The Fall of Dragons

  For more than an hour, Desiderata held the gate and the wards with the survivors of the two choirs, and one by one, when the walls were clear, she added the deep bass and tenor voices of the Order’s knights to her choir, in the real and in the aethereal, and the mixed choir was stronger than the two choirs had been together. And ever she held the will, and ever her wall of gold stopped Ash, and when he came close, she forced him to see himself reflected in her, and he flinched.

  But the struggle was unequal, the addition of twenty male voices could not change the inexorable mathematics of power, and as the time for vespers approached, Desiderata began to endure the same tendrils of doubt, except that she was facing the whole of Ash in addition to the will. The will became strident; the stridency rose to a desperate pitch, and Desiderata began to feel a thread of hope among the warp of fear; the will was no longer as united, and voices were leaving its discordant note, and she felt a weakening in it.

  And then it rose like a suffocating fog, and all Desiderata could do was to say, in the real:

  Sing!

  And every man and woman in the chapel, cut with glass, wounded by sword and claw or unhurt and merely exhausted, raised their voices in praise as best they could. And the will rose like a tidal wave threatening to engulf the world, but its desperation and dissolution were inherent in the force of its last throw.

  Something was happening.

  In the aethereal, just the other side of the gate, it lost its note. The discord became silence …

  Then, in a moment, it was gone.

  The choir, without it, actually stumbled a moment before one voice rose over all the rest, a novice whose pure note towered and led, and then, voice by voice, the others rejoined.

  And in the aethereal, a mighty power rattled the gate. It shook Desiderata for a moment; at the instant of victory, there was a new foe.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The gates—the company and Gabriel

  There was no opposition. Tom Lachlan led the casa forward the moment the emperor passed the gate, and before Cully had taken a second breath, the casa emerged in fighting formation: knights in front, dismounted, with squires at their shoulders, holding the same spear, and archers in the intervals between lances.

  They came through the gate, all together, as they had practiced, because there were so many things they had worried about; they were in superdense order, sixty men wide. Bad Tom was in the center.

  The wind burned at them. The sun was rising, so rapidly that they could see it move.

  “Tar’s tits,” Tom said. “It is hell.”

  Gabriel was at the edge of the cave, looking down at the desert floor below the road. Dust swirled, and the sand moved as if it were alive.

  “Halt the advance. I want to scout,” Gabriel snapped. His voice sounded odd.

  Cully went back through the gate. And reappeared.

  Gabriel allowed himself to smile. “They work,” he said. “Both ways. By God, friends, we may yet be in business.”

  The green banda was passed to the front; this contingency had also been envisioned, and the greens filed off and came through mounted, and were followed by a dozen Vardariotes under Kriax, who saluted.

  They cursed, too.

  Gabriel took Kriax to the edge of the cave. He pointed at the swirling sand.

  A vicious mouth emerged and vanished.

  The wind blew, dust moved, sand slipped …

  Legs. A hundred insectile legs, each as long as a tall man’s.

  “Green magic doesn’t work here,” Gabriel said. “And the sand is full of those things. Stay on the road.” He turned to Daniel Favour. “The road may be trapped. My chart says we only have to go sixteen miles; those are old imperial miles. I am guessing that takes us to the mountain. It may be defended, and I’m not sure what the hell we do next. But we don’t have time for caution.”

  Favour gave a wry smile. His hands were shaking.

  Kriax just shrugged. “I should have died a hundred times,” she said. “Maybe today?” She shrugged again.

  Tom Lachlan looked at Gabriel. “I want to go me’sel.”

  “No,” Gabriel said.

  “Ye’r jus’ like yersel!” Bad Tom said.

  Gabriel was looking past him. “Go back through, tell everyone to water up. Tell them there’s no battle, and that we need to go like blazes. Tell them what we know: no green magic, hot as hell, sixteen miles.”

  “Don’t forget the fuckin’ centipedes,” Cully said. “I fuckin’ hate centipedes. And that’s when they’re smaller ’an my finger. Not bigger ’an my fuckin’ head.”

