The Order Of The Scales Part 4

'Ready!' Gaizal sat down into the firing seat and started to turn the scorpion. They had a few seconds, Meteroa decided, before the first dragon was close enough to burn them. The reach of a drag-on's fire another thing you learned by not dying. Most people didn't understand what it took to be a dragon-knight. How many accidents there were. A careless flick of a tail and a lord's son was dead, just like that. And as for fire, well, there was simply no way to learn about dragon-fire except to feel it. It always amazed Meteroa how many knights didn't check that every part of their armour was locked together properly. Half the riders who came through his eyries were cripples before he was done training them.

The front dragon had several riders on its back. They weren't even trying to use the dragon to shield themselves. Because they think we're all dead? Meteroa permitted himself a vicious little grin as Gaizal fired the scorpion, neatly skewering the lead rider. He deserved it. Yes. When you spend most of your life working around dragons, you learn not to take chances. He pulled the fire shield down and waited as the flames washed around him. When he lifted the shield and peeked past it, the first dragon was gone. The second, though, was heading right for the cave mouth. He slammed down the shield a second time, but instead of more fire, there was a pause and then a crashing splintering sound. Meteroa peered out from behind the shield again. There were men in his cave. About a dozen of them. Lightly armoured soldiers, screaming and shouting amid a tangle of smashed wooden poles and ropes. Several of them looked quite badly hurt. In fact, now that he looked again, several of them weren't moving at all.

They threw a cage full of slaves at me? He couldn't help but stare, incredulous, as the last of the three dragons tossed another cage towards the cave and veered sharply away, so close its wings almost brushed the face of the stone outside.

To Meteroa, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The cage turned slowly in the air. It clipped the roof of the cave entrance and immediately disintegrated. Parts of it, including several poorly armed soldiers, kept going, cartwheeling into the cave; most of it bounced against the bottom lip of the cave and spun away. A brief chorus of screams vanished into the void outside.

Several men managed to disentangle themselves from the wreckage. Meteroa screamed, jumped out from behind the shield of the scorpion and ran at them with his sword. They were so confused or injured or just plain stupid that he cut two of them down before they gathered their wits and realised they were under attack. A third managed to draw a short sword to defend himself, but all he was ever going to manage with that was to fend off Meteroa's own sword. An axe, boy. You need an axe if you're up against dragon-scale. That or a scorpion or a really good bow. Meteroa concentrated on putting down the half-alive soldiers who might have managed to make a nuisance of themselves if they ever managed to get up off the floor. After that, he slowly backed the last soldier into a corner. Here he paused.

'You can't possibly have volunteered for this,' he shouted. 'Look at you! Half crippled from being thrown in here by a dragon. You can barely fight and even if you could, look at what they gave you! What are you? One of Valmeyan's slave-soldiers? Did they promise you your freedom if you managed to open the doors for them? How were you going to do that?' Meteroa waited, watching. The soldier was clearly terrified he knew that he was very close to death but there was also an air of resignation about him, as though he'd been in this sort of position enough times before not to be overly bothered.

Meteroa slowly lowered his sword. 'You are a slave, aren't you? And they did promise you your freedom.' He laughed. 'You can fight for me if you like. You'll probably die anyway, but I'll give you a better sword and some armour and some decent food.' And I could do with every man I can get. Where I get them doesn't really matter. He laughed. 'We all eat like kings in here. You can shoot scorpions at the riders who threw you in here. Bet you wouldn't mind that at all.'

The soldier was clearly weighing up his options. Gaizal threw in another one.

'Dragon!'

Meteroa backed quickly away from the soldier and stole a glance towards the mouth of the cave. Another war-dragon was heading straight at them with yet another cage. The dragon opened its mouth. Meteroa leapt for the scorpion, dropping his sword, snapping down his visor and diving behind the fire shield as the cave exploded in flames. The dragon roared. Men screamed, wood and stone smashed, and then the dragon was gone again.

When Meteroa lifted his visor, the soldier was gone. Or rather, what was still there was a charred smouldering shape of something vaguely man-like. Behind the fire, the dragon had tossed in another cage filled with slave-soldiers. They were screaming. The cave floor, Meteroa realised, was still scorching hot.

