Stephen Deas: The King of the Crags

So he burned their ships, taking pleasure in it, for good measure he burned the harbour and the Taiytakei quarter of Furymouth while he was at it, and then when he landed, he sent the palace soldiers out to finish the job. A crime, really, to destroy part of his own city, but necessary. Whatever they were up to, he'd killed it; and that, for now, would have to do. Until this stupid business with Zafir was finished at least.

The next day, with smoke still rising from the blackened patch of Furymouth closest to the sea, Meteroa, Prince of Furymouth, flew north and then west. Taking the last few dragons away from his beloved city felt like undressing her and leaving her naked. Exposed. Vulnerable. It left a bad feeling in his gut which even destroying the Taiytakei hadn't cured. Narghon's as good as family, he reminded himself. We're already going to war with Zafir and Silvallan. The Taiytakei are gone. Who else is there? Even so, the feeling was still with him when he reached the Pinnacles. Valmeyan. Sirion. The Syuss, even. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd never see his city again, not like she was.

Which was all the encouragement he needed to be on with his business quickly. It was dark when he reached the Pinnacles and circled the three immense spires of stone that ringed Zafir's city. A fortress was built on the top of each monolith, lit by fires. Battlements and caves riddled their sheer sides, little pinpricks of light. They were the oldest places in the realms. This was where the Silver King had come and where he'd died; where the dragons had been broken, where the blood-mages had risen to power and fallen again, where the Order of the Dragon had followed inexorably in their path. Narammed had lived here, and the first King of the Crags too. Legend said that the three mountains were filled with tunnels, stocked with enough food and with enough rooms to keep the entire city safe for a year, that they were filled with ancient and arcane workings that even the alchemists were unable to fathom. This was where the Reflecting Garden stood, with its fountains that never ran dry and its pool of water whose surface wasn't flat. Far more than the City of Dragons or even the Adamantine Palace or even the Glass Cathedral, the Pinnacles were the old heart of the realms, and only kings and their personal escorts were allowed to land on them; even then it was considered polite to ask first. Protocol.

Meteroa led his dragons towards them. Protocol could fuck itself.

Another wall of heat washed over him and then another. Jehal glanced up. The visor made him almost blind and so he took a chance and raised it for a moment. He was in the wrong place, separated from the bulk of his riders. At least they weren't in front of him, which meant either they were behind him or something very bad had happened. He didn't dare look back…

A thousand feet above the dark mounds of the Blackwind Dales, a thin blanket of morning cloud smothered the sky. Jehal and Zafir and the dragons had come to Evenspire from above it, from high out of the emptiness of the Desert of Stones. He'd been one of the first to punch through the cloud, falling towards the ground like an arrow. Wraithwing had pulled up and Jehal had watched the other dragons go. The sky was thick with them even now. Five hundred, mostly his and Zafir's. They were like a plague. Wherever they went they ate everything. The palace eyries had been stripped bare in a matter of days, their potions drunk dry and their herds of cattle gone. The plague had crossed the Purple Spur into the dry plains that sat between the Spur and Evenspire. There the dragons had spread out. They made their way foraging in little clusters, falling out of the sky onto the tiny scattered bands of outsiders who eked out their lives on the fringes of the desert. As far as Jehal knew, no one had had any particular desire to lay waste to the southern half of Almiri's realm, but that's what they'd done, more by accident than by design. Sated dragons fought harder than hungry ones.

No sign of Almiri. He'd held his position just below the cloud and signalled to his other riders to do the same. Almiri's dragons hadn't been waiting for them above the cloud and they weren't waiting here either. Let Zafir burn the citadel. Whoever won today, the city and the eyrie around it would burn to the ground, that was inevitable. He wondered briefly if Almiri had abandoned her stronghold and run off to hide with her sister. That would have been the best thing she could have done for her people. Then the first of Zafir's riders had been greeted by a volley of scorpions as they approached the walls. Jehal had watched as a single dragon spiralled towards the ground. A lucky shot on a hunter with only one rider.

Or maybe she hadn't, but where were her dragons? He'd looked around him, and it had occurred to him then that even if he saw them, how would he know? He didn't even know all his own beasts. And then there was Prince Loatan with sixty of King Narghon's dragons, and every single monster from Zafir's eyries. Silvallan had sent some seventy dragons under Princess Kalista and he knew none of them. There were so many. He'd sat there on Wraithwing's back, watching the palace below him burn, and wondered: How would I know if I saw Almiri and her riders? He'd watched as the last half-dozen dragons drifted lazily out of the cloud and veered towards him. I don't have the first idea who they are. For all I know, those could be Almiri's riders. Prince Lai will be turning on his pyre.

The riders had signalled, telling him to go down to join the attack on the ground. Zafir's dragons were almost there, converging on the cascading curtains of stone that were the Palace of Paths. As he'd watched, the first blasts of fire bloomed in front of them. He'd been so busy wondering how he'd know Almiri's dragons when he saw them that he didn't realise he was looking right at them until much too late. The six hunters. Still signalling, still coming towards him. Coming much too fast. He'd winced as he'd shouted at Wraithwing to dive and dive hard. And so it had begun…

Behind him he heard one of the hunters let out a series of shrieks and he suddenly knew exactly where Almiri's dragons had been. They're not below the cloud and they're not above the cloud. They're in the cloud.

On cue, three shapes dropped out of it in front of him. Oh, very clever.

Meteroa landed with three dragons and a dozen riders on the largest of the three Pinnacles, the Fortress of Watchfulness. The people he was looking for might be here or they might be at the Palace of Pleasure on the second Pinnacle. He rather doubted that he'd find them on the third, in the Temple of Tranquillity. Soldiers came running out dragging scorpions behind them, rather too late to do any good.

If I'd planned to burn everything from the skies, that is. He snapped his fingers and his dragon lowered its head as any well-trained dragon should do. More dragons circled above, almost invisible in the night sky, little more than the occasional black silhouette blotting out a star. Meteroa climbed down from the dragon's back. He stroked its scales. You don't like the dark, do you? But you'll still fly if I tell you to. Once we're done with you, you're not much different from dogs and horses, are you? Don't think I don't know what you'd be like if we didn't keep you docile. The alchemists are right to be afraid of you.

He looked at the soldiers and the Scales and the pathetic collection of riders that had emerged to greet him. He didn't recognise a single face. Zafir had taken every rider who could fight away with her to Evenspire. Which is going to make my life so much easier.

'I am Prince Meteroa, brother to the late King Tyan. I am King Jehal's eyrie-master. We ride to war at the speaker's call. I require food and sustenance for my dragons and my riders and an audience with Prince Kazalain.'