A Bad Day at the Rocks

Meteroa almost made it. He could actually see the bright morning sunlight streaming in through the doors that led out onto the eyrie rocks when the first flame strikes came in and a plume of fire erupted down the passage towards him. He had just enough time to slam shut the visor on his helm and spread out his arms, as if he could somehow catch the flames and stop them from reaching Queen Lystra behind him. Whatever happens to her happens to you. Jehal’s words. Meteroa was quite sure that Jehal meant every one of them.

The fire swallowed him up, weak and at the end of its reach, not enough to even stagger him. His dragon-scale shrugged off the heat. He whipped around for Lystra, his heart in his mouth for an instant, but she was still there, reeling slightly, open-mouthed, maybe a little red-faced and singed at the edges, but otherwise unhurt. The baby, wrapped in its blankets, started to cry again. Meteroa pushed her back down the hallway.

‘Wait here out of sight! If I shout at you to come, then run!’ If we manage to get out of here, a red face and scorched hair will be a small price to pay.

He reached the outside of the eyrie, cowering in the grand doorway, blinking in the sudden sunlight. The sky was bright blue, the air filled with fire and dragon-cries. Circling the Pinnacles were the dragons themselves. Hundreds of them. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds.

Vishmir’s cock! He ducked back inside as another dragon strafed the eyrie-top and then another.

So much for getting out.

Two riders cowered beside him. He cast his eyes about, looking for something – anything – that might inspire him. Low battlements surrounded the top of the fortress, carefully designed to give cover from dragon-fire. Tall spikes littered the place. They looked like decoration, but Meteroa knew better: under clay tiles were solid iron prongs embedded deep into the mountain, there to deter dragon-landings. Most of the rest of the flat top of the peak was taken up by the Reflecting Garden, a bizarre relic of the Silver King, with its fountain that conjured water from the air, its channels and pools where water flowed upwards and wouldn’t lie flat. The handful of ornate little buildings between the garden and the tiny eyrie that made up the rest of the fortress were no more than a glorified entrance hall into the labyrinth beneath.

Or a place to hide when dragons were burning the shit out of everything. He crouched down and squinted, looking for a dragon he recognised, Prince Hyrkallan’s B’thannan or King Sirion’s Redemption. He didn’t know what dragon Queen Jaslyn rode any more. He didn’t see either of those, though. What he did see was Prince Tichane’s colossal Unmaker, heading straight towards the eyrie-top. The dragon was clutching a cage in his fore-claws, the sort of cage that the Mountain King used for carrying slaves. And soldiers. Meteroa ducked as another flight of dragons flew overhead, raking the top of the fortress with fire again. Clearing the ground for a landing.

The King of the Crags. Ancestors! If they knew how few men he had here . . .

He bolted back down the entrance stair and ran through the huge hall below. The High Hall, where Queen Zafir and Queen Aliphera before her had welcomed kings and queens and even speakers. One wall was open to the sky, letting the sun sweep in through a row of ornate carved columns while the rest lay in thick shadow, littered with paintings and statues, layered with exquisite rugs and tapestries – or at least that’s the way it had been before Valmeyan’s dragons had filled it with fire. All that was left now were blackened statues, a few charred shards and a haze of smoke. Meteroa hugged the far wall, away from the light in case one of the dragons came back for another go. His riders and his men-at-arms were waiting for him in a second hall lit by shafts of sunlight from above. Milling about, scared, uncertain. Useless.

