Dragon Rigger (47 page)

(NOOOOOOOO—!)

(What? Jael—?)

Her inner voice had failed, but she was shaking with grief—and rage, upwelling like a volcano. Her fear reverberated like a drum in the binding spell. He tried to draw the image clearer, but that just made her cry out again, softly:
(No . . . no . . . never! . . . I swear, never . . . !)

Jarvorus could not comprehend her reaction. Why did this not move her to joy? She seemed appalled by the violent forces that flickered through the web, giving it strength—the strength of pain and death. She remembered the vision from the pool, of dragons dying in battle. And it was true: violent deaths would pass before the structure was complete. But wasn't that life—contests separating the strong from the weak? And even the weak were given their part: the intensity of their emotion, their despair and their shame, was woven into the very fiber of the work. Without the violence and the despair, none of the beauty was possible.

(Never!)
she whispered.
(I will not be a part—!)

(But there is no other way!)

He realized, as he spoke, that the other riggers in the net were able to see the image, as well; and they were as frightened by it as Jael. What was wrong, that he could not persuade them of the beauty and the truth?

(You have imprisoned me for THIS?)
she cried, her thoughts aflame with anger and hatred.
(For this abomination?)

He fell back from her in dismay, stunned by her anger. He'd thought that she would see.
(I have imprisoned you for what must be,)
he whispered sadly.
(And now that it is done, there really is no other way out for you.)

No way out, he thought silently, as she wept inwardly. No way except death. You have been trapped by Rent's magic, and unless the Master himself frees you, nothing but death can release you from this prison. I grieve for you, Jael, my captive.

The thought of the Master brought him back to the present with a start. It was time he reported back to Rent on his success. Gathering himself silently, and regretfully, he sank into the underrealm away from the Cavern of Spirits.

* * *

Once the false-iffling was gone, the true-iffling stirred from its hiding place. There were still servants of the Enemy around, but they appeared to be keeping watch from a distance. The iffling didn't know what, if anything, it could do. It could not release Jael; the weaving had solidified around her like rock-hard ice. Obviously, though the spell had been triggered by the false-one, it was the work of someone far more powerful. That was hardly surprising; both the iffling and the false-one were servants of greater powers. But what was that
uncertainty
that the iffling had observed in the false-one, just before its departure? It almost looked like
doubt
.

The false-one was gone now, probably to visit its master. But where, the true one wondered, were
its
masters, its iffling-parents? Was it alone in the world, alone in the realm? The iffling probed outward from the cavern, stretching its senses along certain layers of the underrealm where perhaps only ifflings could reach. It felt
something
 . . . a distant glimmer of life. That touch sent a shiver of recognition through the iffling. Was someone out there? Someone who would recognize an iffling, and welcome it home?

With the false-one gone, perhaps it was time to seek help—for Jael, and for itself. It had not dared to try earlier, both for fear of the false-one and for fear of losing Jael. But Jael was bound now, and would not be moving.

The iffling gently touched the glowing surface of Jael's mind, and found her agitated and despairing.
(Remember,)
it whispered.
(Remember. And keep hope. Always keep hope.)

(How can I hope?)
Jael cried back to it, perhaps recognizing it and perhaps not.

The iffling probed helplessly at the sorcery that bound her—and found no weakness, no hope. But the false-one had leaked one thought, one possibility, one inkling of a way in which Jael's cry for freedom might be fulfilled. The iffling didn't dare voice the possibility; it was too drastic, too uncertain. But it might be the only way.

To Jael, it said,
(You must. The realm needs you.)
And in afterthought, it added,
(Your friend needs you. Windrush.)
It was aware of Jael's sharp intake of breath, but there was nothing more that it could say. It drew apart from her.

The sorcery could hold the riggers—but not the iffling. It was time. The iffling slipped out of the riggers' presence, slipped away down the long, rippling silence of the place where only its kind might tread . . . slipped away, whispering and crying for anyone who might know its voice, and answer in kind. For anyone who might help.

