Dragon Rigger (23 page)

"
Wait!
" Windrush commanded. "We must return, yes! But not thoughtlessly. Gather your flanks and prepare to fly, but give me a few moments of silence, to see what I can learn." Without waiting for any argument, he veered toward the south slope and landed on the nearest outcropping. He raised his head to smell the air—and let his thoughts sink into the underrealm.

What he found, once he had passed beneath the surface layers of the underweb, was a tangle of deception, overlaid with vapors of confusion and the smells of enemy sorceries. It made him dizzy to try to follow the threads of the Enemy's treacheries, and he knew that he had neither the time nor the skill to sort it all out. But the one thing he could search for was some hint of where the enemy warriors had gone, what their goal was. They might have left some imprint of their paths in the underrealm. But there was such a confusing welter of signs . . .

And yet, there in the middle of it all, almost as though it had been left for him to find, was a thread leading away from this place, leading in a direction that was not exactly east or west, or north or south. But it bore a clear direction of intent; it was almost as though the groves gleamed at the end of the thread, shining all the way back to where Windrush peered in horror.

If only he could send a blast of flame through the underrealm to destroy the enemy before they did their terrible work!

Emerging from the underrealm, Windrush leaped from the outcropping, wings thumping the air. "
Away!
" he thundered. "
Abandon
this
place!
Return
to
the north and south groves! The lumenis is in danger!
"

For the captured WingTouch, the flight westward into the territory of the Enemy was a nightmare of pain and exhaustion. The drahl said little, but kept its claws in the base of the dragon's neck as they flew. The pain was no longer constant, but it returned instantly if he flagged in his speed or strayed from his course. In the company of the drahls that had joined them in the Scarred Ridge, they had flown westward until long after night had given way to the morning. WingTouch had seen the last familiar territory disappear behind him in the cold light of the early morning, and then they had begun the long climb over the Borderland Mountains. From that point on, they were flying ever deeper into the Enemy's territory.

WingTouch's hopes that he might at least observe the Enemy's activities were cut short when, after the crossing of the mountains, the drahls wove a tight net of darkness about his head, blinding him to his surroundings. He navigated by the whispered instructions of his captor, and by sharp jabs of pain when he got an instruction wrong.

He had plenty of time to think, at least. He was sure that by now his dragon brothers must have concluded that he was dead. He wished he could let them know that he was not. Windrush, in his place, might have been able to call out, to communicate somehow through the underrealm. But lacking such skills, WingTouch was wholly isolated. Despair teased at the edges of his mind, but he was not one to give in easily to despair. He didn't think much about why; he just knew that there was nothing to be gained by it, and one discipline he did have was the ability to shut out unhelpful thoughts. Still, there was little enough in his situation to support hope.

He could not guess how long he had been pumping his wings, without even a gliding break. He knew that he was deep in the land of Tar-skel. The drahls laughed from time to time, apparently joking among themselves. Their voices turned into rasping croaks as they veered close to taunt him. Was that the natural timbre of their voices, when they dropped the sorcerous intonations of beauty?

On and on they flew, until WingTouch thought his wings would fail.

After an eternity, he heard a hoarse whisper: "
Land now, dragon—if you have the skill!
"

WingTouch felt a flush of anger. He was supposed to land blind, then? So be it. He let himself lose altitude, straining to judge by the feel of the air when he was approaching the ground. He ignored the laughter of the drahls and focused on new sounds, a murmur that sounded as though it might be rising from the ground. There was a curious moment when he felt a sudden change in the texture of the air, a strange kind of
thickness
, and the sounds of the voices suddenly became more distant. He was passing through a layer of sorcery, he was sure.

He felt a backwash from his wings. As he flared to settle to the ground, the drahl tightened its claws in the back of his neck. A lance of pain shot through his wingblades—just enough to cause him to spill air from one wing, then the other. He hit the ground with a sideways skid, and tumbled over. As the drahl tumbled with him, it clenched its claws in his neck, and a blinding pain obliterated all other sensation.

