Dragon Flight (15 page)

“But we want to go with you,” Marta said, before I could. I nodded my agreement.

“No. Go home. And if you should see Velika again … watch over her for me.” Then he wheeled and left us.

We stared after him in disbelief.

“He’s going to fight Krashath alone,” Marta said dully. Then she shook herself. “There’s nothing we can do to help now, but still. I just thought we would be there … to at least see …” Her voice trailed away.

“I’m not going to sit here and wait for some strange dragon to take me home,” I said. I took her arm and began to lead her to the beach. “Come along.”

Picking our way around the bodies of fallen dragons was not pleasant, but neither was not knowing how Shardas was faring. Or Luka and the others. Never far from my mind was the fact that, across the strait somewhere, Luka was fighting an army of dragons at least four times the size of what we had been able to muster.

The injured dragons were huddled near the stream of fresh water. I strode purposefully over to the largest of them, who was also the least injured. I suspected that he had chosen to land on the beach and feign more mortal
wounds as the only form of protest a collared dragon could make. He had a broken foreleg, and a long gash on his chest, but he was sitting up and giving instructions to the others when we approached.

“Good morning,” I said in Feravelan. He had been speaking Citatian, but I counted on him speaking most human tongues, as the other dragons of my acquaintance did.

“Good morning, humans,” he said. He was a trifle wary, and looked us over as if to see if we were concealing any collars about our persons.

“I’m Creel, this is Marta,” I said, trying to look reassuringly un-Citatian. “What’s your name?”

“Darrym.” Still the wary look.

A dragon with a ruined wing beside us began edging away.

“Shardas the Gold has gone to fight Krashath, the white dragon who is controlling the human king of Citatie,” I announced. “We came here to help him, but now we need your help. Can you make a speaking pool for me?”

“I can.” He tilted his head and looked at me out of one green eye. He was mostly brown, with a greenish pattern of streaks along his sides and the membranes of his wings. “Who are you going to bespeak?”

“Queen Velika.”

The dragons gasped and muttered at this, but I ignored them, raising my voice to be heard. “We must
tell her what Shardas is doing and ask her advice.” She knew Krashath as well as Shardas did, I was guessing, and might know a trick we could use to help defeat him. “We must also look in on Niva and the others fighting the collared army on the Roulaini shore.”

“The queen lives?” The dragon with the ruined wing stared.

“She lives,” I confirmed. “We must tell her where the king has gone.”

“Well.” With his good foreleg Darrym picked at the moss packing the wound on his chest. “Well. I see. Er.” He lashed his tail and stretched his wings. “And, er, after that, do you need anything?”

“Yes.” Marta was poking me and pointing to the perfectly healthy wings he had just displayed. “If you would be so good as to fly us to Pelletie as soon as Creel bespeaks the others?”

“Well, all right,” Darrym said, looking taken aback. “I suppose I could.”

“Don’t listen to them, they just want to collar us,” said a lithe lavender dragon. Lying on her side, she held one wing awkwardly away from a gaping wound that ran down her side from foreleg to hind. Another dragon was packing it with moss, and the lavender winced at every touch of her nurse’s claws.

“They don’t look like Citatians,” Darrym said. “And they were with Shardas the Gold earlier, while you were still unconscious.”

The lavender continued to mutter, and I gave her a hard look. The muttering stopped and I turned back to Darrym. “The speaking pool, if you please.”

Darrym got to work. He dug a small inlet on one side of the stream and dammed it off when it had filled. He leaned over, intent, for no more than a moment before turning to me.

“Shall I invoke Her Majesty?” His voice was awed.

“Let me,” I said. My voice was less crisp and more kindly now. “She is not accustomed to strangers.”

Leaning over the pool, I called to Velika. With Marta hovering on one side and Darrym on the other, it was hard not to be self-conscious. The pool clouded, then cleared to show the interior of Velika and Shardas’s cave, but it was empty. It clouded again, and remained that way.

“What does that mean?” I looked up at Darrym.

“She is not in her cave,” he said. “She is not within the sound of your voice.”

This caused me some confusion. I had called quite loudly, and the cave was not large. Surely even if she were sunning herself outside, she would have heard me? I felt panicky at the thought that Velika might be injured. Where were Niva’s hatchlings? They were supposed to be helping her!