  “What do they eat?” Gabriel asked the red-hot air.

  “Each other?” Bad Tom opined. “Kill one, Cully.”

  Gabriel paused to remonstrate, but Cully suited action to word. The next time one of the things showed a set of segments, Cully put a livery arrow at the joint.

  The whole creature spasmed, and for a single heartbeat, it was clear in the sand; the incredible, hideous length of it and the legs … kicking …

  A dozen other centipedes converged on it, their furry armoured bodies obscenely fat, their hundreds of legs working in sand. In the feeding frenzy that followed, one monster, gorging on a section of carcass that bled what appeared to be thick milk, clawed its way up the wall of the ridge or hillside from which the cave emerged.

  Sixty livery arrows struck it. It fell away into the sand, and another horde of the things devoured it.

  “Sweet Jesus,” muttered Michael.

  The feeding swirls were dangerous; they forced the centipedes close to the walls, and seemed to remind them they could climb.

  Gabriel tossed a small fireball out into the sand, well out.

  The burst was very satisfying.

  Like the tide turning, the insectile creatures turned away into the sand. This time, the feeding coruscations could be seen five hundred paces away as a temporary writhing hill was formed, the creatures warring for the choicest bits, rearing their great bulk.

  The emperor shook his head.

  “Yon’s disgusting,” Bad Tom said. “I seldom seen somethin’ I didn’t reckon on fightin’.” Yuck.”

  The emperor just stood there in the furnace heat, shaking his head. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  He went back through to the cool underhall, and Tom Lachlan brought the whole casa back through. Although there was no “through.” The gate was real. There was no distinct feeling of passage, although the hot wind was warming the hall.

  Gabriel went to the golden plate that now stood at waist level above the floor, inserted the key, and turned it.

  The coloured window sprang back.

  Gabriel nodded. The hall was packed.

  “Water up!” he roared. “You have half an hour.”

  Blanche was there. She looked at him, eyes wide.

  “It’s real,” he said. A smile was threatening his face. “Damn, Blanche, it’s real.”

  He and Michael narrowed the order of march, leaving the edge files plenty of room, and ordered more water brought forward.

  Beyond the gate—The Red Knight

  The scouts cantered forward, the horses restless and skittish with the wind and sand. Daniel Favour watched the road ahead; from time to time, he swept the roiling sea of sand to his left and the sand flat to his right, which went all the way out to the horizon of tall, jagged peaks capped, it appeared, in snow. The crawlies were horrible enough, and yet, in ten minutes of riding, they’d faded into the background of his thoughts. He tried to concentrate despite the hellish heat.

  They rode almost half an hour, and Favour’s mare began to flag, and he reined in.

  “Water up, and switch horses,” he said. “Wha’hae! Daud! Watch the sand.”

  One of the Vardariotes walked over to the edge of the road and began to relieve himself. Suddenly he stumbled back, spraying urine.

  Kriax was there, her strung bow in her hand, and Daud the Red. Both shot immediately, even as Favour moved to h
is latchet, which hung from his saddle.

  The crawlie came right up the embankment of the road and half a dozen legs showed, as well as its coarse hairs and the jaws …

  Kriax got off a veritable string of arrows. They seem to go so close together that the head of one touched the fletchings of the last, and she hit it with every arrow, but none seemed to penetrate very far.

  Daud loosed, and saw a full-weight war bow arrow shatter on the thing’s foreparts even as a pair of wicked mandibles the size of a child’s legs reached for its victim.

  Old in war, Favour looked back. Sure enough, there was another crawlie coming up the left side of the road. “Even files!” he roared. “Left side!”

  The sound of pottery shattering as someone dropped their canteen. A horse bolted.

  Chaos.

  Arrows.

  Favour ran across the smooth, even stones and spanned his latchet at the same time. He ran up the road, widening the gap, working on a theory. He stepped to the edge of the road …

  There were ten of the things right beneath his feet.

