Dragon Rigger (7 page)

Windrush snorted sparks, not dignifying the insult with an answer. He peered around at all of the dragons. "What I saw was a great web encircling the world! A web of ice—ice as hard as stone, a trap of the Enemy. It stank of despair. I saw the Dream Mountain beyond it, out of reach. And then . . ."

He described what he had seen: the small human figure climbing and melting the web. And the Words. His voice became husky, rasping his own words into the air. "It was Jael!" he said, breathing a soft, billowing flame. "Jael, friend of Highwing, friend of the realm. She was undoing the work of the Enemy, which the rest of us were powerless to fight."

His words hung on the night air for a dozen heartbeats, before he admitted that Jael had vanished before winning against the ice and darkness.

"We heard your outcry," Farsight whispered, his diamond eyes flashing.

"My rage broke the vision. But it could not break what was
in
the vision. It was a power greater than our own." He let loose an angry flame and veered off into silence.

The others began to debate what he had told them, but Windrush stayed outside the circle. The air was soon filled with questions, not just about the vision, but about the past, about the truth of the Words, about Jael. "Do you doubt," Farsight said caustically to one questioner, "that Jael broke the Enemy's sorcery against Highwing? And against us?"

"So we have heard," came a rumbling reply. "We know that the enchantment was broken. But by whom? Who can say?"

Farsight snorted in disgust.

And on it went. Windrush had come to expect it. He had observed that few dragons seemed to remember sacrifices made on their behalf, unless they were direct witnesses to the acts. There were many here whose spirits had been freed from the Enemy's influence—but perhaps not so completely as they would have liked. Despair and discord were powerful weapons of the Enemy, and they were present in good measure here.

Windrush circled silently, until he heard SearSky again question the source of the vision. SearSky was one who worried him. A formidable warrior, SearSky commanded considerable respect among the dragons; but not all of his followers were clear thinkers, in Windrush's view. It would be unwise, he thought, to let SearSky's words go unanswered. He veered back into the circle. "Whatever the source," he snapped, "the
vision
was real. And surely it had a meaning, which we must try to understand."

"And what, Windrush, do you take its meaning to be?" asked Longtail, cutting off a rejoinder from SearSky.

Windrush answered soberly. "I do not know for certain. Perhaps it was intended to frighten, or perhaps to warn. But its roots lie deep in the underrealm, that I know." He sighed and was suddenly aware of a great need for solitude, and for rest. "My brothers, I am weary—and so must many of you be. We will speak more of this later. But I will say this: What I have seen, I believe to be a thing of prophecy. I believe it bears upon the meaning of the Words."

He could hear the unspoken questions hanging in the air. Despite the terrible war with Tar-skel, few among the dragons spoke openly of the Words of the draconae—perhaps because the prophecy was so frighteningly ambiguous about the outcome of the struggle.

"And why should Windrush son of Highwing be granted a prophecy?" SearSky asked.

"Perhaps because I am also Windrush friend of Jael the rigger," Windrush retorted, punctuating his words with a blast of fire. "If you forgotten who broke the power of the Black Peak, I have not. If I have received a prophecy, it is not because I asked for it. Nevertheless, it was given; and if there is any wisdom left in this realm, we will consider it well." He exhaled a long, steamy sigh. "My brothers, I must take my leave. Are the night patrols ready?"

WingTouch flew close, bobbing in the air. "They are ready."

"Then farewell until the light of day."

Windrush soared away, departing the vale for the mountains to the north. His thoughts were deeply troubled as he flew, and he had the feeling that they would grow no quieter before this night was over.

Once his older brother was gone, WingTouch departed also—to the west, back to the main encampment. These days, this was the most populous part of the realm. The air seemed full of dragons flying in one direction or another, and yet the realm was far from normal. The war had so overshadowed life that it was hard to remember what it had been like to fly freely in the night, seeking fast winds and adventure without wondering if the eye of the Enemy would fall upon you, or the wings of his drahls. The jumbled slopes were a windswept remnant of a land that had once borne countless varieties of flora and fauna—life that had mattered, not because it was of any particular use to the dragons, but because it was a gift from the fires of the Dream Mountain. Now, most of the life that had not been stolen or transformed by the Enemy was stunted or destroyed.