“Creel.” Marta jogged my elbow. “We’d better just check on Tobin and the others and then get to Shardas. There’s no time.”

Knowing she was right, yet disturbed all the same, I called for Niva, then Feniul and Amacarin. It was Ria who at last appeared in the pool, though.

“Hello, young Creel,” she said in her sensible voice. “How fares our king?”

“He is as well as can be expected, Ria. But he has gone to fight Krashath, and we are worried.”

“By the First Fires, I hope he succeeds,” she said. “A terrible thing, if Krashath were to defeat him. But if Shardas the Gold wins, we shall win as well.” Her voice turned grim: “Otherwise, I doubt we have much hope.”

“Is it bad?”

“It is very bad,” she said. “We are holding steady, but they outnumber us and even those who came at dawn are not enough to turn the tables completely.”

“Is Tobin all right?” Marta leaned over the pool.

“The hairless man with the markings on his head?”

“Yes, he is my betrothed.”

“He is a mighty fighter,” Ria said with admiration. “He can throw a javelin with such skill that he strikes the dragonriders straight through the heart. But the riderless dragons mill about, getting in the way, and it is difficult to get close enough to uncollar them.”

“Is Gala there?” I had not seen her bronze form among the fallen dragons.

“Yes. She is injured, but she chased one of the collared dragons all the way across the strait.” Ria looked over her shoulder and then back. “I must go. I am
needed.” She started to withdraw, then came back. “Oh, dear Ruli is quite safe,” she assured Marta, then the image rippled and she was gone.

“I hadn’t even thought about that little monkey running around in the battle,” Marta admitted. “I hope he isn’t too frightened.”

“I’m sure he’s happily flinging … um, waste at the enemy,” I told her. Then I went to Darrym, who was waiting nearby. “Please take us to Pelletie now,” I said.

“At once.” And he bent his good foreleg for us to mount.

“How are we going to help Shardas?” Marta asked when we were in the air.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I can’t just sit here.”

“I agree,” she said, and Darrym arrowed towards the city, the afternoon sun beating down on us.

My hopes soared as Darrym flew over the palace. We had circled the city, approaching the palace in ever-smaller loops so that we wouldn’t be in Shardas’s way. We could see him, gleaming in the sun with his brilliant silk-covered wings, from a great distance. But we did not see Krashath until we were almost directly above him.

White like the underbelly of a cave fish, he huddled on the roof of the Citatian royal palace, twined around the spires at one end of the main building. Not wanting to disturb the fine balance between the two fighting brothers, I ordered Darrym to land on the roof of the palace some distance away. Darrym crouched behind a squat tower, and we all leaned around to watch the fight.

From our position we could see why Krashath huddled on the roof, his dead black eyes half-closed. Shardas was carefully hovering in the air just so, and whenever Krashath raised his head, Shardas would tilt his wings so that the sun struck his brother full in the face. Most dragons are not bothered by the sun in their eyes, at
least, not the way humans are. But Krashath had spent many long hours in the throne room, crouched in darkness, and now he ducked his head and blinked whenever Shardas moved.

“The sun will set, Shardas,” Krashath hissed. “If you have not the courage to kill me by then, I will have no qualms about ripping out your throat.”

“Recall your army, Krashath,” Shardas countered. “What you are doing is wrong, and you know it. Recall them.”

“I will destroy you, and everything that reminds me of you, Shardas,” Krashath said. “I will not rest until Feravel is a wasteland. It’s taken me centuries to recover my strength, but I am more than ready to crush you now.”

“I wonder if he would say that if he knew Velika was there,” Marta whispered. “If he knew it would destroy her, too.”

I sat up straighter on Darrym’s back, ready to give the order for him to fly in closer.

“Absolutely not,” Darrym whispered, twisting his neck to look over his shoulder at us. “I know what you are about to ask, but this is as close as we get. Call me a coward if you want, but I’ve spent fifteen years with a collar around my neck because of Krashath, and I’m not going any closer.”

“This is why you are not king, Krashath!” Shardas bellowed.

