The Demon Horsemen (39 page)

With a thought, he disappeared and reappeared on the parapet over the castle gate. He called to the astonished general as the soldiers rose from their sleep. ‘Tell everyone what you saw here. Tell them you have seen A Ahmud Ki, the Dragonlord, and the awesome power he commands. Tell them what I told you and make sure they understand.’ The castle gates creaked open. ‘You have one chance to live, General. Don’t waste it.’

He stayed on the parapet long after the confused troops and terrified and bruised dragon egg crew had followed their awestruck general down the road towards the city. He heard Inheritor and Chase calling him and ignored them. His body tingled with the amber’s latent energy. The small demonstration of magical power had rekindled long-suppressed desires and memories and he was lost in their thrall, exploring the possibilities that Erin’s gift had bestowed on him.

I am more powerful than I ever was
, he realised.
Embedding the amber—that was the secret I missed in the past. That was what separated me from Mareg. Now…now I am a Dragonlord
.

‘A Ahmud Ki?’

He saw Chase staring at him through the shadows and heard the young man gasp. ‘What?’ he asked.

‘Your eyes,’ Chase replied.

‘What about them?’

‘They’re glowing red.’

‘It’s the amber,’ he said, and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’

‘Shouldn’t we set a watch?’

A Ahmud Ki shook his head. ‘The glyph will keep nosy people away.’

He let Chase descend the stairs first and looked up at the night sky and the stars one last time. There was so much beauty in this world and he felt as if he’d missed it.

S
he recognised the city along the coastline as she flew towards it. Targa. The last time she’d seen it was from the deck of Captain Marlin’s ship when the Ranu invaded. Then, more than thirty years ago, it had been burning in the aftermath of a Ranu dragon egg bombing raid, its great spires wrapped in flames and dark smoke. Now, in the early morning light, it was like a jewelled dress stretched between the blue ocean and green hills: red roof tiles shining, golden domes glittering, white stone washed with the soft yellow of sunrise. The harbour water sparkled, dotted with vessels—fishing boats, sailing yachts and trading ships, a dark grey dreadnought. Light white smoke tinged with gold rose from hundreds of factory chimneys. The old religious spires, rebuilt since the war, prodded skyward, their silver-buffed shingles glittering like ancient scale armour.

North-east and out to sea, a fleet of Ranu dreadnoughts were lined across the oddly inert ocean, like a low and loose wall. Above them floated a flotilla of dragon eggs, white fabric and elongated frames transparent and golden in the rising sunlight. They faced a storm bank of black and blue clouds that rolled
towards them like a massive wave. Lightning flashed and thunder pealed, filling the earth and air and ocean with continuous vibrations.

Meg’s heart sank at the vision. She willed herself to move with greater speed and banked over the city outskirts, where the main roads were filling with people intent on escaping the impending holocaust.
Too late
, she thought bitterly,
and I can do nothing
. She gained altitude and headed for the storm, slowing warily as she reached the rear of the dragon egg line. Remembering the ferocity of the Horsemen’s power, she climbed higher and retreated a distance to observe.

In the centre of the clouds a blue light appeared. From its glow, eight Horsemen emerged on their steeds, heralded by lightning and wrapped in thunder. Almost directly below, the Ranu dreadnoughts lit up, enveloped in white clouds as their gigantic peacemakers opened fire at the riders. Salvo after salvo of deadly metal and explosives whistled through the cloud bank, but the Horsemen came on, untouched and undaunted, a galloping tide of death.

They swept across the dreadnought line, dragging the storm in their wake, and the ships erupted simultaneously, fireballs shooting skyward with such speed and ferocity that they engulfed the dragon eggs. Even before the flames peaked in intensity, they were consumed by the wind and downpour of the storm.

Meg banked sharply and raced back towards the doomed city, straining her tiny bird frame to its limit to outpace the charging Horsemen. The chance to save all the people was long gone, but if she could save at least some then she would have a tiny victory. She flew low over the rooftops, between the higher chimneys and spires, and landed at the end of a wide road filled with panicking people streaming towards the countryside.
She resumed her human form and conjured a brightly glowing portal between two buildings.

‘This way!’ she yelled. ‘Through the portal!’

Terrified, people scrambled back from the apparition. Three men produced peacemakers and took aim. As they fired, Meg vanished and a magpie took flight.

The Horsemen were already charging across the city, laying it to waste, dissolving the ambitions and dreams of its people to dust. She felt the buffet of the wind and knew there was nothing more she could do. Targa was already dead. As lightning crackled perilously close, she banked and dropped through the portal she had created to save the people, and closed it in her wake.

‘Three days,’ she told the hastily assembled group at the makeshift table in the throne room. Abreotan’s sword hilt lay conspicuously before them, ruby, emerald, diamond and amber gems glimmering in the magic light of the floating sphere. ‘They came to Targa from the north-east.’