WingTouch was aware of this, but did not allow himself to dwell upon it as he flew. He had a patrol to lead, and he was determined that the defeat of the previous night would not be repeated.

The camp came into view over the ridge, marked by scattered fires an d embers. WingTouch floated down through rising plumes of smoke and landed at the northern corner of the camp. He tramped through the grounds, calling out for his night patrol. As always, many dozens of dragons were asleep, or muttering in conversation around piles of blazing deadwood or burning
draxis
bushes, the poor cousin of lumenis.

Any number of dragons raised their craggy heads and peered at him with eyes glowing in the night like stars, but no one answered his call. WingTouch sighed, knowing that his dragons were undoubtedly somewhere in the camp, lost in conversation. Draconic discussions, especially when they turned upon the war and upon the powers and designs of the Enemy, could drone on throughout the night. WingTouch regarded most such talk as foolishness, and had little patience with it. Still, when he reached the far perimeter, he was not surprised to find two members of his patrol, Rocktooth and FireEye, perched on stone outcroppings, part of a small gathering absorbed in just such a conversation.

Rocktooth hailed him with a plume of smoke. "WingTouch! They are saying that the Enemy has been capturing shadow-cats from the valley and turning them into spirits that can move right through the earth!"

"Why not?" cried another dragon, behind Rocktooth. "If he can create drahls out of smoke, and cause the moon itself to spy upon us, I see no reason why he couldn't do that, too."

WingTouch answered with an impatient snort. "If you believe every story about the Enemy's powers, you'll make a sorry excuse for a warrior!"

"Then tell us what you believe!" said Rocktooth. "Stonebinder said he
saw
a shadow-cat come right out of the ground!"

WingTouch inspected his talons, dismissing the story with his silence. "What the Enemy is doing," he said finally, "I can't guess. But what
we're
doing is flying a patrol. Stretch out your wings and let's go."

Rocktooth grumbled, opening his jaws in a tooth-glittering yawn. "All right—but if we don't think of these things now, we might wish we had, later."

"We might," WingTouch acknowledged. "FireEye! You too."

FireEye slowly stirred, as though waking from a stupor, and blinked his red eyes. A stout dragon with thick, leathery wings, he was a good fighter—once aroused. Another dragon, hunched down in front of him, muttered, "I've heard that some of the
sweepers
are not to be trusted, either. Who knows about
their
sympathies?" FireEye, still only half alert, cocked his head and blinked his ruby eyes again as though ready to join in.

WingTouch was determined to let this go no further. He snapped, "
FireEye
—where are the others? "Where are Loudcry and Longnail?"

"They're in the sleeping warrens," said the dragon who had spoken of the sweepers.

"Summon them," WingTouch commanded. "It is time to take to the air." As FireEye and Rocktooth rose to obey, WingTouch surveyed the camp, shaking his head. Even his friend Loudcry was sleeping when he should have been ready to fly. In a state of war, how could they be so unwatchful? WingTouch flexed his wings and considered reproving the others here, but decided that it was not his place. They were, after all, off duty. Nonetheless, he was troubled by the idle chatter. When the four of his patrol appeared, he breathed a few dark words about unpreparedness, then they took off and left the matter behind them.

The early hours of the patrol passed quietly, as they soared southward over the eastern face of the Scarred Mount Ridge. Beyond the ridge, some distance to their right, lay a sparsely inhabited plain known as the Valley Between, where they had fought for and lost the wild lumenis grove the other night. Neither the dragons nor the Enemy actively controlled the plain, but both flew there at times, and both claimed friends among the small winged flyers and shadow-cats that lived there. The known strongholds of the Enemy were much farther to the west, across the Valley Between and over yet another range known as the Borderland Mountains.

The night was calm but cloudy, without a hint of trouble. As it wore on, with endless gliding flight over dark, silent slopes, the temptation to relax grew almost irresistible. WingTouch found himself wishing, on patrols like this, that he had Windrush's gift for undersensing. He had at best a blurry awareness of the underrealm, and he had to depend upon sharp eyes and quick reflexes to detect and avoid danger.