'Gaizal!' Meteroa picked up his sword and then quickly dropped it again, clutching his hand. 's.h.i.t.' The hilt was blistering. Dragon-scale was too tough and too thick for the inside of a pair of gaunt-lets. 'Gaizal!' Slave-soldiers were pulling themselves out of the wreckage now, screaming and wild-eyed with terror. Back outside, in the blinding sky, Meteroa thought he could see more dragons clutching cages. Sheer weight of numbers would push him out of his cave eventually. Is that what they were doing everywhere? Vishmir's c.o.c.k how many of these poor fools did Tichane have?

He turned and ran. The slaves pulling themselves out of the cage shrieked and gave chase. They didn't even notice Gaizal, still sat in the scorpion. They were faster than him, one of the drawbacks of dragon-scale armour. But there were men-at-arms waiting somewhere at the bottom of the tunnel. Somewhere.

A slave-soldier landed on his back. He spun, flinging him off, but that merely gave the others a chance to catch up with him. They threw themselves at him like a pack of wolves.

'Gaizal!' he punched one in the face, smashing the man's jaw, but toppled over backwards under the sheer weight of bodies. He could feel them already stabbing at him with their short swords, trying to find a way through his armour. He writhed and thrashed, trying to throw them off. Do you know who I am? Do you know what I did? I killed a dragon today! A f.u.c.king dragon!

He roared and managed to free one of his arms to snap the neck of the man clawing at his helmet.

'I. Will. Not!'

But that was as far as he got before another one of the slaves grabbed hold of his head and bashed it into the stone floor over and over, and everything went black.

The Alchemy of Fear.

'I'm doing this for you, cousin,' Kemir muttered to himself as he strung his bow. His bow or Sollos's bow? He wasn't sure any more. They both looked the same. The realisation hurt. He should know something like that. He c.o.c.ked his head at Snow. 'I want to know what the Scales told you.'

After you bring me my alchemists, Kemir.

'After, after. You always have to get what you want first, don't you?' He didn't stop, though. His feet felt springy. If he didn't know better, he might have thought that Snow had put some kind of spell on him. Somehow he felt lighter. The rider who'd killed his cousin was still alive, could still be made to suffer. An arrow in the leg had been the start of it, but there would be more, so very much more. Yes, it was good to remember why he was here, after all this doubting. Good to have a simple answer again . . .

The alchemists, Kemir.

'You'd better leave a few of them alive after you've done.' He looked at the hole in the ground that Snow had cleared. There were stairs underneath the dust and the rubble. Yesterday a large stone house had stood here but there was little sign of that now. No, house wasn't the right word. Something bigger, more like a castle but not.

They are far underground, said Snow in his head. I taste their fear.

'I don't suppose you can taste how many of them are down there?'

There are eight, Kemir.

Well, that's me told. He started down the stairs. One step at a time, his feet feeling their way through the scattered debris. The light from the sky faded quickly as he went deeper.

Can you not go quicker?

'Can you not shut up? It's dark down here.'

I can light your way with fire, if you wish.

'Or you could go find something better to do for a while?'

No.

Kemir picked his way onwards. In parts he had to drop onto all fours, feeling at the floor with his hands. Either the alchemists were hiding in the pitch black or else he was nowhere near them.

They are not in darkness. Your caution is unnecessary. You may go faster.

Kemir growled softly. 'And how do you know that, dragon? Are you here?' Down near the bottom of the stairs he couldn't even see his hand in front of his face. The only light was the distant painful brightness of the sky, far behind him.

I can see the edges of their thoughts, Kemir, and they are not the thoughts of men hidden in darkness. They have light. I feel their minds and I feel yours. You are not yet close. Hasten!

Eventually the stairs stopped at a mound of rubble. Kemir felt at it and then crawled over the top, through a narrow gap beneath the ceiling. The earth smelled burned, felt powdery. When he reached the other side, though, the stones were different. It took him a moment to realise what it was. They were rough. They weren't warm. This was how far Snow's fire had reached.

The tunnel led further, a lot further. He could see that because he could see a light too, off in the distance, a flickering shadow hundreds of yards away.

'Are you still there, dragon?' he whispered.

Yes.

'I see light.' He crept along the tunnel, one careful step at a time. There were still stones scattered on the ground. His feet felt for them. Not a place he wanted to sprain an ankle, and he needed to be quiet too. 'Don't suppose you know if they're all together?' Gravel crunched under his boot. He winced.

