Stephen Deas: The King of the Crags

Four hundred dragons plunged into the cold damp cloud and disappeared. Seconds later they burst out directly over Evenspire.

Wraithwing banked and twisted, spraying fire at one of Zafir's riders who hadn't had the sense to run away. Jehal caught a glimpse of another cluster of dragons racing towards him, but before he could even start to see whose they were, Wraithwing shot through a cloud of smoke and he couldn't see anything. When his eyes cleared, those dragons were gone. Another dragon, one of Zafir's, raced overhead with two of Jehal's riders in pursuit. Below, the city was burning now, burning with a vengeance.

Once again I haven't the first idea what's going on. Are all dragon-fights like this? Principles made them sound like carefully choreographed dance where the winner was decided before the contest even began. Not this. This was anarchy. Madness! For a moment, Jehal found himself wondering whether Prince Lai had ever actually fought in the War of Thorns or whether he'd just watched it all, scratching his chin. He dragged Wraithwing higher above the city. At least from a thousand feet, just below the cloud, he could see what was happening. And what use is that? I can see lots of dragons chasing each other. I don't know which ones are mine and which are Zafir's. They disappear in and out of clouds and plumes of smoke with such speed that I couldn't follow them even if I tried. I can see a good few dragons fleeing the battle. I assume that they're Zafir's and that we're winning, but I don't even know that for sure. Ancestors! How embarrassing would that be? To loiter up here feeling all smug and sure of myself only to discover that all my riders have run away and Zafir has won even though she's dead. I suppose I could try and signal some orders. Or I could get Wraithwing to shriek them out, but what use would that be? Apart from the twenty dragons circling in overwatch, who would actually see or hear me?

There were some things in Principles, right at the start, that he'd have to look at. Things about the preparations to be made before a battle. When this was done, he'd have to read that bit again.

Enough of this. He signalled to the riders on overwatch to follow him and thundered back down towards Almiri's citadel. At least she's had the sense to go away, now she's done what she's done. Or is she still up there in the cloud, lurking and watching? You know what, when I'm done here, I'm going to go away. You can have your city and your palace back again. What's left of them.

If he thought the fighting over the city was chaos, the scenes in the citadel made him dizzy. Even before Wraithwing landed, the heat of the fires penetrated his armour. The smoke burned his throat and the air was so hot that it hurt to breathe. His visor didn't help; using it just meant that he couldn't see anything at all, as opposed to getting fleeting glimpses of things through the occasional gap in the smoke. He took his helmet off, wiped the tears from his eyes and waved at his other riders as they came in to land.

'Dragons!' he shouted. 'Get the dragons.' Almiri's hunters were still perched around the citadel, moping near the bodies of their riders or what was left of them. The fire didn't seem to trouble them, but even if it did they'd only sit there and howl until someone came to take them away. That's what we train them to do. Stupid. You'd have thought they'd know to give up when all that's left of their rider is half a charred arm.

'Dragons!' he shouted again. 'Get the dragons and get them out of here.' He waved his riders closer. Dragon cries were drowning his words. 'Can you hear me?'

He had to practically shout in their ears, one at a time, to make himself understood. 'Get the dragons. Any dragon you see. Get it back in the air. Get everyone else back into the sky. I've had enough of this. Tell them to take what spoils they can and leave! Get Onyx.'

He had to point. 'The big black one. Through the smoke that way. Get Zafir's dragon.' As an afterthought, he limped after the two riders he'd sent for Onyx. There was always a chance that he might find Zafir's body. The more proof he had that she was dead, the easier the rest of this was going to be.

He didn't even get halfway there before a subtle change in the dragon cries around him made him look up.

The sky was raining dragons again. White ones! Hundreds of them.

B'thannan pulled out of his dive; Hyrkallan lifted his visor and there was the ground, a thousand feet below. Evenspire was burning and there was no dragon overwatch. And as he looked, he slowly understood what he was seeing: Jehal and Zafir were fighting over the spoils. A warmth blossomed inside him. He wanted to shout for joy, and even, maybe, believe in that hand of destiny after all.

'Remember me?' he roared into the wind. 'The whole fucking horde of the north with me, five hundred dragons and fifty thousand men. That was my promise!'

And as the dragons of the north rained from the clouds he waved them on towards the ground to grind his enemies to pieces. Unlike Jehal, Hyrkallan knew exactly which were his dragons. His dragons had their bellies painted white and his riders wore red.

'Oh shit! Get up! Get up and get out!' Jehal screamed at his riders, urging them into the air. Could I be in a worse place? Yes, I suppose I could be lying spreadeagled in a field with a big sign reading 'Please burn me' hanging over my head. Other than that, it's hard to see… He wasn't going to reach Wraithwing before the northern dragons reached the ground, so he didn't try; instead he hid behind a wall until he saw a white-painted dragon shoot overhead. At least I know exactly how difficult it is to see anything down here. A shift in the wind blew smoke over him. He took the opportunity to hobble across the open to where Wraithwing was waiting, cursing his ruined leg. The noise was deafening, dragons howling, everything burning. He caught a glimpse of Onyx launching into the air, little more than a large black shape in the shilling smoke.

'Let me on, let me on!' Jehal waved franntically. Wraithwing knew he was there, Jehal could see that, but the dragon was very slow to move. He seemed almost stunned, dazed and dopey but somehow blissfully happy. I must be imagining that bit, but I'd really appreciate it if you'd bother to actually open your eyes.

Wraithwing lowered his head. Jehal grabbed hold of the dangling rope ladder and hauled himself onto Wraith wing's back, strapping himself into what was left of his harness. 'Up! Up!' Shit. And I thought it was already madness. Wraithwing powered into the sky. With no one to look out for him, Jehal's head twitched from side to side, up and down, searching for the next dragon that would try to kill him. At least painting their dragons white means I know which ones those are likely to be. Except for any of Zafir's riders who haven't had the sense to run away – let's not forget them just yet. He wondered briefly who was up there. Sirion. Jaslyn. Hyrkallan. All of them, most likely. Which one of them is leading the charge? That thought made him shudder. Lystra's bloodthirsty sister, most likely.

He urged Wraithwing across the city as fast as he could, shrieking and waving the retreat, calling to his riders to gather around him and flee. Safer just to run away on my own, but then what? He caught another glimpse of Onyx and veered towards the black monster. I need you. I need you with me to show that Zafir is dead. White-painted dragons were swirling towards Onyx as well. Jehal had maybe a hundred of his own around him. Half of what I came with. Ancestors, but I hope that's not all there is. And of course every one that I lose is one that the north gains. Maybe they'll fall out with each other just like we did. They won't, but imagining it will make me feel better about this later. There would be others, other survivors. There always were. Principles told him that he could expect to see maybe half as many again trickle their way back to him.