Still, giftedness in the underrealm was a mixed blessing. Their father Highwing had been so blessed, and even Farsight, to a lesser degree. But none of them could have matched their youngest brother, FullSky—and that was warning enough. FullSky's underrealm gifts had led him to foolish temptations, and ultimately to his succumbing to the Enemy's sorceries. Even in that dark time when WingTouch and Farsight had lived shadow lives under the influence of Tar-skel, they had lost all track of FullSky. He had vanished long before the victory at Black Peak, and by now, his brothers were certain that he was dead.

WingTouch knew that he himself was not much suited to thoughts of the underrealm. Even now, he was sure, there were many dragons awake discussing Windrush's claim to a prophetic vision. He himself had wasted little thought on the matter. He had no idea what Windrush's vision
meant,
but he believed in it and was content to let others wrestle with the subtleties of its meaning. His only duty right now was to remain alert until dawn and the end of his patrol.

It was only a little later, while winging over lowlands on the flank of the ridge, that he caught sight of something a less alert dragon might have missed: just a movement of shadow upon shadow, low in the foothills, barely enough to catch his eye. He swooped for a better view. He didn't call out to the others, because he wasn't sure he had really seen anything.

An instant later, the shadow suddenly loomed before him, with eyes and teeth. WingTouch banked sharply, barely evading the thing's claws. Turning, he spotted it fleeing to the west, close to the ground. "FOE IN THE TERRITORY!" he bellowed and dove after it.

The shadow was a drahl—fast and elusive, but not so fast that he couldn't catch it, WingTouch thought. He gathered fire in his throat, prepared to dispatch the abomination. But before he could do so, four more drahls climbed suddenly into the air to join the first. They turned to attack.

WingTouch swerved. His own comrades suddenly seemed far, far away.

* * *

Many mountains to the north, Farsight had just crossed a low ridge, winging his way homeward to his cavern. Over the sigh of the night wind, he thought he heard voices—voices that didn't quite sound as if they belonged in this area. He was flying opposite to the direction his brother WingTouch's patrol had taken, a northwesterly course over the Scarred Mount Ridge. Far ahead, the Black Peak glowed sullenly over the northwest horizon. Listening carefully, Farsight veered into the west wind, scrutinizing the landscape below. It was a patch of thin, bedraggled meadowland, where in a better time wild lumenis had grown. Bordering it on the west was an undulating cliff where voices could easily echo for some distance.

Farsight swung his head from side to side, listening. There was nothing now, except the wind on the cliff. Could that have been what he had heard? He didn't think so; there was a smell in the air, an undersense of a presence that didn't belong here. Still, he couldn't quite identify it—except that it had a vaguely malevolent quality, and he was unwilling to leave without investigating more closely.

Employing a trick that Windrush had taught him, he drew a simple spellweb of silence about himself. He banked and glided, following the tingle in his awareness, until he felt the presence growing stronger. He dropped low over the meadow and landed, hoping to lose himself in the gloom. Then he gazed upward along the face of the cliff wall.

His ears found it before his eyes—voices whispering across the air. He peered up at an inky patch of shadow halfway up the face of the cliff. It was probably a ledge, a perfect place for someone to hide in the night, a perfect place for a secret meeting. Farsight realized suddenly that he heard both a dragon voice—and another, a voice at once husky and smooth, chillingly lilting, a voice shaped by magic.
Drahl.

A drahl and a dragon talking together, almost inaulibly. He dared not move closer. For all he knew, there was a small army hidden nearby, preparing for an attack. Or had he stumbled across a pair of spies? He strained to listen.

The drahl's voice drifted, forming half-connected words: ". . . finest lumenis . . . (those with courage . . ." There was a rustling sound. The dragon spoke inaudibly, and the drahl answered, ". . . for
those
, servitude . . . little time left . . ."

The dragon's words were louder this time. ". . . they talk and complain . . . but haven't the courage to move . . ."

The drahl answered, ". . . no use . . . let them serve
us
 . . ."