There was a sound of raucous laughter. He struggled to rise. The drahl let go and dismounted, but he could feel the throbbing wound it had left between his wingblades. The drahls' laughter subsided, and one of them hissed: "Prepare, dragon, to meet the true source of power in the realm. Prepare to beg for your life. The Nail of Strength does not look kindly upon those who oppose his will."

Nail
of Strength.
WingTouch subdued a rumble of defiance in the back of his throat, as he fought to push himself upright. He could guess how warmly he would be received by the one to whom he had once foolishly given his allegiance. He shivered, turning his head blindly.

He felt a chill on the back of his neck—the breath of a drahl. The next breath could easily kill. "If you are fortunate," murmured the drahl in a sonorously beautiful voice, "you will see the insignificance of your power, compared to the least of the Nail's servants. Then perhaps you will understand . . ."

The drahl left its words unfinished. The darkness fell away from around WingTouch's head. He blinked hard, and gasped out a long hiss of bewilderment as he turned his head one way and then another.

He was in daylight again—but it was a daylight unlike anything he had ever seen. There was a swirling, shimmering, unnatural quality to it, as though a darkness existed
within
the light, as though the light were somehow subordinate to the darkness. For a moment, he could not focus upon anything physical at all. The air and light took all of his attention. He could only think of them, together, as a
strangeness
—something not of this realm. Was this a naked sorcery of Tar-skel? If so, the Enemy had grown far bolder in his displays in the time since WingTouch had so blindly and stupidly served in his shadow.

* Are you surprised, dragon-called-WingTouch?
* whispered a powerful, but silken, voice that seemed to come from within the strangeness itself.

WingTouch shivered at the familiar sound of that voice. He'd never thought of it as being the voice of Tar-skel, not during the time when it had so beguiled and commanded him. Then it had seemed the voice of a near-equal, perhaps just a touch wiser and more worldly—offering him choice and power. In the end, of course, it had given him neither, only blindness and fear.

"I have not offered you my name," WingTouch protested, trying not to let his voice tremble.

* Oh, but you have—long ago, *
sighed the voice.
* As did your brother Farsight.
*
The voice suddenly hardened, as WingTouch narrowed his gaze.
* But your other brother, Windrush, never learned. And you—you forgot my teachings. You abandoned me. Do you not remember? *

WingTouch did not answer. Of course he remembered. Yes, he had given his name to that one. But it had never given its name in return. WingTouch had made his escape when Jael had shown him the way out. At least he'd tried to, or wanted to. He wondered now: was it ever really possible to escape?

The Enemy seemed to understand his thoughts. It laughed softly.
* You thought you could run away. *
Its laughter ended on a hard note. *
Do you think, once you've given your name, you can ever take it away? *

WingTouch trembled, remaining silent. The light and air suddenly changed, and he became aware of shape and form around him. It was no less strange than the formless light of sorcery. The drahls flanking him looked like pure shadow—not at all like creatures that once had been dragon, before Tar-skel had altered them. They were jagged, threatening shadows, and though he could not quite
see
it, he felt that there was a pale light flickering within each of them, the light of their living spirit, perhaps even the spirit of the dragonlings that they had once been. The sight made him shudder and turn his gaze away.

In front of him, something altogether different, and incomprehensible, had appeared. It was a floating geometric pattern: a series of hollow, nested, angular shapes, each closed inward like a ring, but with four or five straight sides of unequal length. At first he thought that they were floating one inside another; then he realized that one floated
behind
another. He was staring down a sort of tunnel, down a profound emptiness that ran through the center of the figures as they diminished into the distance. The strangeness of light and air seemed to originate here, within this thing, a power of sorcery that flowed like a river from a source hidden in that tunnel.

The sight was so disturbing, so
alien,
that WingTouch was almost hypnotized by it. At last he shifted his gaze. The drahls were still present, floating threateningly around him. Behind them was a landscape—not of ground, but of streaming, coiling clouds. It was as though they were all still in the sky; and yet he knew, the muscles and sinews of his wings and feet had told him, that he had landed on the ground. A watery sort of light shone down upon the clouds, which glimmered darkly from within, with flashes of red and purple fire, like eerily tortured storm clouds.