Lumenis crackled and exploded, raining light through the night sky. The dragons thundered, their fever for battle rising like boiling clouds of steam. Windrush watched from one end of the Valley of Fallen Light, as the last of the lumenis disappeared into the jaws of his fellow dragons. Like many of the others, he had not fed, and would not. Those dragons feeding now were the ones who had gone hungry the longest. He would feed in flight, as best he could, if there was any lumenis dust left in the air.

Windrush had far more on his mind now than feeding. The challenge before them was so difficult, the odds so staggering, that he had to steel himself against a mood of desperation. He trusted his leaders to lead well; but when the battle came, they must all be driven by instinct and by fierce, blinding determination.

By tomorrow, the dragon realm could be restored to freedom and majesty . . . or it could be gone.

SearSky had bullied the younger warriors through dozens of mock duels, almost to the point of exhaustion, before Windrush had called for a rest. They had perhaps not rested enough, but SearSky had assured him that the warriors were braver now and more determined for his bullying. Farsight had organized all of the patrols into large attack groups. All the dragons were flying, even the wounded; there was nothing left to protect here. They would fly when the feeding was done. The Enemy, he assumed, knew very well how desperate their situation was; but Windrush hoped to surprise him with the sheer audacity of their attack. The dragons would be at their peak after the feeding; and if they were wild from the lumenis intoxication, perhaps that would make them fight all the more ferociously. He remembered how SearSky had fought in the Deep Caverns, and imagined an entire army of lumenis-drunk dragons fighting like that.

Windrush thought of his cavern, which he might never see again, and of the iffling's last visit, and of the sweepers' tiny but valiant effort to point the way for him. He still didn't understand the meaning of that last underrealm window, but he knew this: whatever help he had hoped to receive from the ifflings he now had to put out of his mind. He could not delay the attack any longer. He could not spend any more time searching the underrealm. He wanted to hope that Jael, somehow, would have a role to play, but it was hard to see how. His search parties to the south had found nothing. If she was a captive of the Enemy, his only hope was that some unimagined magic might free her for the coming battle. It was a faint hope, indeed.

Several dozen dragons thundered and hooted and blasted the air in front of him. Only tiny shards of lumenis remained on the ground, glinting in the starlight—seed for the future. The hungry dragons were snatching up even those fragments of seed.

"Enough!" Windrush bellowed, launching himself into the air. "Leave the seed!
Leave the seed!
Gather now for flight!"

Cries of protest reached his ears, but he had no time for it. Some of them would have to fight hungry.
He
would have to fight hungry. "ENOUGH!" he thundered. "Gather behind me! Prevail against the Enemy, and we'll have all the lumenis we desire!"

A rumble of assent rose around him like the sound of an approaching storm, followed by the dragons themselves, orbiting around him, their cries echoing in a great roar. Windrush vented a flame into the air and cried, "Fly, now! Fly to the camp and gather the others! Fly!"

Like a frenzied armada, the flight of dragons abandoned the Valley of Fallen Light and churned through the night sky to join the rest of the patrols, already waiting at the encampment. Those who had fed were bright with fire, and lusting for battle; the unfed flew just as fast, hardened by hunger and anger.

As they passed over the encampment, Farsight rose to join them, followed by wave after wave of dragons, roaring and fuming, until it seemed that the sky could hold no more. Even Rockclaw came, and Windrush called out to him, "Are you ready to fly so far?" The gnarled dragon, pumping his wings, called back, "You lead, and I'll get there! Someone has to remember this properly for the next younglings!" Windrush chuckled, his spirits lifted despite his worries. "
For the draconae!
" he bellowed to the growing force.

The responses echoed in the sky:

"
For
the lumenis!
"

"
For Treegrower and the egg!
"

"
For the fallen!
"

"
For
the realm!
"

Soon, with over a hundred dragons circling in the air, several dozen more came in from the north and south, from the smaller camps. The night air was alight with the flicker of dragon flames, despite Windrush's warnings to save their fire for the fight.