‘Down!’ he shouted. He paused. Valmeyan could bring as many men as he wanted. The tunnels and halls of the Pinnacles were the perfect place for a small band of riders to hold off almost any number. They’d been built for exactly that. And as for dragons . . . The fortress had been carved out of the stone long before the coming of the Silver King, back when the dragons had flown free. He could seal himself inside and live off Queen Zafir’s siege stocks and probably last almost for ever. Question was, should he bother? There were rules to war. Written in Principles. His dragons were already lost, and to add to his problems there were men still loyal to Zafir lurking in the lower tunnels. If you believed the stories, there were ways out down there, catacombs and tunnels that led all the way down to a scattering of secret doors among the cellars of the Silver City a mile below. There were supposed to be tunnels that ran for a hundred miles and more, as far as the banks of the Fury. There was even supposed to be an underground river, fed by the waters of the Reflecting Garden, which tumbled and splashed through the heart of the mountain from its very top. If any of those rumours were true, Zafir’s men would know them. Whereas he didn’t.

Not a nice thought. Of course, if you believed all the stories, the tunnels were also filled with dark devices of the Silver King that would rip a man’s soul from his flesh. So maybe not such a troublesome thought after all.

Meteroa slammed his fists together. Plenty of Princess Kiam’s servants had chosen to stay and serve their new masters rather than flee into the tunnels. They weren’t soldiers. To them, one dragon-lord was as good as another. Maybe one of them knew the way. If they did, they’d sell their knowledge. ‘Jubeyan, Gaizal, Xabian, you stay with me to welcome our guests. Hyaz, take Queen Lystra down past the Grand Stair. Hold there. If there are tunnels down to the Silver City, it’ll be the servants who know them. Find a man who can show you the way. If I do not return ahead of Valmeyan’s soldiers, do whatever you must to escape. Above all else, your duty is to preserve the life of your prince and your queen and bring them to King Jehal. Do you understand?’ Outside, everything had fallen dangerously quiet. No shrieks of dragons, no roars of fire. Valmeyan must have landed. ‘Don’t take any other servants with you. Lock them away if you can. I’m sure they’ll all be just as keen to serve the King of the Crags as they were to serve us. They’ll none of them mind the purse of gold that will doubtless be their reward if they help Valmeyan to catch you.’ Best if you slaughtered them, but I suppose I’ll not mention that.

Hyaz nodded sharply and turned to go. You could see the eagerness in him, fluffing him up with his own importance.

‘Hyaz!’ The rider froze, mid-step. ‘If you do escape, whoever shows you the way will deserve a reward. A generous one, fit for the service he has done for us. Enough that he has no reason to help others follow you.’ In other words, gut him as soon as you don’t need him any more; but since I can hardly say that with Lystra standing right in front of me, you’ll just have to work it out for yourself. Meteroa could hear shouting now, echoing down from the passages above. The King of the Crags was coming. He shooed Hyaz and Lystra and most of the rest away and strode back towards the little eyrie with the three riders he could best trust not to stab him in the back. At least there isn’t space up there for more than half a dozen dragons at once. It’ll take time for Valmeyan to mass men for an assault.

Hazy figures were moving in the smoke at the other end of the High Hall. They shouted, their words lost in the echoes of the hall. An arrow ricocheted off the wall beside him. He ducked back out of sight.

‘You should know that you’re shooting at Prince Meteroa,’ he shouted. ‘I hold the Pinnacles in the name of King Jehal, who, if you haven’t heard by now, is in the Adamantine Palace, sitting on the Speaker’s Throne.’ Unless Valmeyan had gone there first. That was always a possibility. Oh well, if Valmeyan’s men know any better, they’ll tell me soon enough. ‘Have you come to negotiate your surrender? Because if you have, I’m all ears.’

The High Hall went very quiet. He risked a glance back out, but nothing was moving in the smoke.

‘Show yourself,’ shouted a voice.

‘So you can shoot at me again? I don’t think so.’ There was always the chance that Valmeyan had simply sent in a couple of hundred of those slave-soldiers he was so fond of. They weren’t known for their tenderness. ‘Perhaps you might tell me to whom you answer?’ He toyed with acting all outraged and ranting about acts of war and terrible consequences, but that would have been a bit rich, all things considered.

‘We fight for the King of the Crags,’ called a rousing voice. A few ragged cheers echoed after.

‘Valmeyan himself is here? Well I certainly won’t mind talking to him about which one of us is going to surrender.’ Time. The more time he gave Hyaz, the better.

