Dragon Flight (17 page)

“More of his own alchemy?” Marta whispered into the silence that followed.

I nodded.

Many of the embattled dragons did freeze, and in the quietness I heard a human give the order for the archers to make a halt. Shardas’s lungs filled for another alchemy-boosted bellow, and I squeezed with my legs and put both hands over my ears in readiness. Behind me, I could feel Marta hunkering down as well.

“Krashath is dead,” Shardas shouted.

Despite my preparations I nearly slid sideways off his back. I had to take my hands off my ears and grip the spine ridge in front of me, so I shook my dozens of thin braids down over each ear, in the vain hope that they would provide some buffer against that voice.

“The king of Citatie is here,” Shardas went on. “Driven mad now that the dragon who controlled him is gone. Army of Citatie, surrender.”

Darrym obligingly held up the gibbering King Nason.

We had the attention of the entire army now. Those who couldn’t see us were being nudged and shouted at by their neighbours, and we looked out on a sky awash with bloodied dragons and frantic Citatian soldiers.

Then they attacked us.

The first rank of collared dragons, under orders from their riders, disengaged from their Feravelan and Roulaini opponents and came towards us with claws outstretched. Bellowing for Velika and Darrym to get their prisoners to safety, and for Marta and me to hold tight, Shardas flew forward to meet them. On his back, my friend and I clung like burrs, and I’m ashamed to admit it, but I had my eyes shut.

I heard the
whoosh
of flames, but felt no heat, and dared to open my eyes a crack. Shardas had incinerated the first of our attackers, and was drawing breath for another burst of fire. I saw Darrym streak by, above and to one side, as he flew over the Citatians to make for the safety of the ground defences with King Nason. Velika flew below us at the same time. Shardas whipped his tail around to strike an opponent with the barbed tip before that dragon could pursue Velika.

Another dragon charged us from above, and Shardas swerved and came around, fire blazing. His attacker screamed, and raked at Shardas’s wings with his claws before falling, aflame, into the sea below. Another dragon came at us then, and another, and another. Shardas fought them all as he had fought his brother, with fang
and claw, and with fire, while Marta and I clung to his back and tried to make ourselves the smallest targets possible.

But there were simply too many of them.

I saw Velika and Darrym fight their way to the sandbag fortress, surrounded by a guard of free dragons, to deposit their prisoners. Then my view of the shore was obscured by a wall of dragons, all intent on destroying Shardas, who dived and twisted to avoid their fire, shouting for them to surrender.

And then.

Marta put her hands on my shoulders and gave them a little squeeze.

And then.

Marta used me for support as she stood up.

And then.

Marta leaped from Shardas’s back.

She landed spread-eagle atop the Citatian soldier on our nearest attacking dragon. Marta stabbed the man with her belt knife, scrambled over his body before he stopped moving, and grabbed the leather collar around the dragon’s neck. With a vicious slice, she severed the collar and let it fall free.

The dragon dropped out of the sky like a stone, silent and heavy as if it had been struck dead. Its rider, dead in actual fact, was still attached to the riding harness and hung limp on its back just behind Marta.

Who was getting ready to jump off again.

Seconds before the uncollared dragon hit the water, Marta leaped from its back to another dragon that soared underneath just in time.

It was Feniul.

Feniul, his claws and tail actually dragging in the water of the strait, arrowed below the falling Citatian dragon and caught Marta on his back as smoothly as though they had rehearsed the move. She shouted an order to him, and he took her up, up, up, before tilting so that she could jump on to yet another Citatian soldier. She pulled yet another knife from some concealed place – a trick I had no doubt Tobin had taught her – but this soldier surrendered, and sat with his hands in the air while she removed his dragon’s collar.

“Well!” I refused to be shown up by Marta.

Clambering to my feet, I crept over Shardas’s shoulder, and he, anticipating my need, gave a little dip and roll that bounced me into the air. I landed right on the neck of another dragon, and got the collar off before his rider could react.

Looking down, I saw a familiar bronze-scaled back, and leaped backwards on to Gala, who took me up and under a Citatian dragon. I uncollared that one from Gala’s back, and he pitched his rider into the sea with a bellow of pure joy.

