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

‘I can’t save you, sell-sword. I’m sorry.’ Which was a lie – he wasn’t sorry at all. The man might not have been a dragon-rider, might not have burned half the town, but he could still hang. As far as Vioros was concerned, he deserved a death a lot slower than a rope. Rogues. The worst terror of all.

‘Kill me.’

‘What?’

‘Snow. She knows I’m here. She’s coming. For the spear. She feels me.’

Vioros ran. In the harsh sunlight outside he swayed and sat down heavily on a piece of broken wall covered in ash. Then he held his head in his hands. A tremor shook him. A lot of things made sense now, and none of them were good. How many dragons had turned when Prince Kazan had his moment of folly? No one had ever been quite sure, but it couldn’t have been more than ten, and it had taken, what? All the riders from three realms and the Adamantine Men to rein them in. Now there were twice that many. Twenty dragons. It would take all the riders in the world to contain twenty dragons. Hundreds of people would die, probably thousands, but if every king and every queen bowed to the command of the speaker and gave up their dragons to the hunt, they just might all get to see their children grow up.

Yes, that was quite enough to make him give up hope, right there and then. Never mind everything else, never mind the dire state of the Order, never mind this stupid war. Never mind all of that, sooner or later Jeiros would have no choice but to order a cull. Never mind Jehal; even if they’d had a speaker like Vishmir, twenty free dragons might have been more than the realms could tame. The sell-sword had given him all that, and then at the end he’d given him the Adamantine Spear. A relic that had sat around in the Adamantine Palace, given the place its name even, and done absolutely nothing in all that time. A relic whose myths and legends had peeled off over the years like dead skin, until no one believed anything any more. And here it was, turning dragons into stone.

And then, right at the end, the bastard had taken that hope and pissed on it, as casually as anything. Oh, I threw it at the dragon and then I lost it. Lost it? How do you lose something like the Adamantine Spear? Vishmir’s cock! I looked for it but I was mostly too busy looking for the alchemist I promised to protect. What was the spear doing here and not in the palace? A blood-mage had it and then someone cut his hand off. What was all that about? A blood-mage? Did Jeiros know? Did he even know the spear was missing?

There was the spear itself too. Turning dragons into stone? Had it always done that? That would explain the legend of Narammed the Dragonslayer, but still… How could the Order not know something like that?

Most of all, what did Vioros do now? Go back to the grand master and tell him that they were all doomed, except that they might be saved if only they could find a magic spear that they’d somehow lost without noticing they’d lost it which had never shown any sign of being anything special before?

No one was going to believe him. Everyone had more important things to do. Or they thought they did.

So. He could stay here until he found that blasted spear. Surely it couldn’t have gone too far, could it? It was made of metal, after all, so it could hardly have floated off down the river. Or he could go back to the speaker and his riders and Grand Master Jeiros, tell them half the truth, trick them into coming back here to see it all for themselves and then they could do the searching. Jeiros could talk to the sell-sword. Hear it all for himself. All in all that sounded like a much better proposition.

In his mind he got up and hurried to his dragon, keen to bring riders back here as soon as possible. His legs, though, didn’t move. There was a third choice, one they were quite aware of, and they weren’t going to move until he at least conceded it was there.

Yes. Well, go on then. I could get on my dragon and fly to Furymouth and get on a Taiytakei ship and never come back. What of it? I suppose I’d do well enough.

His legs, it seemed, wanted more. He frowned and forced himself to his feet. That was no way for an alchemist to think. He was sworn to protect the realms from exactly this.

Think about it for a moment. There are rogues loose. Maybe all the dragon-riders in the realms could stop them, or maybe not. But we won’t get to find out, because the only way we can keep the rest of our dragons tame is to cull them. Which we’ll never be allowed to do because there’s a war on. So, are you going to die for no better reason than running away would make you look bad to your ancestors? Are they going to be happier that you stayed here like a good little alchemist and died with all the rest, honour intact? Or do you think they might secretly prefer it if you ran away while you still can, joined the Taiytakei, sold them everything you know about dragons, lived like a king and fathered about a hundred children for them. Yes, they might wag a finger or two at you for show, but let’s face it: deep down they’re positively pleading with you to go. Mull that over for a bit, and while you do have a bit of a think about how it felt at Drotan’s Top when the Red Riders brought the place crashing down on top of you.

Vioros walked back towards the riders waiting to take him back. They were supposed to be his to command, but they weren’t really. To them he was nothing more than a glorified passenger. You see, that’s the problem. Can’t do it.

Coward. You have the powers of a blood-mage. You could bend a few dragon-riders to your will easily enough.

Slippery slope, though. He smiled grimly. He was going to stay, that was what he was going to do. Stay until the bitter end, because that was what was right. When he reached the riders, he stopped. There was a group of disconsolate townsfolk sitting in the ash and rubble, kicking their heels and poking at the ruins with sticks. The sticks gave him an idea.

‘You folk!’ he barked. ‘I need your help.’

They looked up, apathy in their eyes.

‘I can pay.’ Yes, see how their backs straighten, they turn to face you and their eyes meet yours. ‘Somewhere near the stone dragon on the riverbank there is a spear. It fell out of the dragon’s mouth. It looks as though it’s made of silver. It isn’t, but when I return tomorrow I will take its weight in silver and divide it between any who have a part in finding it. There was a woman there too. A Scales. Find her.’

There. With a bit of luck, when he came back the spear would be here. He could take it to Jeiros and ask him how, in the name of all the gods, you turned a dragon into stone.

A thousand dragons. More. Jeiros shook his head in disbelief. He ought to have felt awe when he looked out over what had once been Zafir’s eyrie, but he didn’t. He didn’t feel much of anything. A thousand dragons. In a few days they will run out of potions. In a week their only food will be what we can scavenge. In a month they’re going to start waking up and they’re going to be hungry. We barely have enough riders left after the battle to ride them all, if we had a place to take them. Which we don’t. He didn’t know how many dragons had escaped. They’d found King Valmeyan’s body, apparently. Queen Zafir had fled with some small number of riders and only the ancestors knew where she’d gone. No one knew whether Prince Tichane was dead or alive either. Hyrkallan and Sirion were still out hunting down survivors, one by one, bringing back their dragons. They’d been prowling the plains all night; now that the sun was up again, they were on the chase once more. Dragons circled high in the sky; dragons whirled back and forth not far overhead. Wherever he looked, his vision filled with them. He should have been dizzy with all that power, but instead all he felt was a bemused despair. And I will do what I have to do, even if every alchemist pays for it when they realise what I’ve done.