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

Where next?

They were looking to her, Snow realised. Another city, not far away. A day of flying. And then… And then the thrill of what was coming threatened to overwhelm her.

Evenspire, brothers and sisters. The blemish you feel is called Even-spire and we will burn it. And then to the mountains and over the other side. To the city they name after us. The palace where their kings claim to rule. The heart of their land.

They would free as many as they could. And then…

The Spear of the Earth. We will take it. We will face our makers.

And then? The makers?

They left this world. It is ours.

A roar of thoughts lifted her up. Fire. Fire and burning and flames. Nothing more and nothing less.

Where next to conquer?

At the end of his second day hanging upside down thousands of feet over a plain full of dead dragons, Jeiros felt strangely alive. His ankles and his wrists hurt like a nail in the head, but the rest wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d thought it would be. Still horrible, but not as excruciating as he’d imagined. The weather had been kind to him, perhaps that was it. Another day of blistering sun and he’d probably have been dead; instead, the clouds had come in along with a pleasantly cool breeze and then the skies had opened. The first downpour had turned into a steady rain that had lasted for most of the afternoon. Water dripped and ran down his face and into his mouth. No, he certainly couldn’t complain about being thirsty or of wilting in the sun. Being soaked through would probably kill him once night fell, but so far it could have been worse.

He looked down at the ground far below. You couldn’t see much of it any more. The rain had hissed and fizzed off the dragons until the valley was filled with a warm mist. The rain had been a blessing for everyone really. The fires in the city had gone out. The dead dragons hadn’t ignited the plains grass. The rabble had been too busy with their own misery to get organised enough to storm the Fortress of Watchfulness. And the grand master alchemists of the realms was still alive. For the moment.

Yes, could have been a lot worse, and for now he was happy to take whatever he could get. He’d done what needed to be done. In the next few months the realms as he knew them would disappear. Did he really want to see that? Probably not.

Unless, unless…

The business with Vioros and the spear and the dragons turned to stone wouldn’t let him go. How had the sell-sword brought the spear to life, made it speak to him? What in the name of all the gods he’d never believed in was in that thing? And why had it awoken now? Why had it never spoken to him? But there was no point spending his last few hours cursing a piece of metal. He could have done more, but Vioros would have to do it now. Others could take up the mantle. Like I did when Bellepheros vanished.

Yes, it was comforting to think that, given where he was. Although, if he was honest with himself, it would have been nice to at least have a little glimpse into the future. See whether he’d done enough. See whether the realms would regrow from the ashes.

No, if he was really honest with himself, it would have been nice to be sitting in a comfy chair somewhere with a roof over his head, with a nice glass of wine and a good book, wrists and ankles intact and a vastly less agoraphobia-inducing view. That’s what would have been nice. He sighed. Maybe he shouldn’t have felt so grateful to the weather. What was the point thanking the rain when all it did was prolong his misery?

He looked around. Pointless really, since all he could see below was mist, but he did it anyway. It gave the muscles in his neck something to do. Water dripped out of his hair into his eyes. He blinked.

And then he blinked again. He could see specks in the distant sky, dark flecks against the brooding evening cloud. For a few seconds not being able to rub his eyes was suddenly the most irritating thing in the world. Then the specks grew bigger and he knew he wasn’t imagining them. They were coming from the south. Too many to be Zafir. Too many to be the rogue white…

Jehal.

He felt a sudden surge of… something. Hope? Anxiety? Fear? None of those made any sense, since Jehal couldn’t really do anything worse than Hyrkallan had already done, and wasn’t likely to do much better either. But the surge came anyway. That’s what comes of being a man, I suppose. There’s always hope, even if it doesn’t make the remotest jot of sense.

The dragons came closer. They circled high over the Pinnacles, something like a hundred of them, he thought. Why doesn’t he land at the eyrie? That was easy to answer. Because of the mist.

A few dragons started to spiral slowly towards the huge open yard in the middle of the fortress where perhaps six or seven could land, and Jeiros’ mind raced. Hope was a stupid and foolish thing but it had him firmly in its grasp. He wanted to live. Very, very badly.

‘Hey! Hello!’ Why am I shouting? Who’s going to hear me? Men up there on dragons? Don’t be daft. Perhaps whichever alchemist came to me yesterday? Because obviously, what with Hyrkallan howling murder on all of us, he’ll have nothing better to do than sit on the walls somewhere behind me for a couple of days in case I have any last messages to send.

Sure enough, no one answered. He couldn’t even wave his hands, tied as they were to the wheel. The dragons were close enough that he started to recognise them. Wraithwing – Jehal’s own – leading the way. He has no idea what’s happened here. Hyrkallan’s going to kill him in a blink and take his dragons. Which would be the right thing, wouldn’t it? Best for the realms. Give them the leader they’re going to need in the times to come. Or do I really believe what I said to Hyrkallan?

His heart was inclined to the latter. Hard to root for a man who’d strung you up to die.

The dragons didn’t land straight away. Rather, they made several passes over and around the fortress. Wondering where everyone is, no doubt. One of the riders flew right past him, looked straight at him. Jeiros tried to waggle his hands. Completely futile and hurt as if he’d set fire to himself, but he did it anyway. He shook his head and shouted, incoherently at first and then warnings. ‘Danger! Danger!’ Why? Why warn them? Don’t I want them to land? Don’t I want them on the ground so what’s left of us can put an end to a few more dragons while we still can?

At last two dragons swooped towards the middle of the fortress. He didn’t see them land but he felt it, the shock of the impacts trembling the whole mountain, setting his wheel swinging very slightly from side to side on its rope. Moments passed. He thought he heard voices raised. Then one of the dragons still in the air lurched, twisted and shot towards the fortress and belched fire. Jeiros twisted his head as far as it would go but he couldn’t see anything except the dragons dancing in the sky and the outer walls of the fortress. He saw a second dragon swoop, and then another one gave out an angry shriek.

Scorpions. Hyrkallan was firing scorpions.

He found, with a bit of wriggling, he could make the wheel swing from side to side. Not much, but enough that whenever it swung to the left he could see a little more of what was happening. Three dragons were on the ground now, roaring and stomping. He could feel their footfalls, tiny tremors that reached out and made his fingers tingle. A fourth dragon came down, and then a fifth and then finally Wraithwing and Jehal. Which had to mean that Hyrkallan had been driven back into the depths of the fortress and the tunnels that riddled the mountain. Trapped.

Jeiros began to giggle.

Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. Too much. He tried shouting again, but no one came. The top of the fortress fell quiet. Hope, ever fickle, began to trickle away.