Looking around for my next quarry, I saw other uncollared dragons, among them Niva, Ria and Amacarin, carrying riders who were leaping with varying degrees of success
on to the collared dragons. Many were falling, but the strait was deep and none of the dragons were very high in the air. I saw the riders swimming towards the shore, though they were soon picked up by their dragons for a second try.

I noticed one dragon that did not engage our forces. Hovering high above the fight, a dull orange-coloured beast hung back and surveyed the scene. There was no wound on him that I could see, although every other dragon in sight had at least a singe mark, if not a gash or patch of missing scales.

“I think that’s the Citatian commander,” I shouted to Gala, pointing.

She went for him, passing well below and then twisting in midair to come up behind. I stood up and went to her shoulder as I had done with Shardas. The orange dragon and his rider had not noticed us. I grasped my belt knife, took a deep breath, and then leaped across the gap. I landed on the orange dragon’s rump and nearly slid off. But then, in my frantic scrambling, I jabbed my knife between two scales. It was purely by accident, but it provided me with a much-needed handhold, while the orange dragon twisted in pain. As soon as I was high enough on his back to take hold of a spine ridge, I pulled my knife free, narrowly avoiding the splash of burning hot blood that came with it, and started to creep up behind the rider.

“Daan oon lang!” the man was shouting at the dragon, beating on its neck with his fist. He hadn’t seen me, and no doubt thought his dragon was merely being fractious.

He was very surprised when I sat down behind him and pressed a knife to his throat. I hoped he would surrender: it just wasn’t in me to kill a man.

“Nod if you understand me,” I said, loud and slow.

He nodded, just as slowly.

“Are you in command?”

He nodded.

“Give the order to surrender.”

A tentative shake of the head.

“Surrender,” I repeated.

“No. Die for King Nason.”

“Nason is mad,” I said. “Krashath and Arjas controlled him. Do you understand?”

He hesitated, and I pressed the knife harder against his neck.

“Nason is a prisoner there, in the Roulaini defences.” I gestured over his shoulder and down, to where the humans on the shore swarmed around the sandbags. “Arjas too. You have lost. Stop the battle.

“Do you see those dragons there? The gold and the blue?” I pointed up at Shardas and Velika. “They are the king and queen of the dragons. They have killed Krashath, and are here to free their people. You do not want to make them any angrier than they already are.”

A long pause. I tensed my arm, a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I thought I might have to use my dagger after all.

Then he nodded.

I waited until the order had been given and the fighting had stopped before I directed the Citatian commander down to the shore, where the main part of the Roulaini defences was gathered. Part of me wanted to tell him to order all the dragons uncollared, but the voice of reason spoke up in my head. Many of the dragons – most of them probably – harboured deep grudges against their “masters”. Now was not the time to risk another battle.

As we landed on the shore and I slid off the back of the orange dragon, I looked around, searching for my friends. The thought of Marta’s wild antics was still making my palms sweat, and I felt sick at the thought that perhaps one of her mad leaps had not gone as she’d planned.

But no, there she was! Tobin was holding her so tightly that her feet weren’t touching the ground. The grim look on his face was slowly being replaced by one of pride, as they gathered a circle of Roulaini soldiers, all cheering and trying to pat her on the back.

“It seems we have a new heroine for the Second Dragon War,” said a voice behind me.

I whirled around, and Luka caught me up in a fierce hug. He didn’t let go until Shardas tried to forcibly separate us.

“I, too, am happy to see that Creel is well,” Shardas said when Luka stepped away. “But we have other matters to deal with.”

Looking around, I saw to my great embarrassment that there was a crowd of humans and dragons staring at us, including Marta and Tobin, who were giving me matching smug looks. I turned bright red and curtsied awkwardly to the King of Roulain, who was standing just a few paces away.

“Your Majesty,” I murmured.

“You are the lady who defeated my uncle and cousin?”

King Rolian was young, perhaps only a couple of years older than me, and handsome in an almost feminine way. He wore a mail shirt that looked like it had actually seen some wear, and there was a half-full quiver of arrows hanging from one hip. Clearly, he was a different sort of person from the previous king and his vain daughter.

“Er, yes, Your Majesty.”

He gave me an appraising look. “Then it is no surprise that you are she who stopped this war.”