They are close to each other.

'How close is close, exactly?' The dragon didn't answer. Kemir shuffled slowly along. The light wasn't flickering like a flame; it was moving as though someone was holding it, but otherwise it was steady. 'Are there soldiers down here, or just alchemists?'

How will their minds feel different, Kemir?

'How would I know? Am I the one who reads them?'

You little ones all feel the same.

'Well now that's useful to know.'

No. You are different. I have come to know your special taste. I will always know you. Always find you.

Kemir pulled out an arrow and nocked it loosely on the string of his bow. He pa.s.sed a second pa.s.sage, dark and lifeless, and then a third, more stairs leading back to the mountain slopes. As he came closer to the end of the tunnel, he could see that it opened out into a wider s.p.a.ce. He started to hear voices.

'. . . do you know?'

'. . . outside . . .'

'. . . Red Riders?'

Them again. Same as the Scales had said. They kill even alchemists and scales . . . Kemir paused. 'They're talking, dragon. Do you hear them?'

No. Their minds are unfamiliar. Which was worth knowing, Kemir decided, and he started trying to work out how far away he was from Snow. How much further before she can't feel me at all?

Worlds could separate us, Kemir, and I would find you. Besides, I will know your intent before you know it yourself, and you do not have the desire to run from me. I do not understand why you expend such effort thinking about it when deep down you have already conceded that your life is tied to mine.

'You mean we have a shared destiny or some s.h.i.t like that?' Kemir spat. 'What makes you think any of that mystical c.r.a.p is true.'

Dragons do not believe in destiny.

'You don't really believe in anything, do you.'

I believe in what I see in your head, Kemir.

He took another few dozen steps forward and listened again. The air smelled of mould and earth and sweat. He could hear at least four different voices arguing in the tired laboured way of men who'd argued about the same thing for far too long. Round and round. He crouched down with his back to the wall and listened. One of the voices wanted to go back outside. The others said no. On about those Red Riders again.

With a start, he realised he knew the legend. The rider who wore red and whose name was Justice. Who rode a white dragon called Vengeance. A mythical, never real, white dragon . . . Well one of us fits the part at least. With a bit more blood on me, who knows?

Make them come out!

'I might have to explain why you tried so hard to kill them,' breathed Kemir. Not a bad idea, if he could somehow convince the alchemists to come out of their own accord. He racked his memory for anything that might help. To be an alchemist probably meant you had to be clever, though. Cleverer than him. Certainly cleverer than a dragon . . . No, there were better ways. Tried and tested. He crept on a bit further until he was right on the corner where the tunnel turned and widened out into an open s.p.a.ce. The air here was warm and smelled bad, stale with the taste of too many men in too small a s.p.a.ce for too long a time. Sweat and p.i.s.s. I know that smell well enough. Smells like home.

He stepped around the corner and put an arrow in the chest of the first man he saw. Think of them as dragon-knights. They didn't even realise he was there, lurking in the shadows on the edge of their light. Alchemists give dragon-knights their dragons. He put an arrow through the throat of a second man. They deserve the same. Killing dragon-knights was as easy as breathing. He stepped forward with a third arrow at the ready, letting them see him just as they realised what was happening. There were six left in front of him. None of them was armed. Alchemists, dragon-knights. Same difference, right?

'Stay very still.' Same difference. He had to keep telling himself that. Somehow it wasn't sticking.

It wasn't a big room. A few crude beds, a simple table, pots to p.i.s.s in, that sort of thing. Food on the table. Leftover biscuits and dried meat. Alchemical lamps, several of them. And more tunnels leading out of the back of the room. Too many to be looking into. Six men alive and two dead. You said there were eight. Are you sure?

I cannot be certain, Kemir.

'Are there any more of you lurking back there?' he snapped and watched their faces carefully. There was no guile in these men; perhaps they were too shocked by the casual way he'd executed two of them. They didn't start to glance at the tunnels, just stared at him in slack-jawed horror.

'Well? Do I have to shoot a few more of you so the rest can find their tongues?' He took a step towards them and they cringed. They could rush me if they wanted. I could only shoot one of them and the rest would be on top of me. With strength of numbers they would win, and yet they won't. They'll cower, too afraid, and then I'll herd them outside and they'll be slaughtered like cattle. All because every one of them would rather live for another few minutes more than win.

