The Order of the Scales Deas - The Order of the Scales

That was, until the grand master alchemist signalled him to land high in the empty peaks and told him that Zafir wasn’t dead after all. As Jehal’s dragons circled uncertainly overhead, Jeiros whispered it in his ear where no one else would hear, and when Jehal shook his head and wouldn’t believe a word of it, the alchemist showed him what had come from the Pinnacles.

His uncle Meteroa’s ring, still wrapped around his finger.

The Outsider

Your ways are not our ways. When your world crumbles, you may expect nothing from me but laughter.

The first thing that broke his fall was the top of a tree and an explosion of soft snow. Kemir tumbled down, twisting and crashing off sloping branches, clutching at them with his gauntleted hands, ripping out fingerfuls of twigs and spines and more snow. Something punched his face, twisting his helm sideways so he couldn’t see. He clattered off a branch hard enough to wind him even though the dragon-scale armour took the worst of it. His shoulder ricocheted off another branch. Pain burst through the length of his arm. He screamed and then the freezing white ground slammed into him and knocked his breath away.

He wasn’t dead. It took him a moment to realise that, another moment to realise that he was freezing cold. That was something to be grateful for. Cold numbed the pain.

Also he couldn’t breathe. His helm was gone and his face was pressed into the crushed snow.

He tried to move. Had to. Managed to lift his face and gasped a deep breath. Cold or not, his arm shrieked every time he so much as touched it. Broken. Definitely broken.

He managed to roll onto his back. The other arm seemed to work and so did his legs. His ribs and his spine snarled with a hundred stabbing pains, but nothing was actually refusing to move. He wasn’t hacking up blood, so that was good.

He’d been thrown down a mountain by a dragon. For a few seconds panic overtook him. He scrambled to his feet, clawing and kicking his way out of the snowdrift and never mind how much everything hurt. The snow was deep on the slope here, held in place by the press of trees. He clutched at a trunk, eyes screwed shut, weeping at the pain. Another part of him wanted to laugh. He was alive. Thrown down a mountain by a dragon and he was alive. The tree branches had broken his fall as well as his bones, the snow and the dragon-armour had done the rest. Ancestors! It was enough to make a man want to climb right back up, kick the dragon in the face and shout, Missed me!

Yes. If he could move at all. The pain was crushing now, coming at him from everywhere. He sagged. Climbing anything was out of the question. If he hadn’t been afraid of how much it would hurt, he might have curled up into a ball and simply rolled the rest of the way down the slope.

No, no, no. Stop. Think. You’re an outsider. You survive. The pain will go, but now you need to move.

Shelter first. A place the dragons couldn’t reach him. He had no idea whether Snow had meant to kill him or simply hadn’t thought before tossing him away. Our kind. So fucking fragile, eh? Well here I am, dragon. Still breathing.

Shelter. Food. Then water, although it was the Worldspine, so water was easy. And so were the food and the shelter, come to think about it. Back where the alchemists had been hiding. Made him want to laugh.

He started to make his way down the slope among the trees, wading down through snow that reached well past his knees, stumbling and staggering his way from one tree to the next, stopping at each to catch his breath. Every few steps he lost his balance and tipped over, falling as best he could to protect his broken arm. And then he had to get up again. By the time he got to the bottom of the slope, he was exhausted, gasping for breath. He had no idea how long it had taken. There weren’t any dragons, though. Snow hadn’t come for him.

He was near the lake, or what was left of it. The bridge he’d found last night was gone, the nice neat little channel that had been dug beneath it had vanished too, both washed away without a trace. Where the sluice had been was now surrounded by a wide expanse of mud and slime. Here and there rivulets ran through a dozen and more new channels gouged out of the earth. The last trickles, rushing to find a way down the mountain. There was nothing left except one pole driven deep into the ground, the post that had once held up one end of the sluice itself. That and the huge sheet of ice, sprinkled with a fine dusting of snow, shattered into giant shards as thick as his wrist.

Kemir stared at it. He’d done this. Done it for Snow. Joined in the spirit of smashing and burning.

Ungrateful…

He looked back, up through the steep stand of conifers towards the castle. He’d been struggling through the trees and the snow for what felt like hours, but the castle wasn’t that far away, now that he looked back. The dragons were still up there, all four of them. As he looked, one of them pushed the remains of half a tower over the edge of the slope. Stones as big as horses tumbled down into the darkness under the trees. The forest shuddered. Pieces of masonry big enough to crush a house toppled over and chased each other, driving a miniature avalanche before them. A tree cracked and toppled sideways, shaking loose a cloud of snow.

Kemir ran, limped, jogged and staggered towards the ruin where the alchemists had been. There were still patches of snow and ice, but most of it here had melted to slush. He tried not to think about how he must look. More lurching than running, cradling his broken arm. When he reached the stair, he went down on his backside, sliding from one step to the next. There wasn’t much grace or dignity to it, but at least he wouldn’t trip over and kill himself.

He reached the bottom. Knew he was there by the change in the smell of the air, the whiff of charred earth. With his one good hand held out in front of him, he shuffled back and forth in the darkness until he found a wall, then another, and then the pile of debris that half-blocked the passage onwards. Hauled himself over it, whimpering with every movement. Snow had said there was someone else down here. Probably another alchemist. He’d been putting that out of his mind, concentrating on one thing at a time – getting to shelter – but he was going to have to think about it now, down here in the gloom. Didn’t have his bow – that was somewhere up the slope by the castle where the dragons were. Didn’t have any arrows with him any more, what with being thrown down a mountain. Nor two working arms. Knives then. Softly creeping closer, a quick stab in the neck and he’d be done. And then just lie here until the dragons went away and his arm got better or else the food ran out. Whatever happened first.

One of his knives was missing too. Just gone. Probably buried in the snow under the trees somewhere. Still had the other one, though. One was enough. Only had one good hand anyway.

At least the light was still there, off in the distance, the same shadow hundreds of yards away. Steady this time. He shuffled along the tunnel, propping himself up against the wall, trying to be quiet. There was still plenty to trip on. He passed passages, dark and lifeless, one, two, then the third, the other stairs leading back to gods knew where. As he reached the light, he heard a noise, a sort of rasping, gasping noise. He gripped the knife in his good hand. His left hand, which wasn’t his better hand. Then he peered around the corner.

The refuge was as he remembered it. Beds, table, pots to piss in. The food was still there, and the lamps too. Three dead bodies on the floor with Kemir’s arrows in them. And a woman. Sitting at the table with her head in her hands and her back to him. She had no idea he was there.