  “Jesus,” he spat. Paused, aimed, and shot—back, at the monster going for Kriax. In the side, between the segments, as he’d seen Cully do.

  His bolt sank past the wood fletchings, opening a hole that spouted white ichor like a fountain.

  Instantly, another crawlie attacked the wounded one. It was pulled down off the road, and eaten as fast as Favour could stumble back from the edge and span his crossbow for another bolt, ratcheting the slide with all the power of fear.

  The scouts knew their business; every man and woman knew exactly how the kill had been made, and they spread out along the road, enveloping their immediate attackers in a crossfire. A dozen crawlies were hit, and suddenly there were exploding mounds of carnivorous nightmares …

  “Mount!” roared Favour. “Go, go, go!”

  He got up on his remount and shot, put the ring of the latchet over his pommel, and turned his horse. Most of his people were up, but Daud had been caught too far from his horse and his remount had bolted and was already being pulled over the edge by a crawlie, screaming in shrill horse terror …

  Favour cantered forward, put down a hand, and swung Daud into his saddle as if they practiced such things every day …

  … which they did.

  “Liked that horse,” shouted Daud.

  Kriax was up and moving, and the near-side mound of feeding frenzy began to collapse onto the road; six of the things were falling, rolling, their hundreds of limbs unnatural and horrible, their mouths questing …

  They were nowhere near as fast as men on horses.

  The scouts cantered clear. “Holy fuck,” Kriax spat. She was deathly pale, and her hands shook. “Holy fuck,” she said again.

  Favour looked over his command and back toward the crawlies. Most of them had already left the road. He had no idea why, but he wasn’t going to waste time on it.

  “We could go back,” Wha’hae said. His voice had no tone; no whine. He was in shock. “We should go back.”

  “We’re not going back,” Favour said. “We’re scouts, friends. We scout.”

  Then he dismounted, giving his remount to Daud, and putting a casual hand on his shoulder, but the glazed look was already leaving the hill man’s eyes.

  Daud was praying, his eyes closed.

  “We didn’t lose anyone,” Favour continued. “Now let’s get this done.”

  He stepped up onto the stirrup of his mare.

  Kriax turned to the man who’d gone to the edge to relieve himself. “Pee on the fucking road next time,” she said.

  The easterner looked bad. Daud rode to him and looked him over. “You hurt, brother?” he asked.

  The man couldn’t talk. He was grey with terror; his cheeks looked splotchy.

  Daud put a hand on the man’s shoulder and the easterner flinched.

  “Let’s ride,” Favour said.

  Now they clumped up near the center of the road. Favour tried not to look over the edge. The lone mountain that seemed to be the destination grew closer, and closer, and—

  “Holy fuck,” Kriax said, reining in so hard that her big steppe pony slid on the smooth surface.

  There was a cut across the road.

  It was forty paces wide and the edges were jagged.

  Against his own will, Favour made himself go to the edge and look down.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  The whole space was full of crawlies. He could see them as they surfaced—legs, a flash of the red sun on a carapace …

  His hands were shaking as he backed away from the edge.

  Kriax looked at him.

  He walked to her and put a hand on her horse’s bridle. “Any thoughts?” he asked quietly. His people were skittish; everything was wrong, the colour of the air, the smell, the incredible heat; the crawlies, the huge red sun like a malevolent eye. It was all alien, and the scouts, who specialized in alien, were spooked.

  Kriax was not looking over the edge; Kriax, who was, short of Bad Tom, the most insanely brave person Favour knew. “Holy fuck,” she said for perhaps the fifteenth time. “We go back and get a sorcerer,” she said.

  Favour tugged at his short beard. “Costs the cap’n two hours,” he said.

  Kriax shrugged.

  Favour wished he were a scout and not a corporal. But he’d been briefed and she hadn’t. He knew that time was everything. “I want to try something,” he said.

  She shrugged. “Sure,” she said, with an easterner fatalism that told him what she thought.

  “I want you and Daud and … Short Tooth. You are the best archers. Pop a crawlie … way out. Like Cully did. Like the cap’n did with sorcery.” He gestured vaguely.