Your kind are indeed curious, observed Snow. What you are doing would not work on dragons.

Kemir gritted his teeth. He muttered under his breath, 'And how would you know that, Snow? Dragons find themselves on the wrong end of these situations often, do they?'

We are very old, Kemir. We remember much that your kind have forgotten. Powers far greater than us. Powers that made us. Snow went silent and there it was, the catch in her thoughts. The something that pa.s.sed for a pause for breath, a mouth that opened to speak, and then closed and chose to to be silent instead. One of those silver men moments. Even as he thought that, he sensed Snow bristle.

The alchemists, Kemir.

Yes. The alchemists. He'd given them far too much time to think about rushing him. They were exchanging glances and starting to fidget. Two bad signs. He switched his aim to the one who, in the dim glow of their lamps, looked the oldest. In Kemir's experience, the older men got, the keener they became on living. 'You,' he snapped, 'are there any more or is it just you six?' He didn't dare take his eyes off them, but the room was far too shadowy for his liking. He couldn't even see the walls clearly, never mind their dark corners. A man with a bit of skill could sneak right up to him.

The man's jaw dropped. He made a squeaking noise that could have meant anything.

'On the count of five I'm going to shoot you. One.'

'Uh . . . ah!'

'Two.'

'We're all there are! Please! Oh by all the G.o.ds, please don't kill me.'

Kemir shot the man standing next to him instead. He had another arrow ready before they realised what he had done. Herding five was easier than herding six. Four would be even better . . . 'Well done, old man. You're still alive. A bit quicker next time. Are you all alchemists?'

'Yes! Yes!' The old alchemist fell to his knees and lifted his hands to Kemir. 'We are servants of the Order. We have no part in these battles. We serve the realms and tend to the dragons, all dragons, no matter who rides them.'

He speaks of us as though we are no more than animals, snarled Snow in Kemir's head.

'You can eat him when I bring him out, dragon.' Kemir hardly spoke, but his lips moved. The old alchemist looked at him in wild-eyed horror.

'Who . . . who are you?'

Kemir laughed. Why not? They won't know what he looks like. 'I'm the Red Rider himself, old man. The real thing. Justice, with my white dragon Vengeance waiting up above. I used to have a different name but I don't use it any more. We're above, taking what's left of this eyrie apart.'

'But King Jehal destroyed you!'

Oh, so that one's a king now, is he? 'Apparently not.'

'What do you want from us, Rider?' The old man was almost crying, as if Kemir had confirmed his worst fears. 'We serve all with equal dispa.s.sion. We do not take sides.'

Rage flickered around the edges of Kemir's thoughts. The drag-on's rage. 'Get out.' None of the alchemists moved. 'Get outside or you'll all die where you stand. Go and I'll let you live. Take your lamps and make your way outside and you will not be killed. You have my word as a rider.' And we outsiders all know what that's worth, don't we? But you probably believe in that s.h.i.t.

He watched as they filed past him, heads hung low, broken men shuffling out to their doom. The oldest one went first. Kemir followed the last, careful to keep his distance. In the darkness all he could see were their lamps. If one of them decided to lag behind and hide with a knife somewhere, the first he'd know about it was when it was in his ribs. Tunnels, caves, dark closed places, he hated them all.

The alchemists got to the foot of the steps and the pile of rubble that blocked the way and stopped, milling uncertainly about. If they were going to think of stabbing him, it would be now.

There is another. You have left one behind. I sense it now.

'Too b.l.o.o.d.y late,' snapped Kemir. 'I'm not going back.' He barked and prodded at the alchemists. 'Clear it or climb over it. I don't care which you do, but you'd better do it quickly. My arm's getting tired.' Alchemists, dragon-knights. Same difference. He thought about shooting another one to chivvy them along. It would be a mercy, after all, compared to what would happen when they went outside. Wouldn't it?

Murdering frightened old men in the dark. Was that what he'd come to?

Leave them for me. I wish to question them.

'You're welcome.' Shooting unarmed men in the back, that was more the sort of thing that a rider would do. Dragon-riders, alchemists, same difference. Right? RIGHT? He could feel something building up inside him. It felt like Sollos, his dead cousin. The way he'd lurk in the background when Kemir was settling down to really have some fun with some crippled dragon-knight. Always there, telling him that what he was doing was wrong without ever saying a word.