Stephen Deas - The King of the Crags

Semian shook his head. 'No, Marshal. You should go home. The riders who followed you here hunger for justice and vengeance. That is what you promised them. Yet you have not led them against the speaker. We have done nothing except except flap our wings. The speaker barely knows we exist. Drotan's Top should have been a beginning and you have made it an end. Since then we've done nothing but wither.'

And you propose?' Why was he asking? Semian was as transparent as glass.

'Princess Jaslyn needs you. She needs a knight-marshal who will guide her with caution and wisdom. These men need fire and glory and death.' His face was solemn. He believed every word.

Hyrkallan laughed and shook his head. 'And do you mean to give it to them?'

Semian nodded. 'Yes, Knight-Marshal. I will lead them to glory. I will lead them to the Adamantine Palace itself.'

'No.' Hyrkallan wanted to slap Semian for being so stupid. 'You won't even get close. You will lead them to their deaths.'

'Then they will be glorious deaths, Hyrkallan. Better than this.'

'No, they will not. Rider Semian; they will be ignoble and barely remembered. You will all be gone and then you will be forgotten.'

And maybe the realms would be all the better for it He turned away from Semian and tried to put the man out of his mind. Madness. Madness and death. That should be his mantra, not justice and vengeance. That was the way of the dragon-priests. If someone set them on fire, they'd probably rejoice.

For a moment he smiled. Now there was a thought.

Jostan helped Semian out of his armour. Inside, his left leg was bloody down to his foot.

'It doesn't look too bad.' Jostan scratched his chin. The cut was ragged but didn't seem too deep and the bleeding had already stopped. Jostan pressed a wad of cloth over the wound and started to strap it to Semian's leg. 'It shouldn't give you any trouble when it heals. Not like the arrow that sell-sword left for you.'

That spawned a moment of tense silence. Semian still limped from that and Jostan knew it pained him sometimes too. Maybe that's why he'd been so keen for a taste of sell-sword blood.

Semian spat. 'This is absurd.' He clenched and unclenched his fists. He'd be pacing as soon as Jostan was finished. 'We should have burned those sell-swords. We could have burned them from the air or from the ground. Why did we have to fight them?'

'It felt good to do something at last.'

'Maybe so, but we should have been fighting Zafir's riders, not shit-eaters. We should have been fighting them weeks ago.' Jostan tied off the bandage and sure enough, Semian shot to his feet and started to pace. 'We have a calling, Jostan. We must answer it.'

'You know there's going to be a council of kings and queens. You know he's waiting for that.'

'Which is wrong' Semian stamped his foot and then winced. 'We should be burning the speaker's eyries. All of them. We should be showing the kings and queens of the realms who we are. They should fear us. Hyrkallan has to go.'

Jostan looked down. 'Even the Syuss have more dragons then we do,' he said quietly. 'What's to fear?'

'Hyrkallan needs to go,' said Semian again. He pulled on a light riding shirt. 'Princess Jaslyn will need him for the war. I told him that. I need to find Kithyr. Wait here for me.'

Semian didn't wait for Jostan to say anything. He pushed his way out of their tent and limped into the twilight. Jostan watched him go. Hyrkallan won't listen to you. He fyiows you're mad. He knows you don't give a fig about what happens to Queen Shezira any more. This is something else for you now. You and all the others who've forgotten why we fly together. He could have said it too, and it wouldn't have made a jot of difference.

Nthandra ducked into the tent. At least Jostan could understand why she followed Semian. He'd given her a new family, something to fill the hole.

'Where's Semian?'

'Gone looking for the blood-mage.' Even the word left a sour taste in his mouth. 'He was hurt.'

'Nothing serious. The wound's already closed.' Shanzir and Riok followed her in, and then Leistar and Mallizan and Joen. Semian's coven. No, they were the blood-mage's coven. Semian just gave him a voice.

'Is he here? Is he all right?'

'Yes, yes,' Jostan mumbled and watched them sit down. They were all here for Semian not for him. But why? What do you see in him? Why do you believe in him so? Shanzir still looked pale from the wound she'd taken when Deremis had died. She was lucky. If a scorpion hit you, you were dead, and that was that. Almost no one ever got injured by a scorpion. Jostan had seen the wound in her leg, and it was huge, even though Deremis had taken the worst of the impact for her.

The Picker and Kithyr came in last. They were at the heart of this, but Jostan didn't have time to think about that before Semian followed them in.

Kithyr cocked his head. 'So?'

'I told him we should be burning the speaker's palace instead of her filthy hirelings. He said we wouldn't get close. You will lead them to their deaths, ignoble and barely remembered. That's what he said.' Semian spat. 'He's too old and too cautious. He doesn't belong here any more.'

'Is that what you would do, Semian, if you led us?' asked Shanzir. 'Would you lead us against the palace itself?'

'Yes!' Semian's eyes flared for a moment. 'Yes! Yes, we'd burn her on her own throne.'

'The palace is defended by the Adamantine Guard,' Jostan heard himself say. 'With so few dragons we'd never get close enough. They would shoot us down.'

The blood-mage closed his eyes. 'Not if they didn't see you.'

'And how could they…' How could they ndt see us? But no one was listening to Jostan. He wasn't one of them and they all knew it. They were all looking at the mage.

'How?'

'Is it possible?'

'Could it be done?'

Ripples of wonder spread among them.

Kithyr pursed his lips. Jostan felt a sickening smugness radiate out from the magician, but none of the others seemed to notice. 'Do you know,' he asked, 'how the dragons were tamed?'

'By potions brewed by the alchemists,' snapped Semian. 'Could it be done or not?'

'You are wrong about that,' said Kithyr softly. 'The alchemists came later. When the dragons were tamed, there was only blood-magic. In the stories I was taught there were other magics once, but they went when the dragons came. After that there was blood or there was nothing. There were no cities of men, no great armies, not even towns. All that existed among what we called the realms were frightened bands of wild men who were little more than animals, hiding in the fringes of the world, in the caves and the hills and the mountains and the forests where the dragons didn't find them. And there were lost places, places left behind by the sorcerers who had once taught us our craft before they abandoned the world. The greatest among them were the three fortresses of the Pinnacles. And that is where the dragons were tamed.'

'The Pinnacles?' Kithyr had their rapt attention now. The Pinnacles were Zafir's palace now.

'That was the greatest of our strongholds. Encased within the stone, the dragons could not reach us. We laboured always, day and night to find a way to tame them. For as long as we could remember, we had failed, and yet we laboured anyway and always to no avail. Until the white sorcerer came to us, that is. He had no name that we could understand, for he was the last of his kind. He wore armour of quicksilver. He carried the Adamantine Spear. Where he walked, the dragons obeyed him. He did not ask our consent to rule us. He simply did. His commands were few, but if they were not carried out above all other things, he would turn a hundred men to dust with a flick of his finger. We called him the Silver King. It was the Silver King, not any mortal human, who tamed the dragons.'