  Kriax’s eyes were blank. “Sure,” she said. “And then what?”

  “I try and get across the gap. On foot.” He shrugged. “We send Wha’hae back with two of your troopers to fetch help, but I go across and keep going.” He paused. “No Head will need to know exactly how wide it is.”

  Kriax looked around. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is a good plan. Stupid and good. I will go with you.”

  Favour was tempted to say something brave, but instead he smiled and said, “Good.”

  They moved forward with the plan before Favour could have second thoughts, or really, fiftieth thoughts. Half a dozen arrows flew, and then another flight, and a third; well out in the sandy plain, the maelstroms started.

  And the gap began to empty. The crawlies left like fish swimming upriver; Favour saw that they even had fishlike tails.

  “Three down,” Kriax said.

  “Ragnar,” muttered an easterner. “Look at that.”

  Favour spared a glance to see that there was a towering pile of crawlies, all going for …

  “We got two, right together,” the easterner said proudly.

  Favour shook his head.

  Kriax was already crawling down the broken embankment.

  Favour followed. Wha’hae and two of the Vardariotes were mounted, their horses head-up and ears back.

  He had trouble breathing. He’d sweated through his jupon in the terrible heat, and it was worse down on the plain. And the sand was soft; too soft. As soon as his foot touched it …

  Kriax screamed.

  She was sinking into the sand.

  Favour didn’t hesitate. He powered forward, one foot and then another; he felt the slight sinking, the unnatural softness.

  He threw himself full length on the sand and caught her hand.

  “Oh god oh god ohgodohgodohgod,” she said.

  He pulled and nothing happened.

  He saw movement at the corner of his eye.

  “Crawlies!” came the shout from above him.

  He pulled at her, a surge of power from raw fear, and he shouted.

  Something caught his feet and pulled.

  Favour fought the urge to scream and turned his head, his face full of sand, and there was Daud the Red, pulling his feet. There was a
surge, and shout, and Kriax came free of the sand. A shower of arrows fell somewhere off to his right.

  Favour got to his feet.

  Daud had Kriax.

  Favour snapped up his latchet and began to run. He didn’t look to the right or left, and he ran soft footed and very fast. Men were shouting; a woman’s voice, and someone close to him shouted, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck …”

  It was his own voice.

  A crawlie erupted from the sand, just to his right, and he raised the latchet one handed and popped a bolt and ran without missing a stride.

  His eyes were on the rocks; the collapsed stone structure of the ancient causeway. He leapt onto the first one, got his feet under him, and leapt to the second, and the third, and then with one surge from his thighs he was up, his hands grabbing the iron-hot edge of the road, and he swung his legs like an acrobat, and got one knee up, and for a moment, just a moment, he paused, unable to do more.

  Something rustled below him, a clicking, slithering noise.

  In one panicked explosion he got his shoulders up and he was over, rolling on the road, scrambling back.

  The crawlie came up, the mandibles searching for him. He could see its eye patches and smell the horrific acid exhalation from its pink-purple gullet, and he was on his back, his hands and feet going like some reversed crab.

  He rolled, his latchet still in his left hand, and drew his short sword as he got to one knee, and his cut went into the mandibles almost at the root, and he cut one free even as he covered the other with the steel bow of his latchet.

  The thing gave an odd, pitiful mewling cry and slipped away, and Favour stumbled back and saw that the thing’s carapace was studded with arrows, a hundred fletchings protruding from it, and a flood of love, of companionship and fellowship, filled him.

  His people had his back. The whole other side of the cut was lined with scouts. An arrow whistled past his head; he ducked.

  The crawlie fell away.

  Daniel Favour took four or five deep breaths, and then saluted with his sword across the gap, and the scouts roared back.

  Then he sheathed his sword. It took him four tries. He stepped back to the edge. The usual feeding pile was already as high as the road surface but evilly silent, the grotesque fishtail of one of the crawlies spasming in death …