“It was Marta who started leaping off the dragons,” I
said. But Marta and Tobin were hanging back, and she clearly had no desire to draw more attention to herself. I didn’t, either, but it seemed I had no choice. As usual.

Rolian laughed and smiled at me. “Come, sit and let us talk, Lady Creel. How is your Roulaini?”

“Er, well, it’s just Creel. Or, er, Mistress Carlbrun,” I stammered, feeling even more awkward.

Taking my arm, Luka said stiffly, “Lady Creel does not speak Roulaini fluently.”

“So we will speak Feravelan,” Rolian said easily.

“I’m not truly a lady,” I began, but Luka squeezed my arm, and Rolian didn’t seem to hear.

He went over to a stack of sandbags that had been shaped into a chair. There were other sandbag chairs, in a rough circle. Luka led me to one opposite Rolian and sat beside me, gesturing imperiously for the Citatian commander to stand where we could see him.

King Nason occupied one of the chairs, but he was rocking and sucking his fingers and I wasn’t sure he knew where he was any more, or even
who
he was. There was a Roulaini soldier standing guard behind his chair, but the man had an expression of pity on his face.

Lord Arjas was a different matter. He was bound hand and foot, but sat in his makeshift chair like it was a throne. His head high, he glared at me hard enough to burn holes in my skin. I glared back. There were two soldiers standing over him, and it was plain to see that neither of the vizier’s guards felt any pity for
him
.

Shardas and Velika leaned in close, their heads hanging above mine, and the Roulaini gave them wary glances. After a moment’s awkward silence, King Rolian finally spoke up.

“Ah, Lady Creel, do you think perhaps the dragons could be told to … step back?”

I raised my eyebrows. Shardas rumbled deep in his throat, but before he could say anything, I jumped in.

“Do you not know who this is?”

Rolian shook his head, mystified. Tobin and Marta were standing between my chair and Luka’s and I heard Marta give a soft snort of laughter. I ignored her.

“King Rolian, please allow me to present His Majesty, Shardas the Gold, king of the dragons. And this is his mate, Velika Azure-Wing, the latest in the direct line of royal females,” I said with all suitable pomp. “And if anyone has a right to be here, they do.”

To his credit, Rolian covered his surprise well. His eyebrows went up, then back down, and he gave a regal nod to the dragons, who returned it.

“If you will permit us to explain what was behind this attack?” Shardas’s voice was diffident, but by no means humble, and he didn’t wait for anyone to answer the question before he began.

“My brother, Krashath,” he said, “was exiled from Feravel some years ago. Well, perhaps
exiled
is not the correct word. In point of fact we assumed that he was dead. He had tried to take the … throne … from me
and to force Velika into an alliance. We fought, he was grievously injured, and he fled, we assumed to find a place to die.

“I do not know where he hid to recuperate, or where he first began to collect and collar his army, but when he reached Citatie this man” – a claw indicated Lord Arjas – “helped Krashath gain control of King Nason in return for being promised the throne when Krashath’s revenge was complete. They plotted to destroy me, and Feravel in the process.”

“I see.” Rolian steepled his fingers under his chin. “And which of these dragons is your brother … Krashath, was it?”

“Krashath is dead,” Velika said. “This time it has been made certain. He lies in the courtyard of the palace in Pelletie.”

Again Rolian’s eyebrows shot up. “And it was you who, ah …?” Unable to finish this question, he just looked at Shardas, who nodded in confirmation.

“But of course,” Rolian said. “The army wouldn’t know that Krashath was dead.” He slapped his knee, clearly just coming to that conclusion. “So you had to come here and try to persuade them to stop fighting.”

“Precisely,” Shardas said.

“So, according to these dragons, King Nason is an innocent victim,” Rolian said, rising to his feet and pacing around in front of us.

My own eyebrows flew up at the use of the term
“these dragons”. It sounded like he was saying, “these dogs” or “that horse”. Luka saw my expression and put a hand on my arm. He gave a small shake of his head, and I held my peace. I glanced up at Velika, and she shot me an amused look. It occurred to me that Rolian could pontificate all he liked, but in the end the dragons would do as they saw fit, and woe betide the human who interfered.