Stephen Deas - The King of the Crags

War-dragons. Jehal grimaced. We're riding war-dragons. Big, clumsy, war-dragons, Semian has mainly hunters. He tried to count the numbers of each, but it was impossible. Several dragons had gone to ground though. A dozen maybe, which meant a dozen riders ripped out of their saddles. Which is how hunters fight. I could lose this fight if I really tried. There have to be ways… For a moment, he pulled Wraithwing back up above the mass of spiralling dragons. He tried to think. Prince Lai would have written it down somewhere. Battles were supposed to be fought by riders on war-dragons. Hunters were for mopping up survivors, scouting, relaying messages and so forth. They weren't supposed to be the core of a fighting force. Zafir's riders wouldn't know how to fight them and nor would his, but there had to be some tactic or strategy in Principles for a battle like this. What can war-dragons do that hunting-dragons can't? A hunter can accelerate harder, turn more tightly. They have long necks and even longer tails and can snatch their prey with either. So why do we fight with war-dragons and not hunters? Why am I on Wraithwing and not some hunter?

He had the Red Riders pinned at least. If they run, everything collapses to a series of chases. War-dragons against hunters, two or three against one each time. If they run, they lose. But how do I make them run?

The Red Riders were all too preoccupied to come after him, and yet he felt as though he was on the brink of defeat, not victory. What do war-dragons do better? They're stronger. More robust. Faster once they get going. But what can you do with that? How do you make that win a battle? Come on, Lai, where arc you when I need you?'' Shit shit shit. This is what you get from a generation of peace among the realms. No one knows how to fight any more.

The answer, when it came to him, seemed to come from outside, as though the thought wasn't his own. Of course that couldn't be right – it had to be his – but he felt strangely detached from it. As though the old master of war was whispering in his ear. And with the thought came a vision, of dragons arrowing out of the sky, plunging straight down from the clouds into the midst of the melee. Of dragons colliding and knocking each other bodily out of the air, of forcing the enemy to the ground.

The Carpenter. That's what Prince Lai had called it. That's what war-dragons were for. With one hand the carpenter holds the nail firmly in place. With the other he strikes blow after blow with his hammer, and the nail is driven into the wood. The enemy is the nail and the ground is the wood. He could see it in his head: dragons raining down in an endless torrent. And then he looked up and saw it for real. The dragons that he'd sent high to circle and pick up any of the Red Riders who fled were coming, wings tucked in, down like giant winged harpoons. Jehal closed his eyes as they rained past him. 'The hunters,' he shouted, not that anyone would hear him. 'Go for the hunters.'

Dragons smashed into other dragons. Some hunters dodged away, others were knocked almost clear out of the sky, and then Jehal's dragons were spreading out, chasing the ones they'd hit, the stunned, the injured, the broken. He saw two dragons crash to the ground, wings broken, three more riders torn or burned off their dazed mounts. All of them Semian's. In a stroke he'd destroyed a third of his enemy. Half of the Red Riders were dead now. They'd barely been a nuisance in the end. He shook his head in disbelief, wondering how he could ever have doubted his victory.

Still, I think I'll stay up here out of the way. I wouldn't put it past Semian and his gang to launch some suicidal last charge if they realised I was here. And it would be such a shame to catch an errant scorpion bolt with the battle already won…

Semian rode a dark grey war-dragon. Jehal knew that from watching the attack on Drotan's Top. He scanned the melee below. The battle was breaking up. The Red Riders were spiralling apart and scattering, clearly hoping that one or two of them might get away. As Jehal watched, he saw what he was looking for – a dark grey war-dragon bolting for the Maze. He tipped Wraithwing towards the ground and dived. The wind around him picked up. The river was hurtling up, the fighting dragons, what was left of them, racing towards him. Even through his visor, his eyes began to water. He could barely see. When he tried to lift a hand, the air snatched it and almost tore his arm from his shoulder. They shot in among the other dragons and all he could see were flashing shapes. 'The grey war-dragon!' he shouted at Wraithwing, not that the dragon could possibly hear him. 'Go for that one. A dragon you don't know.' He closed his eyes and prayed. Wraithwing shuddered and he felt himself almost wrenched out of his harness. They'd hit something, and the wind was so fierce that he couldn't even seen what it was. A moment later he pitched helplessly forward as Wraithwing spread out his wings and almost stopped in the air. The force of it shook him as though he was a rag doll. His head smacked into the dragon's shoulders while his stomach tried to crawl up his throat and out of his mouth. He felt the straps and buckles of his harness creak and groan. For a moment everything went red. There was a bad smell and he suddenly couldn't breathe.

Wraithwing levelled out, skimming the ground. Jehal still couldn't breathe; it was only when he tore off his helmet that he realised that he'd been sick. Behind him, when he looked, the grey war-dragon was going to ground, its rider torn clean off its back. Wraithwing let out a triumphant shriek. Jehal couldn't help himself. He started to laugh. 'You ate him,' he spluttered. 'You weren't supposed to eat him! Zafir wanted him brought back, dead or alive.' He shook his head. His eyes were blind with tears, partly from the wind but mostly from the laughter that just wouldn't stop. Truth was, he had no idea whether he'd just killed Rider Semian or some other rider, and right at that moment, he didn't much care. Back above him, the melee had broken up. Some of his dragons were climbing again ready to make a second dive if needed, but the damage had been done. The Red Riders, what was left of them, had scattered, Jehal's dragons in pursuit.

He leaned forward. 'Time for some orders. Let Zafir's riders hunt down the runners. I want the dragons. We're going to take them with us. They're going to be mine' Which Zafir's riders wouldn't like, but they'd just have to live with it. He could always pretend that he'd drop a few off at the Pinnacles on his way south. And then, when they were gone and on their way back to the Adamantine Palace, he would go south. To arm his dragons for war.

They walked through the damp and musty tunnels under the Glass Cathedral. A shiver ran up the Night Watchman's spine. He'd been here before of course. Under many different circumstances. 'Well,' asked Zafir, 'what do you think?'

'I do not think, Your Holiness.' I thinly I should be following behind you, not walking beside you. I thin\ I shouldn't be here at all.

'Now would be a good time to start, Night Watchman.'

'Adamantine Men obey, Your Holiness. That is what we do. Speaker after speaker has understood this. If we were to start thinking, Your Holiness, there is no telling where it might end.'

'Fie on tradition! You did enough thinking to let Shezira murder Hyram, and then you gave her a crossbow so that she could have a go at Jehal.' She glanced at him with an amused half-smile that meant either that he was destined to hang in a cage next to the men and women he'd executed or else that she had no intention of doing anything at all. Even Vale, who spent more time than most watching faces, hadn't learned to tell the difference. 'What, did you think I didn't know?'