"TO BATTLE!" he thundered at last.

"TO BATTLE! TO THE ENEMY!" came the answering cry, reverberating from the mountainsides.

Windrush flew westward, climbing to crest the Scarred Mount Ridge. Following him were nearly two hundred dragons, their eyes afire with battle fever. Almost a hundred more had set out earlier under Stronghold and Longtouch, splitting far to the south and north to enter the Enemy's realm from flanking directions. Windrush's flight would not divide; they were crossing the Valley Between as one, and all going over the top of the Borderland Mountains together. It was a dangerous approach, and it would take them close to the Enemy's east camp; but Windrush hoped that the core of his flight would make it through to strike at the Enemy's heart in the Dark Vale, far to the west. What would happen then, only tomorrow would tell.

Windrush's blood burned hotter as they flew; he burned with a growing lust to meet the Enemy and destroy him. High and fast the dragons flew, and if those who had not fed were laboring harder than those who had, it didn't show when Windrush glanced back. All he saw in the sky behind him was a night full of fiery, battle-hungry eyes. He nodded in approval and pounded the air harder than ever before.

* * *

The realm shall tremble
when dragons assemble
to strike out of fear,
with hope nowhere near.

The One comes,
the end comes,
and who shall prevail?
 

Who knows where a friend
Shall be found close and dear?

The Words reverberated in FullSky's mind.

His presence in the Dream Mountain was becoming more strained, as forces in the underrealm shifted about with growing turbulence. Powers were gathering everywhere. FullSky knew he could not remain here much longer. But surely his role had not yet ended! The draconae were busy strengthening their defenses against the Enemy's inevitable assault upon the dreamfires, upon the binding and creative force that sustained all the life in the realm. But what was
he
to do?

With the draconae, FullSky had watched helplessly as the Enemy had stolen the power of the Deep Caverns; as he'd snatched the remaining lumenis—and the Grotto Garden, with Treegrower and the egg; as he'd captured Jael at the Pool of Visions. Now they watched as the dragons launched their desperate attack—an attack with no hope of success, against a foe who was now aware of every move that they made.

The Enemy must have delighted in letting the draconae witness his victories. FullSky knew, as did the draconae, that their despair only fed the Enemy's dark sorcery; but being aware of it was not enough to save them from it. Jael's capture had discouraged them most of all. Even they, with their prophecy, hadn't expected her to fall to the Enemy before the final battle had even begun.

It's not over yet,
he'd told them. But his words had seemed hollow even to him.

FullSky felt the underrealm quiver with the approach of battle, and he drew his kuutekka close about him. Even if his presence here went unnoticed by the Enemy, he had very little time left in which to do anything useful. His strength was already drawn thin. His body, imprisoned in the Dark Vale, was battered and tortured beyond healing; and while he could draw some strength here from the draconae's power, he could not be wholly divorced from the state of his physical body. He had never expected to emerge from this struggle alive. But as long as he still had some power to act, he was determined to make his presence count for something.

Jael
. He felt certain that his actions were meant to involve her. But how? It did not seem that he could do anything more for Windrush. His last underrealm window for his brother had been a failed attempt to show how the Dream Mountain had been captured, and how it might be freed. But who had been missing from that picture? Jael. And she was beyond help now.

Except, perhaps, through the underrealm . . .

Bending his thought toward the draconae's underrealm window, FullSky probed delicately, quietly, toward the place where he thought the rigger had been taken. If he was to do anything for her at all, he would have to be watchful and shrewd indeed.

And he would have to be ready to give up to her the very last of his own strength. . . .

* * *

For WingTouch, in captivity, the pain was a constant, a sheet of fire within his body. He had learned, to some extent, to ignore it; but he could not do so altogether. The servants of the Enemy saw to that. At irregular intervals, they came and taunted him, or changed the binding spell in some new and devilish way. They did not have to increase the pain, only to
alter
it, to make it fresh and new as it blazed up his nerves.