Stephen Deas - The adamantine palace

'Prince Jehal is also implicated.'

That made her stop. Breathlessly, Semian explained what the queen had ordered them to do. Jaslyn's eyes narrowed.

'So mother is sending me away, is she?' She spat, and storm clouds flashed in her eyes. 'Will this be enough to bury Jehal, do you think, Rider Semian?'

Semian lowered his eyes. 'I cannot say, Your Highness.'

The princess snorted and slowly climbed back out of the carriage. 'Why does she send me, Rider Semian? Why not you? Are you not competent to run errands?'

Semian stayed carefully silent.

'Or you, Jostan?' She barked out another harsh laugh.

'Rider Nastria would have gone herself, Your Highness,' said Jostan quietly. 'It was the queen who ordered otherwise.'

'Of course.' Jaslyn bared her teeth. Without another word, she strode back into the eyrie.

By the time they were flying again, the sun was already sinking towards the horizon. Dragons were nervous in the dark, but Jaslyn drove them on at a merciless speed. They'd all spent months among the valleys of the Purple Spur looking for the white dragon. Even blindfold, Semian could have flown among them and been almost sure to reach his destination.

A dozen dragons and three times as many riders, together with several alchemists and scores of camp followers, were still camped out in the Worldspine. Over the months the tents had gone, replaced by a neat row of log cabins alongside the river. Sections of the forest were still being cleared, making way for cattle, driven up from the nearby valleys in King Valgar's realm.

A bonfire, lit at the highest end of the camp, guided them in. The dragons circled overhead, spitting blasts of fire to announce themselves, and then glided nervously down along the river, dipping the tips of their tails, feeling for the ground. As soon as they touched water, they tipped back, spread their wings and stopped dead in the air, dropping the last twenty feet onto the rocks of the river bed. Rider Semian's dragon lurched sideways and almost toppled over. Semian screwed up his face and closed his eyes, but Matanizkan found her balance and righted herself. By the time Semian dismounted, Princess Jaslyn had gone, vanished into the same cabin that she'd lived in for most of the last two months. Semian and Jostan looked at each other, shrugged and went to bed.

By first light they were in the air again, flying north through King Valgar's realm, skirling the edge of the Worldspine. In the afternoon they reached an apparently makeshift eyrie that was little more than a field with a small fortified manor house. Semian took it to be the provincial home of some bumpkin baron at first, a convenient place to stop and then move on. It didn't take him long to realise that he was wrong. The house was run by the Order of the Scales and contained alchemists, several of them. There were soldiers here too, and not any soldiers, but Adamantine men. The speaker's soldiers.

He listened as Princess Jaslyn and the alchemists talked, and he slowly understood. Somewhere a few miles to the east was the start of an old hidden road that ran deep into the Worldspine. At its far end was the alchemists' hidden stronghold, the source of their power – a day on dragonback, but a week or even more on foot or on the ox carts that carried the barrels filled with the alchemists' potions. Every week, no matter the weather, a convoy left the stronghold, feeding the eyries of the realms. The secret of the alchemists' potions was a precious one, closely guarded by the order and shared only with the kings and queens of the realms. Semian knew better than to ask exactly what they did, but it was something to do with taming the dragons. Everyone knew that.

Princess Jaslyn still carried storm clouds on her shoulders, the alchemists were taciturn and suspicious, and when he left, Semian was glad to go. He was bored too. Flying beside the princess was something of an honour, and certainly better than sharing a tower with a blood-mage, but after a while all the mountains looked the same. Back at the palace the tournaments and games would soon be starting. There was glory to be had, and gold too. Out here there was nothing. Nothing to do and nothing to see.

Nothing at all.

The Valeford Track

Snow dived out of the sun. Stretched out along the mountain track were five wagons, a couple of men on horses at the front and perhaps a dozen soldiers at the back.

'Burn the soldiers first,' screamed Kemir, trying to make himself heard over the wind. He had a saddle now, and he and Nadira rode on Snow's back instead of being carried in her claws.

'You don't need to shout,' yelled Nadira in his ear. Kemir closed his eyes. He still hadn't grown used to Snow plucking the thoughts out of his head.

No.

Snow ignored the soldiers. Instead, the first burst of fire hit the riders at the front. They had felt the rush of wind, perhaps, because Kemir thought he saw one of them look up and behind him just as Snow let loose. A blast of hot air hit Kemir in the face and he hugged Snow's neck.

They heard you shout.

Kemir felt Snow land. The air smelled of burning. He sat back up and saw that they were straddling the mountain track, blocking the way. The first wagon was on fire. Either side of the track smoke rose from a swathe of smouldering heather and gorse. Snow dropped to all fours, exposing Kemir and Nadira. She sent a second blast of fire along the road across the remaining wagons and towards the soldiers. Then she snatched up one of the dead horses and bit it in two, swallowing the back end whole.

Somehow, one of the horsemen was still alive. Staggering to his feet among the ashes, he started to scream. His clothes were burned to his skin; every part of him was either blackened or raw and red. And he was obviously blind. Kemir put him down with an arrow.

The smoke and flames from Snow's flamestrike cleared. All the wagons were blazing now. The soldiers at the back were still there, though. They'd formed up behind a wall of interlocking shields, and as Kemir watched, the shields dropped for a moment. Behind the shields, the soldiers had a crossbow. A big one.

They were pointing it at him.

'Shit!' Kemir threw himself flat against Snow's neck, but what saved him was Snow herself. She lifted up her head as the crossbow fired. Instead of hitting Kemir, the bolt hit the dragon in the shoulder. Kemir felt the shock, the surprise, the unexpected pain. The bolt must have been as long as his arm, and the crossbow had enough power to puncture Snow's scales and drive the missile deep into her flesh.

Then came the rage. It rose up from somewhere deep inside, in a tight seething ball, and bloomed, filling Snow's thoughts; and as it filled the dragon, it filled Kemir too. He started to unbuckle his harness so that he could get at the soldiers with his knives, then stopped himself. Snow leapt forward. She smashed the five carts to pieces, hurling their burning wreckage far away across the valley as she went. The soldiers scattered, some of them struggling through the gorse on either side of the track, most running away down the trail. A few of them actually ran past Snow, dodging between her legs. The dragon flicked her tail back and forth over the track, and at the same time sent another spear of fire down the trail ahead. Kemir glanced over his shoulder. One soldier had been knocked flying. Another seemed to have dived into the gorse and was still alive. A third had somehow ducked under Snow's tail, but she caught him just as he was getting away, cracking the tip against the side of his head so hard that Kemir could actually see the man's neck snap.

Behind him Nadira unleashed a scream of banshee violence. Kemir's fingers were fumbling at the harness again, tearing at the straps that kept him on Snow's back. The anger was overwhelming. He needed to fight. Snow reared onto her back legs and pounded along the track, picking up soldiers as she caught them. She crushed one, hurled the next high into the air and tossed the third into her mouth, biting down so hard that his armour shattered. Finally Kemir freed himself. He slithered down the back of Snow's wing and then down her leg. He landed hard, almost got himself trampled, had to dive out of the way of Snow's flailing tail, but none of that mattered. The dragon-rage had him and he couldn't feel anything else. He leapt up to his feet again and jumped into the gorse, chasing one of the fleeing soldiers. His bow was still tied to Snow's saddle, and that was fine. He didn't want to shoot these men in the back. He wanted the joy of driving his knives into their bones.