Rising out of those mists, he saw several narrow, spindly peaks—more like needles than mountains. Spots of shadow circled around the tips of the peaks, orbiting in regular rhythm, with none of the dipping and swaying that any flying creature would display. What were those spots, and those peaks?

WingTouch glanced higher, and was startled to see that the sky itself shimmered, though not with the light of a sun. There was a fine tracery of webbing that seemed to enclose the sky, and
it
shimmered, and something about it was familiar. It took WingTouch a moment to remember his brother's vision. Windrush had described a great, treacherous web encircling the realm.

Binding the realm.

Crushing the realm.

* You see. But do you understand? *

The voice jarred him back to the present. He had been allowed to look at all of these sights, to absorb the mystery, to wonder at the power. But for what purpose? To plunge him into despair? WingTouch turned his gaze back to that strange geometric structure and trembled, remembering how he had once done the bidding of the one behind it. He opened his mouth to speak, then blew a wisp of steam instead. He wasn't ready to give in to despair.

The voice chastised him.
* You would be wise, young WingTouch, to understand the nature of the power you challenge. Perhaps you should search again for that wisdom which seems to have deserted you. *

WingTouch blinked. This time he found words. "I recall only one time when wisdom wholly deserted me. That was when I abandoned my father and gave my allegiance to a power that wanted to destroy the realm where I dwell." He subdued the flame that rose in his throat, and vented smoke from his nostrils instead. "But that was before you let your true nature be known. Before you began attacking our groves. Before you took away the Mountain."

He was answered by soft laughter, rising against the stillness, and echoed by the croaking laughter of drahls. The strangeness seemed to deepen, the geometric shapes to distort in a way that confounded his eyes. "What have you done with the Dream Mountain?" he demanded, angered by the laughter. "Are you afraid to tell me?"

The drahl-shadows began to converge upon him, then stopped, hissing.

WingTouch blinked slowly. "What could it harm you to tell me?"

* I tell,
*
whispered the voice, so deadly and soft that he had to strain to hear,
* those whom I wish to tell. *

"Are you afraid to tell?"

* Do not test wits with me, impudent fool! *
There was a pause.
* You will lose—now, and every time. *

WingTouch glanced at the drahls which he knew were awaiting the command to kill him, or torture him. But he had already decided: he would not allow despair. "Highwing was right. You deal in fear, and yet you yourself are afraid."

Soft laughter once more.
* Afraid? *

Drawing a breath, WingTouch said, "Yes. Afraid of the prophecy—"

His words were cut off by a clap of thunder. It seemed to rock from one side of him to the other. The swirling clouds flickered with lightning. A bolt snapped up out of the clouds and across, striking him in the chest. He gasped, could not gasp, as the shock paralyzed him, blinding him with pain. He could not speak, but he could hear. The next words seemed to reverberate from the clouds, like the thunder.
* Do not speak to me of prophecy, or you will suffer . . . suffer . . .
suffer
 . . . no matter how long you might plead, or how pitifully you might beg. Is this understood?
*
WingTouch gasped, could not speak.
* IS THIS UNDERSTOOD?
*
Another bolt hit him, and he blacked out.

It was only an instant, it seemed. But when his eyes blinked open, and his vision returned, he focused on something new, something that had appeared over the clouds, over the slender peaks that spiked upward out of the flashing mists. There was an enormous shape floating there—a mountain peak, broad and sloping and translucent. A dazzling light seemed to glimmer in it and through it, as though barely contained by it. The sight made him tremble in awe. It was true, then. The Enemy controlled the Dream Mountain, held it captive—by what sorcery he could not imagine. There was no visible point of connection between it and the other peaks, or even the clouds. It seemed to rise out of a nearly invisible mist high in the sky. How could it be? he wondered helplessly. The thought of a power that could do such a thing sent shudders of fear through him.