Shadowblood

Chapter Fourteen

Tamara pulled the cloak tight around her shoulders and rode on. The farmlands of one of the great estates swept by at a thunderous pace. She was once again in the garb of a military courier but it was only a matter of time before the hounds were on her trail. She had used this disguise before so it was safest to assume that Xephan knew about it and that word would be spread about her, but at the moment, she needed to cover a lot of ground, and this was the easiest way. She could commandeer post horses and travel at haste without attracting too much notice or too many questions.

She let her body flow into the rhythm of the ride. She had a good deal to think about and not much time to work it out. Nowhere in Sardea was safe and not even the Empress could protect her from the Brotherhood. She needed to put herself beyond their reach, and the only place she could think of to do that was in Talorea.

She had something to bargain with- knowledge of Xephan and the Brotherhood that might prove useful to Asea and her cohorts, and there was the private arrangement that Rik had proposed. She might even have something to offer there as well. He was a Shadowblood but an untrained one, and she could show him how to master those skills. She was sure also that Asea could put an assassin of her talents to work. It seemed for the moment that their objectives might be similar. The Brotherhood had them both marked for death and she had no doubt that they would send proficient killers.

There were other things that troubled her. Xephan and Ryzarde had been changed in a way that spoke of a mastery of sorcerous techniques beyond anything in this world. She had only heard of such things in tales of Al’Terra, and the implications filled her with dread. She did not like to think of pitting herself against beings possessed of such powers.

Perhaps the best she could do was find a place to hide, to put her head down and hope that the Brotherhood did not catch up with her. She knew that was a forlorn hope. Until recently she had been confident in her ability to elude anyone. She was a Shadowblood. Normal sorcerers could not hope to trace her by mystical means but there were other ways. Rik and the Nerghul had shown her that. The undead creature had been able to trace him even though he was Shadowblood too. She needed to get away quickly and in a way that would make her almost impossible to follow. Fortunately, she had method of doing so in mind. It was risky but not as much as trying to ride the long roads to the West.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Unless they had used very potent magic, there was no way Xephan or his men could beat her to where she was going. But then they had access to powerful magic, and perhaps they might even have anticipated her plan. She pushed such thoughts aside. There was no sense in worrying about such things until the possibility materialised.

It had been a busy day, she reflected. She had failed to assassinate the Prime Minister and if things went according to plan she would commit a few more capital crimes before this night was out.

The thought amused her.

There were no guards at the estate gates. No one tried to arrest her as she raced towards the mansion house she had known since childhood. She felt a thrill of nostalgia as she thundered up the tree-lined approach. She remembered the scent and the taste of the night air and the moon-blossoming flowers. She caught the glitter of light on the crystal roof of the glasshouse in which her mother had once cultivated her exotic plants.

Her approach had not gone unnoticed. Lights came on in the windows and armed figures emerged from the doors. She was relieved to see that they were all servants, humans that she remembered, and hopefully loyal to her family still.

Guilt stabbed at her. She had signed all their death warrants by coming here tonight. She told herself that it was not her fault, that Xephan would kill them all anyway, but somehow she could not convince herself of it. She told herself that the deaths of a few score humans did not matter, not compared to the life of a Terrarch and especially her own, but that did not change anything either. She was doing them wrong and she knew it. She cursed herself- who had ever heard of an assassin with a bad conscience?

“Who goes there?” shouted a footman, pointing a blunderbuss in her direction. “You should know we are armed.”

“It is Lady Tamara,” she shouted back, and was gratified and made more guilty still by their immediate recognition. A groom ran to take her horse. If anyone noticed her unusual attire they gave no sign of being concerned.

“You’ll be wanting food, Milady,” said the chief servant.

“I will. Bring it to the dragon cave. I have urgent business to perform there.”

“As you command, Milady.”

Without waiting for any further questions, she headed towards the hill, praying that Ironfang was not still dormant from his winter sleep.

The ornate iron gates were locked. She took a deep breath, catching the faint acrid smell of dragon as she waited for the keeper to come with the keys. It was late, it was unusual to for anyone to want access at this time of night, and the Keeper was old and crotchety. Tamara drummed her fingers against her side. She had the feeling that Xephan’s minions could close in any time, and to be found here would mean death. They knew what she was capable of now, and the Brotherhood would see that anyone sent for her would come prepared. She did not like the idea of facing a host of sorcerously enhanced minions armed with magebane and truesilver.