There was a pause and then a different voice range out. A woman’s voice. ‘Lord Meteroa. Do you still have my sister, or have you murdered her like you murdered my uncle. Like Jehal would have murdered me?’

Zafir!

Meteroa’s skin tingled. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t even think. Zafir? But she’s dead. She fell at Evenspire. Jehal told me! Yet there was no mistaking the voice. Zafir, very much alive. Which meant that maybe Jehal wasn’t the speaker after all. Which meant that . . .

Which meant that he could piss all over whatever Principles had to say about the rules of war.

Shit!

Zafir was here for Lystra. Probably for her little sister Princess Kiam too. But mostly here for revenge and blood and plenty of it. Zafir alive! Zafir and her cages . . . He signalled to Jubeyan and the others behind him. Back. Retreat. No quarter. Then he waited as they slipped away. So let’s see how much time I can buy for you. Jehal, if I die here, I am going to come back and haunt you for a very long time. You were supposed to get rid of her.

‘Speaker Zafir! What a pleasant surprise. We’d heard you were dead.’

‘Well I am not, Meteroa. Is my sister alive or dead?’

‘I am at a loss, Your Holiness, to know which you would prefer.’

‘You have one chance, Meteroa. Send out my sister and Queen Lystra. If you do that, I will give you a day to gather your riders and leave. I don’t care where you go. I don’t recommend Furymouth. You’ll not find a friendly welcome in Three Rivers or Valin’s Fields or Bazim Crag for that matter. The south is ours, Meteroa. You have lost. It is pointless to fight. I have no particular reason to kill you. Yet.’

‘Tell me, Zafir, is Valmeyan’s hand up your skirt or is yours up his? I’ll speak with the puppet master, if you please.’ And now, time to run.

He might have stayed to shout something else. Something defiant. A last few insults. Then dozens of soldiers would charge though the High Hall, crazed half with fear and half with blood-lust, ready to chop to bits anyone they found at the other end. Instead, he slipped away as quietly as he could. Once he thought he was far enough away that no one would hear his footsteps, he ran. Eventually they’d realise no one was there and they’d follow him anyway, but this way would take them longer. It wasn’t exactly the honourable thing, and missing out on a good insult was always a disappointment, but at least this way skipped the part where he was chopped to bits, if only for a while. There were certain things he had to believe. That Jehal sat on the Speaker’s Throne. That hundreds of dragons still filled the Adamantine Eyries: their own, Zafir’s, Almiri’s, Narghon’s. That if he held out for long enough, Jehal would come. Yes, at times like these a man had to pick a thing, crush his doubts and believe in that thing as he believed in the rising of the sun. He could hold the Pinnacles for ever. So that’s what he would do.

Beyond the Grand Stair, where Meteroa would make his stand, lay Zafir’s Enchanted Palace. Beyond that, the fortress spiralled down and down. Past the Hall of Mirages where every exit led you right back where you started. Now there was a thing. Before he’d seized the place, he’d assumed it was a child’s fairy tale, but no. Real. Place made his skin crawl. And that was just the start of what the Silver King had left behind.

Yes, best not to delve too deep.

At the top of the Grand Stair Jubeyan was waiting for him. He looked flushed and out of breath and was holding a loaded cross-bow. Gaizal and Xabian were with him.

‘You weren’t supposed to wait for me,’ snapped Meteroa. Even if I’m glad that you did. He didn’t wait for an answer, but bounded down. The steps were huge, each one some twenty feet across. They must have spiralled down at least two hundred feet into the rock. No time to stop and admire the workmanship, though, not with Valmeyan’s soldiers on his heels. He could hear them, if he stopped to listen. They weren’t far behind. Not far at all . . .

