“They fear die,” growled Sir Hahkesh. “Other men. There is fire, in blood, but not brave. But me…” He put a fist to his chest. “Me brave.”
Lythian smiled at those words. “I can see that,” he told him. He looked at the other man. “Your name?”
He let the dragonknight translate.
“Bah’run,” the soldier said, the two syllables colliding in a thick, Agarathi grunt. “Name Bah’run.”
“And you’re from a Fireborn bloodline?” Lythian could believe that well enough with a dragonknight. Those were typically from noble families, rich in the blood of Eldur. But a common man?
The two Agarathi conferred, then Sir Hahkesh spoke for him. “Father was Fireborned. Mother no. She was whore. From Dorath.”
The man-at-arms called Tucker gave a splutter. “A whore? Not many whore-sons ride dragons, that I know.”
“Half of the best Bladeborn sellswords were born in brothels, Tuck,” Elyon told the man. “Sired by one knight or another. They can be just as lethal as the rest of us. No reason why Bah’run can’t be the same.”
“I can think of a few,” Tucker came back. “The fact that we don’t have the Bondstone, for one.”
“We’ve been through that,” said Storos. “Lord Lythian is of the understanding that the Bondstone is not required for a man to ride a dragon. The beasts can be tamed by brave men with Fireborn blood.”
“So long as they’re willing to die in the attempt,” Marsh put in. Both men-at-arms were burly sorts, soldiers born, survivors. They had to be, given the action they had seen. Though both wore good strong steel, it was castle-forged only, oiled against dragonflame but still vulnerable during battle in a way that godsteel was not. They had fought valiantly all the same, never shirking their duty, never showing their fear.
So when the dragonknight Hahkesh said, “We willing. Both. Both willing to die,” and pointed at himself and then Bah’run, both Tucker and Marsh dipped their chins, showing them signs of respect.
“Aye, suppose you are, then,” Marsh said. He had reddish hair, thinning at the crown, a fiery beard on his chin. “Not a nice way to go, though, I wouldn’t think, eaten when trying to tame a dragon. But suppose there’s honour in the attempt.”
Lythian thought of Sir Tomos Pentar, Storos’s younger brother. He remembered the deformed, pygmy drakes, crawling all over him in the Pits of Kharthar, feasting on his flesh, gnawing at his bones. It hadn’t been nice at all.
Sir Hahkesh nodded firmly. “Honour in attempt,” he said, agreeing. “Honour in brave. Like rider of moonbear. These bravest men. Bravest in world.”
“And women,” Walter added to that. “Female Moonriders are not unheard of.”
“Women, yes,” the dragonknight agreed. “Women Fireborned too, very brave. Misha, she our greatest.”
Misha the Magnificent, Lythian thought. The Skylady of Loriath. She had been one of the old prophets who’d spoken of the rise of Eldur, along with Pullio the Wise and Quarl the Blind, many centuries ago. Each of them had foretold the rise of a benevolent Eldur, awakening to bring the world into balance and end the War Eternal. Somehow, all three of them had got it wildly wrong.
“How would you go about it, Sir Hahkesh?” Elyon wanted to know. “Taming a dragon? Without the Bondstone.”
The dragonknight’s dark eyes shrivelled to a squint, as though not fully understanding. “I use this.” He put a fist to his heart again. “Fire here. It call to dragon. Some may listen, others no.”
“And those that don’t listen?”
“Will try to kill. Same as Lightborned, with wolf, cat, and bear. Many die this way, when try to bond animal.” He waved a hand between himself and Bah’run. “No different. Without Soul of Agarath, there is more danger. But still possible to bond, when brave.”
“And if it works? What will you do, as a dragonrider, Sir Hahkesh? Will you kill your own men? Will you turn your cloak to the north?”
“Turn…cloak?” The dragonknight did not seem to understand the phrase.
“He means to ask if you will fight on our side,” Lythian said. “That can take many forms, Sir Hahkesh. We will not be expecting you to kill your own countrymen.” He gave Elyon a stern look.