The Keeper arrived, his keys clanking on a huge iron ring. Two of his apprentices accompanied him with prods and lanterns. He looked up at her, rheumy eyes disapproving, as if this were some dark conspiracy to separate him from his bed. Recognition dawned slowly and he smiled, revealing yellow teeth and black stumps. In the lantern-light his face was as leathery and seamed as those of his charges, and his eyes just as malevolent. They say shepherds come to resemble their sheep, she thought, so why not keepers and their dragons?

“Your wish, mistress?” he asked.

“Ironfang must be ready to fly at dawn.”

“The master sent no word to me, mistress.”

“That’s why he sent me.” At the moment it seemed best not to reveal her plan. All females save the empress were forbidden from riding dragons. She was glad now her father had been sufficiently unconventional as to secretly defy that law and give her lessons. He was always saying you could never tell when a skill might prove useful. At the time, she had not realised that if they were seen she could have been executed for usurping the Empress’s prerogatives. Even then her father had been reckless with her life, a foretaste of what was to come.

The old man shrugged and opened the way. Down in the gloom of the caves something enormous shifted its weight, the echoes of its movements loud. At least Ironfang was awake, she thought, then told herself to wait and see. Perhaps the old beast was simply fidgeting in his sleep. She would not let hope cloud her mind.

They walked down into the darkness. For a long moment, the illusion that she was walking down the gullet of some gigantic monster filled Tamara’s mind. The smell of dragon, and dragon excrement became stronger. They entered the caves proper, and the beast loomed before them, its plate-sized eyes glittering in the dark, as it studied those who had dared disturb it. She could feel its ferocity now, and the power of its aura. Ironfang was old even for a dragon. He had hatched when the Terrarchs first came to this world, one of the last clutches to breed true. As always, confronting a dragon Tamara was acutely aware of how a mouse must feel in the presence of a wildcat.

The Keeper muttered reassuringly, and moved closer to the dragon, showing no signs of fear. He took the grooming pole from his apprentices and began to work on Ironfang’s scales. The dragon let out a hiss of pleasure, for all the world like a dog having his stomach scratched.

Tamara inspected him in the lantern light. He was massive, large as a bridgeback wyrm. The eyes that stared back at her were far more intelligent than any wyrm’s.

“Your father will be wanting his flying suit,” said the Keeper. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the apprentices and told them to go get it.

“Bring a second,” said Tamara. The Keeper raised an eyebrow and kept scratching away where scale joined scale. He had known about her secret flights with her father. Or at least about the fact that she had accompanied him.

“Do as Lady Tamara says,” he said, almost as if he was the master here, and her orders might not be obeyed without being reinforced by his own. Maybe he was right. It had been a while since she had been down here.

“How is he?” Tamara asked, pointing at Ironfang.

“He’s had a good long winter sleep. He’s been awake and hungry for some time. He should be ready to fly. It’s odd. Most dragons are hibernating longer this year or so I heard, but he’s awake. It’s as if he senses something. I’m not sure what. A lot of strange tales being told, mistress, so no wonder.”

“What tales?”

“Dead men walking. The Elder Races stirring. War and rebellion. Maybe it’s the war that’s got him all riled up. He’s a fighting dragon of the old breed, and war calls his sort. Born for the slaughter they are.”

He said that as if he had sure and certain knowledge of it although the last time Ironfang had flown to battle was in the time of Koth over a century before. It was amazing how the keepers transmitted their lore down the generations. She reached out and touched a scale. It was cool and hard and the dragon paid her no more attention than if she had been a fly.

“War is coming for certain,” Tamara said softly. Her father had always claimed that there was some sort of bond between him and this old beast. Might it have sensed his death? She flexed her mystical senses and touched Ironfang with her power. It roared softly in response. The old man looked at her. He was human, so he could not have sensed what she was doing, but he was keenly aware of the dragon and its responses. The beast’s great head rose on its long serpentine neck and then looped down to inspect her. She could smell its carnivore’s breath, and see its dagger-like teeth. The Keeper did not even flinch.

“Aye, he remembers you well enough. Has done ever since you were a lass. They don’t forget you know.”

“I know,” she said thinking that might be a few more betrayals before this particular adventure was done. Ah well, what was one more act of treachery in a life full of them.

She waited for the sun.

“I see no sign of your father, mistress,” said the Keeper, squinting out into the gloom.”