Beyond the arch at the bottom of the stairs was a vast vaulted hall. There were no windows here, no sun and no sky, yet a warm yellow light filled the room from above, and it was just an atrium, the gateway to Zafir’s Enchanted Palace. Beyond it lay the colossal Octagon, Zafir’s throne room, the largest in the realms, where the Kings and Queens of the Harvest Realm held their court, where the blood-mages had held court before them, all the way back to the Silver King himself. A place of eerie beauty. Of walls that grew light and dark of their own will, mimicking the rise and fall of the sun and the moon outside. Of clean cool damp air, empty of any taint of woodsmoke. Sleeping in the halls of the Pinnacles was like sleeping out on a fresh and warm summer’s night.

He shuddered. Everything about the Fortress of Watchfulness, right from the Reflecting Garden and its Endless Fountain at the top, down to whatever lurked a mile beneath his feet was all wrong. And it had him trapped.

Don’t think about it. He ran through the arch and pointed up. ‘There.’ The ceiling here was different. Lower. A great stone slab was poised over his head. He’d known it was there before he’d even left Furymouth. What he hadn’t believed until he saw it now with his own eyes, until he stopped to actually look at it, was the scale of it. A block of stone the size of a large barn and massive enough to crush a dragon flat. It was simply hanging in the air.

Pulleys. It has to be pulleys. He shivered. Don’t think about it! However it worked, the principle was the same. Stone comes down; no one gets in. He’d made it his business to understand the fortress when he’d been planning his own attack, and now that knowledge would cut nicely the other way. Speed, that was the key. Valmeyan had already been too slow.

‘Your Highness, there are men on the stairs. I hear voices.’

Beyond the arch, hidden behind the hangings on the wall, there was a hole in the wall. He reached inside, felt something cold. His fingers closed around it . . .

And paused. He could see Princess Kiam, Zafir’s sister, staring at him. They’d barely spoken since he’d taken her surrender and brought her back to the fortress, but they’d spoken that day, standing right here under the great hanging stone. He remembered the look in her eye, clear as a mountain lake, full of hate, blood oozing from a broken lip that she did nothing to wipe away. No one built this place. It grew. On its own. It was always here. Mock me of you like, Prince, but this palace is alive and I am its mistress and I will have it eat you. She’d spat out a gobbet of blood. Meteroa looked down. There was nothing on the floor, no trace of a stain. He didn’t remember anyone cleaning it up.

There were other shapes carved in the wall behind the hanging. When he pushed the hanging aside, he saw that they were archways, sealed up and leading to nowhere. They were everywhere. The place was littered with them. Whispers said they opened sometimes, once in a lifetime, on to some inexplicable and unknown realm.

‘My Lord! They come!’

You could argue all day about ghosts and old magics, but Valmeyan’s men were real enough. Meteroa reached in again and pulled. His hand came out clutching a silver rod about as long as his forearm. The stone quivered. A grating noise filled the hall and then the stone came down, fast. It smashed into the floor and shook the room so hard that Meteroa fell to his knees. Dust filled the air. The archway was gone. Blocked completely. He stared at the piece of silver in his hand. His riders looked shocked. Understandable, but even if he felt the same, he couldn’t let them see it.

‘I appear to have the key.’ Then he smiled. ‘They won’t be getting in that way then.’

‘My Lord, how do we get out?’

A good strategy for questions you couldn’t answer, Meteroa had found, was to ignore them. Further down, below the marvels of the Enchanted Palace, there were balconies and storerooms. Food and water for years. Beyond that . . . Meteroa gave half a shrug. He didn’t know whether Jehal was dead or alive, but that really didn’t matter any more. Trapped was trapped. The fortress gave him nightmares, but still it was hard not to feel at least a little gleeful. They’d either find a way out or they wouldn’t.

Until they did, there was always the other thing that had made the three peaks of the Pinnacles famous. Scorpions, giant crossbows big enough to hurt even a dragon. Hundreds of them. Buried in the walls of the most impregnable dragon-proof fortress in the world.

With a grin and a crack of his knuckles, he turned to face his waiting riders. If someone out there wanted a war, so be it.