The prince shrugged. “I’m just wondering what the point of this is, if you’re not expecting these dragonriders to actually do any fighting.”
There were a few murmurs and mumbles among the others. “He’s got a point, my lord,” said Tucker. “I mean, Sir Pagaloth’s a mean bloody swordsman, isn’t he? And all he did during the battle was sit in his room twiddling his thumbs. Not much point in having Agarathi on our side if they’re not going to swing a blade. Or breath fire, in this case.”
More murmurs. Lythian was half tempted to just wipe his hands and be done with it, with all this naysaying. “I’m trying to unite us, that’s all. A man can serve in other ways than by killing. For one, simply not killing is a form of service. If the north and south stop trying to cut chunks from one another, Eldur’s armies will rapidly shrink. That alone will make him easier to vanquish. Why does no one seem to understand that?”
“Thousands of years of instinct and warrior breeding, that’s why,” Elyon said. “Look, I get it Lyth, I do, but I’m just saying it won’t be easy. It’s a good thing you’re trying to do here, typically bloody righteous and noble for the most righteous and noble man I know. And I’m right behind you, so you can count on my support. But only when it makes sense.”
Lythian’s brows knitted. “Makes sense? And what do you mean by that?”
“I mean that there’s battle brewing in the east, and I’m not about to sheathe my sword on account of your vision of unity. Nor will I suggest it to anyone else, or try to parley with Vargo Ven. I have been there before, and it won’t lead anywhere good. So battle it will be. Battle and blood. Once I get Father’s approval.”
His words left a short silence behind. Lythian could see the light of excitement in the eyes of Sir Storos Pentar. “You mean to say…Rustbridge, my prince? It hasn’t been attacked?”
“Nor Redhelm. You can breathe easy for now, Sir Storos. I spoke with your cousin, Sir Karter, and your uncle, Lord Lester, this morning. Both are well, and willing to muster their army so long as Father signs a warrant, as king, circumventing the command of Lord Alrus.” He looked around. The men were leaning in, eager to hear more. “We have the Tukorans with us too, under the command of Prince Raynald Lukar. Thirty thousand of them, eager for a fight. In sum we might have enough to destroy Vargo Ven and his horde. And free the east of the enemy’s grip.”
“For Vandar!” Sir Storos exclaimed, going so far as to draw out his blade, thrusting it into the drizzly skies. “Gods, how I wish I could be there too, and fight alongside my kin. Might you fly me over there with you, Prince Elyon?”
Elyon gave that a laugh, as Storos lowered his sword. “If only. At the edge of need I could probably do so, but feel I’ll need my strength. And as to that, I feel the pull of my bed. And a nice large cup of wine.” He smiled at them. “Good luck tonight. Lyth, are you coming?”
Lythian nodded. He gave parting words to the others before leaving. “Go well,” he said to them. “If you snare a dragon, come wake me at once. And be ready to kill it, if you must. Don’t throw your lives away needlessly,” he added, for the sake of Sir Hahkesh and Bah’run. “If a dragon doesn’t call to the fire in your blood, let it be. Do not push beyond your limits.”
He left them there to climb down into their shelters, well concealed within the pits they’d dug with roofs of grass and mud. The plan was simple enough. Should a dragon swoop down to feast on a corpse, any tug or pull at the body would trigger the release of a heavy chain net, fired from a special ballista hidden in the back of a nearby wagon. Sometimes those chains would be enough to snare a smaller dragon. If a larger one descended, the men would be ready to reload and go again, as it struggled to free itself. It was a proven and effective means of trapping the beasts during battle. But in such cases, the dragons were always killed as soon as possible, slain by a storm of sword and spear. Keeping them disabled and alive was entirely new territory.
“You’re a forward thinker, I’ll give you that,” Elyon said, as they walked back to the city. “Do you actually think that will work?”
“I would imagine the odds are low,” Lythian admitted. “But it’s worth a try, do you not think?”
Elyon seemed ambivalent about it. “What did Father say?”