“Saddle Ironfang. I want him ready.” The keeper made the signal with his staff, and Ironfang crouched, wings flexing slightly. He sniffed the air, his long tongue flickering outward, a sure sign of excitement in a dragon. He knew he was going to fly.

The handlers wheeled the saddling platform into place, climbed up it and strapped the saddle on at the base of his neck. Ironfang growled as the hooks of the control harness went into his nostrils and inner ears, but he knew better than to fight it. Tamara was relieved. Sometimes dragons became rebellious just for the sake of it, and that might prove disastrous this morning.

She had to fight down the urge to go outside and check for Xephan’s men. They might be waiting for her even now. Well, if they were, they would be in for a surprise. Ironfang was a war-dragon, and a fierce one.

After what felt like hours the Keeper was satisfied. Tamara did not rush him. A badly fitted saddle and harness might be fatal once she was in the air. A broken strap could result in a long fall.

“Take him out,” she said. The Keeper looked at her again. Technically that was an order that only a dragon’s master could give, and that was her father. “Hurry. Every second counts.”

The Keeper grumbled but gave the signal to the handlers. He was used to her father’s strange comings and goings. The handlers took the control reins and led the old monster out into the light.

He looked magnificent as the sun caught his scales. In daylight, there were few sights to compare to an old dragon getting ready to fly. Ironfang was excited now, flexing his wings experimentally. Even in the tunnel’s mouth she could feel the backdrafts of air swirling as they caught the breeze.

She pulled the heavy leather flying suit over her courier’s costume, ignoring the stares she got from the servants. It was good to have as many layers of clothing as possible on while dragon-mounted. It got very cold up there. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and put on the helmet. It had been designed with a slit to trap her plaited hair. She took the crystal goggles and strapped them on to her forehead. She settled her bag over her shoulders and pulled on the leather gloves.

“Looks like your father has arrived, Milady,” said one of the handlers. Tamara followed his pointing fingers and saw the cloud of dust as a pack of riders raced up the driveway towards the mansion.

Tamara smiled at them as she pulled herself up the ladder and into the foresaddle. She began to strap herself in.

“Milady, you are in the wrong saddle,” said the Keeper. “You should be pillion-mounted.”

Tamara checked the oncoming riders. They had noticed the dragon on the hillside and milled around outside the mansion. Dragons frightened horses and normally they would not approach save under sorcerous control. After a few moments, they began riding towards the Dragon Pit. That was one question answered. There was at least one magician down there, most likely more. It was time to be going.

She took up the reins. She heard warning shouts from below. She had definitely strayed into dangerous territory now. The Keeper and his men shouted for her to stop. She shook her head, feeling she owed them a warning.

“Run before those riders get here. They will kill you,” she shouted. She extended her power once more. She was not the sorcerer her father had been, nor would she ever be so great a dragon rider, but she had enough strength to forge the link between mount and mage.

She felt Ironfang’s presence in her mind, just as he could feel hers in his. She touched that jagged alien intelligence, felt the complex weave of calculation floating above the sea of raw animal appetite. She felt the old dragon’s enormous strength of mind flow over her. To complicate matters she was female and Ironfang was male, and there were reasons why male rider and male dragon were usually paired.

She pushed back, letting Ironfang know she was not be intimidated or dominated. She sensed something like amusement in his mind at her daring, and then the fierce thrust of his will against her own. She gritted her teeth and called upon her internal energy, pushing back hard, and the moment of crisis passed leaving her in control.

Exultation flowed over her. The dragon was hers. She tugged the upper reins and its wings snapped open. The dragon bounded forward. She felt its enormous muscles bunch and swell beneath her. The wind whipped past her face. The wings cracked like the sails of a schooner catching the breeze and moments later Ironfang was aloft.

It was all she could do to keep from crying out with triumph. She looked down on the tops of trees, and watched fences and hedges dwindle beneath her as the dragon gained altitude. In the distance some of the onrushing cavalry had drawn pistols. One of the mages had produced a lightning lash, an ancient weapon of formidable power, strong enough to harm a wyrm or even a dragon. He waved it backwards and forwards and its tip glowed as bright as the sun. In seconds he might even have gathered enough power to strike the dragon.

She tugged the reins and used her mental link to urge Ironfang ever higher. He responded magnificently, wings beating harder and faster he raced towards the clouds, and then banking hard she sent him arrowing towards the distant West.