“I am the king of Citatie,” Krashath said, laughing evilly. “That fool in the room below us cannot even dress himself without me. And when I have conquered Roulain and Feravel, I shall be ruler of all the dragons of the north! Then nothing will stop me from ruling over all our kind!”

“That is why she did not choose you, Krashath,” Shardas said. “She never would have chosen you! You have no soul.”

“
Do not speak of her
!” Krashath screamed. He half-rose, snarling at Shardas with his eyes squeezed shut against the light.

“He’s mad,” Marta and I said at the same time.

“Oh, quite,” Darrym agreed.

“Do not dare to speak of her to me!” Acid spittle flew from Krashath’s muzzle and sizzled on the roof tiles. “You stole her from me! You poisoned her against me! I hate you!”

He launched himself at Shardas, who dodged him easily. Krashath had lunged with his eyes still closed, but he opened them now, for Shardas had been forced out of the line of the sun, and he had to beat his wings rapidly to avoid Krashath. Now they fought as dragons normally did: with fire and claw and fang.

Clinging to each other, Marta and I huddled on Darrym’s back. I could feel him shuddering beneath us. We had seen dragons fight before, just last night even, but this was something else.

Krashath and Shardas were the largest dragons I had ever seen, and they fought with a passion and viciousness that was unrivalled. Perhaps, I thought, it was because they were brothers, and had once loved each other, that they hated so deeply now. Their roars shook tiles down off the roofs and their tails knocked holes in stone walls. A stray burst of fire from Shardas melted the copper roof on a tower not far from us, and Darrym slithered along the ridgepole to the next turret, and then the next, to stay out of their path.

Shardas flew into position once more, flashing his silken wings into Krashath’s eyes. As his brother screamed and flailed, trying to avoid the brilliance of the mirrors, Shardas whipped around and raked Krashath’s belly with the long ragged spines of his tail. Krashath blew out a great gust of fire, mostly from the shock of the pain, and one of Shardas’s silk-covered wings caught fire. Shardas ducked down and raced in a circle below Krashath, putting out the fire with the wind of his passage, and Krashath chased after him, roaring.

Raking at Shardas’s wings with his black claws, Krashath caught the charred silk and ripped some of it away. Shardas twisted his head and bit through the cords that held the cloth in place and then snapped it over Krashath’s head.

Blinded, his head and one foreleg wrapped in silk, Krashath flew into one of the towers. With a scream he fell from the sky, landing atop a thick wall of stone that
his weight instantly reduced to rubble. He burned the silk to ash and scrambled to his feet just as Shardas bore down on him again.

I thought at first that Shardas was badly injured because of the way he held his still-covered wing, but then I saw what he was doing. As he glided down to his brother, he held the wing twisted upwards to catch the sun, beaming light directly into Krashath’s eyes so that he could not see as Shardas landed almost on top of him and ripped at his throat with long golden claws.

Krashath’s screaming was terrible. Even with my ears covered, I feared I would go deaf. He thrashed and writhed, destroying a whole wing of the palace in his death throes.

A patrol of Citatian dragons and soldiers arrived, probably the lone formation left behind to guard the hatching grounds, but they didn’t know what to do and merely circled above us, roaring and shouting in frantic futility.

From our vantage point on a narrow peak of roof, I could look back over my shoulder and see the main doors of the palace. People were fleeing in droves, their arms burdened with children or bundles of clothes or, in one strange case, a large ham. I sent up a prayer to the Triunity that everyone had got out of the eastern wing of the palace before Krashath’s thrashing had brought it tumbling down.

Shardas leaped away from his brother, coming to
land on a tower not far from us. He saw us for the first time, and called something to me, but my hands were still too tight over my ears for me to hear.

Krashath’s screams were making me physically ill. I glared at Shardas, willing him to go to his brother and end his pain, but he was gazing beyond us, beyond the palace. Marta turned to look where he was looking. Her arms, squeezing my ribs, tightened further, and I turned to see what had captured their attention. Seeing nothing, I looked back at Krashath, praying silently for him to die.

And then Velika was there, and everything seemed to stop.

Seeing her float above the ruin of the palace, I understood why Krashath hated his brother so. She was magnificent: azure blue, with horns of silver like a crown and an elegance of form and movement that I had never before had a chance to appreciate. The last of her burned scales had been removed, and her new scales gleamed.