Stephen Deas - The Black Mausoleum

Would work even better, Skjorl thought, with a second Adamantine Man waiting to take the shit-eaters from behind.

When the boats finally came, he watched it all unfold. Waited for the arrows to start but they never did, and then Jasaan was running at six shit-eaters at once while the rider who could barely walk any more was standing to face a round dozen. The rider was going to die — most of the shit-eaters would just go right on past him — and then Jasaan would die too. A perfectly good place for an ambush and Jasaan had pissed it away. Bloody typical, but by then Skjorl was already on his feet, already running.

The shit-eaters weren’t in the hurry they ought to have been. Three stopped to take down the rider. The rest raced after Jasaan. Skjorl sprinted. He ran silently up behind one of the three facing the rider and swung Dragon-blooded, cutting his first man clean in two. Left the others for the rider. He screamed now, roared and yelled to make the others look round, to make them see him and quail and pause and run away, but the waterfall was so loud they didn’t even hear him. Either that or they thought he was one of their own.

The alchemist and the shit-eaters carrying her were scrambling up the path through the rocks. Jasaan hit the men barring his way like the whip of a dragon’s tail, smashing his way between them with sheer force, swinging his axe so that none of them dared go near. Straight through them, but that wasn’t enough. They’d cut him down from behind if he tried to climb the rocks. He had to make himself some space.

Or someone did.

Jasaan turned. He had a dozen shit-eaters fanned out around him now, watching the whirl of his axe, all too scared to get close. The first one to charge died, that was what Jasaan was telling them. Eventually they might realise that they didn’t have to, but Skjorl slammed into them before they’d even got over that first fear. Took a man’s head off with one swing, chopped another one in half and then sheared straight through a third man’s face before they knew he was there.

‘Hello, Jasaan!’ The look on his face was something he’d cherish. Bewilderment. Amazement. Joy. Fear. Hate. All thrown in together. He was quite sure he’d never get to see a look like that again. The shit-eaters backed away. He bared his teeth. Two Adamantine Men with axes, side by side, their backs to a wall. No one in their right mind would come close.

‘Skjorl?’ Jasaan made it sound like a question.

‘Been following you for days. Or more rightly I been following this lot.’

Across the beach the rider who could barely walk and the two shit-eaters trying to kill him were still circling each other. It was like watching cripples dance. Pathetic.

‘Go!’ he bellowed. ‘Go and get my alchemist! But you take care of her, Jasaan, or I’ll break your balls.’

He jumped away from the rocks, screaming his lungs out at the shit-eaters, scaring the life out of them. If the looks on their faces were anything to go by, he wouldn’t even have to touch them with his axe.

Yes. Leave the killing to me.

She opened her eyes. The roaring that had been the sound of her drowning was still there. The waterfall. She was bobbing up and down, but not in the water any more. She was hanging over some man’s shoulder. Looking down from among the rocks beneath the Moonlight Garden. ‘You two! Hold here. Stop him. Or at least slow him down.’ Siff. ‘You! Bring her! Follow me! Run, damn you!’

Siff and the man carrying her climbed higher, over the top of the waterfall, then started picking their way along a ledge overlooking the river. She lurched up and down. Her hands and her feet were still tied. She had no strength, no energy, and struggling seemed futile when all she could do was cough now and then and bring up another mouthful of river water, yet a strange excitement had her. They were here. She couldn’t see it, even when she turned her head and tried to look up, but the Moonlight Garden was somewhere above her. No one had ever understood what the Moonlight Garden was. Not the first idea.

Stupid thing to think, really, but it gave her a focus. Stopped her being too sick and helpless and terrified.

At the end of the ledge they were among rocks again, picking their way down a steep slope. She felt the man who was carrying her slip. He was cursing with almost every other step until they reached the bottom and were beside the river again, out in the open on a flat overgrown field. The cave mouths drew her eye.

‘They’re getting closer!’ The man was breathing hard. She was slowing him. And then everything fell into shadow and he screamed. She hit the ground like a sack of turnips, winded and too weak and bruised to move, and that might have been what saved her. A huge shape blotted out the sun and snatched the man who’d been carrying her into the sky; and then the sun was back, and with it a wind like a hurricane that picked her up and threw her across the ground as though she was a leaf.

Dragon. She couldn’t bring herself to move. Stay still. Don’t struggle and above all don’t run. Dragons can’t resist it if you run, and no one who runs ever gets away. Ever.

Could it feel her thoughts? She wasn’t sure. She’d taken her last dose of potion back before the outsider settlement. Two weeks, give or take a couple of days. Yes, it could probably feel her then, and dragons hated alchemists with a fury. She sighed and closed her eyes and waited to die.

‘Get up!’ Hands were shaking her. Siff. ‘Get! Up!’ He was cutting the ropes around her feet, wrapping another one around her hands. ‘Get up, alchemist! We’re nearly there.’ He hauled her up, pulling her by her wrists. The dragon was in the air past the waterfall. Turning.

For a moment she caught a glimpse of movement in the rocks up the slope behind her. There was a man, his head and shoulders popping up. He had a bow. Was aiming at…

Her?

Skjorl?

No. Couldn’t be.

‘Come on!’ Siff pulled her hard enough to tear the skin of her wrists. She cried out. The man with the bow was out in the open now, running down the slope towards them, little streams of stones clattering in rivers around him as he came. And yes, it was Skjorl. He had his axe. She’d know him anywhere. Great Flame, did she laugh or did she cry? And he had someone else with him too. Another Adamantine Man.

‘Run, you stupid witch!’ Siff screamed and pulled at her. ‘Not from them! From the dragon!’

The dragon was coming back. You learned, when you worked with them for as long as she had, to read their flight. It was going for the Adamantine Men. She dropped back to the ground, squealing at the pain in her wrists, but she wasn’t going to run. ‘No! Stay still!’ It would burn them if they ran.

The Adamantine Men knew it too. They were fifty yards away, right at the bottom of the slope at the start of the open empty space that had once been a landing field. They were seconds away from her but now they veered away, diving for cover as the dragon swooped down on them, strafing them with fire. The earth shook, the very air quivered in shock, and then a wall of heat and wind and the stink of scorched earth picked her up and roared and rolled her across the grass.

The dragon turned again and landed where the Adamantine Men had been, hard enough that Kataros was almost thrown up into the air. The rocks on the slope to the path and the Moonlight Garden shuddered and shifted. A boulder the size of a horse tumbled down, bouncing past the dragon and into the river amid a hail of smaller stones.

Halfway up the slope a massive chunk of rock shifted very slightly. It was as big as a barn. Kataros held her breath, waiting for it to slide and bring the whole slope down on all of them, but it only shifted the once and then held still.