the biggest lake in all the empire. To the west were high rugged hills, clothed in green and brown trees, and there were some rivers there too, thin silver scars wending toward the sea. She saw settlements dotting the lands. Coastal fishing villages and goat farms across the plains and inns and taverns and little hamlets along the Capital Road. A starcat was racing across the lands below, black as a shadow, dashing into some trees. She wondered for a moment if it was Joy, out hunting, but if so she’d gone a long way from the company, who were trudging up the road in the direction of the city, where they would rest the night, Saska knew.
The Agarathi princess was looking back at her with an amused smile on her lips. “Are you sure, Saska? Neyruu can be a lot more acrobatic than this. Baby steps, remember. That’s what Sir Ralston said.”
“Everything is baby steps with Rolly,” she called back. “I’m sure, Talasha. Do your worst!”
The princess gave out a laugh. “You’re not ready for my worst.” She hunkered down, streamlining her posture, and Saska did the same. “Hold on tight,” she said.
And then the world became a blur.
By the time they came in to land, sometime later, Saska was part-elated, part-besotted, and a large part sick, her insides churning and threatening to evacuate as Neyruu flapped down upon a high barren perch in the hills to the west of the city. She sucked air, one breath and then another and then another, great gulps to try to recompose herself.
Talasha was smiling all the while. “If you’re going to be sick, best wait till we get to the ground. Neyruu won’t appreciate you vomiting down her wing.”
That only made Saska chuckle, which made her insides churn some more, but somehow she managed to hold it all together. Another few breaths and she was ready to dismount, swinging a leg over the double-saddle hitched around the dragon’s shoulders and neck, then sliding down to the ground. She landed with a crunch of grit and gravel on the high rocky outcropping. Her legs were a little wobbly, her head a little dizzy, but by the gods was it all worth it.
“All good?” Talasha asked.
“Good,” Saska said, grinning that dumb grin, and realising that she was part-envious too. Elated from the thrill of the flight, besotted by the dragon (and her rider too, she had to admit), sick from the swerving, twisting, plunging motion, and very much envious that Talasha Taan could bond such a magnificent beast and she could not. And that only made her feel part-guilty as well, for betraying Joy. It was a lot of parts, in all.
She staggered to a rock and sat down, wiping the sweat from her sticky brow. Talasha had brought them down to a fine spot. The view was ranging, looking out over the ocean and the city and the lake, though for all that it was no match for the endless vistas one got from the back of a dragon.