‘Then they’ll come here from the south,’ said A Ahmud Ki. ‘There’s little for them to gain by sweeping up the spine of the Ureykeyu Mountains. They’ll come from across the Lake of Tears, through Port Light.’

‘How many people can we get out of those places before they arrive?’ Inheritor asked.

‘They won’t listen,’ said A Ahmud Ki, and he looked at Meg for support.

She nodded. ‘I tried to get people through a portal in Targa. They were too terrified.’

‘I told General Shavez to evacuate the people from Lightsword last night,’ A Ahmud Ki added.

‘There’s no sign of people leaving,’ Chase reported. ‘Nothing seems to have changed in the city.’

‘Except for those things in the air,’ said Hunter. ‘There were seven last count.’

‘Dragon eggs,’ said Cutter. ‘Your impressive dismissal of the general last evening stirred up a hornets’ nest.’ He gave A Ahmud Ki a laconic smile.

‘What happened?’ Meg asked.

‘For later,’ A Ahmud Ki said. He stood and crossed to the swordsmith’s rudimentary workshop where he began inspecting the items. ‘What happens next is between Meg, the swordsmith and me,’ he announced with his back to the group.

He turned to address Inheritor. ‘Shortly, the fate of everyone in this castle and everyone north and west of here will rest entirely in your hands.’ He shifted his attention to Cutter. ‘Take the king outside for sword practice. He’s going to need it.’ Then to Hunter: ‘Fetch the swordsmith from wherever he is.’

Meg approached A Ahmud Ki as everyone at the table responded to his directions. ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

His eyes softened. ‘Be young for me.’

Taken aback by his unexpected flirtation, she stared at him for an explanation, which made him laugh.

‘You have so much power and no real idea how to use it,’ he said. ‘I wasted a lifetime chasing what you have.’

‘But you have it now.’

‘No,’ he replied and his smile faded. ‘It has me.’ He reached for her hands and said again, ‘Be young for me.’

The earnestness in his voice and face touched her. She imagined the years rolling away until she was back in Summerbrook, after her first terrible encounter with the Demon Horsemen, just before she married Button Tailor. Her hair became long and thick and red, her figure lithe, her green eyes sparkled with energy. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were
slender, unmarked by age. When she gazed into A Ahmud Ki’s grey eyes she saw her reflection there; the young woman she’d almost forgotten peering back at her. And she saw wonder in his expression.

‘More beautiful even than I remembered,’ he whispered, and lifted her hands to his lips to kiss them tenderly. As he lowered them, he said, ‘Thank you.’

Meg was about to tell him how she had despised her looks when she was young, but broke off at the sound of shuffling footsteps entering the chamber.

‘This is Gerud Alfwyrt,’ said A Ahmud Ki, welcoming the old man. ‘His family have been master swordsmiths for generations. Unfortunately, his sons and grandsons moved into manufacturing peacemakers. More profit. When Gerud dies, the craft of his forefathers will be lost.’

‘I have good apprentices, Sir,’ Gerud replied.

A Ahmud Ki winked at the old man. ‘And they are outstanding craftsmen,’ he acknowledged, ‘but they are not swordsmiths. You said so yourself.’

The old man shook his head. ‘Too true. They know how to make a sword but they don’t feel it. They don’t understand that every sword is unique, with its own character; that it is shaped to suit a single wielder. They know the craft but not the art.’

‘And your art is what we need,’ A Ahmud Ki told him. He moved from Meg’s side, took the swordsmith’s arm and led him to the table. ‘See?’

The old man stared at the gem-encrusted hilt and his face became enraptured. ‘This is very old work,’ he whispered. ‘Ancient work.’ He looked up at A Ahmud Ki. ‘This comes from the Bretan period.’

‘You would know of the swords of legend,’ said A Ahmud Ki. ‘This is one of them.’

Gerud’s hand trembled as he reached forward to touch the hilt, his fingers reverently stroking the
dragon-head pommel. ‘This is not possible. Only one sword like this was ever made.’ He looked at A Ahmud Ki again. ‘This isn’t possible.’

‘Anything is possible,’ said A Ahmud Ki.

Gerud withdrew his hand. ‘I can’t make a blade for this.’

‘You must,’ said A Ahmud Ki.

‘But this weapon,’ Gerud said, his voice trembling like his hands, ‘this is not the work of a man. This is the work of the gods.’

‘This sword wasn’t made by gods,’ said A Ahmud Ki. ‘The Elvenaar crafted it.’

Gerud looked back at the hilt and Meg saw covetousness mixed with his reverence. ‘I am unworthy,’ he said, shaking his head.

A Ahmud Ki took the old man’s arm again. ‘You are the only living person who can replicate the skills needed to craft the blade. Look at me.’

The old man’s eyes widened with shock as A Ahmud Ki’s age melted away and he returned to his younger self, the half-Aelendyell chancellor of the Andrakian kingdom.

‘Let me go!’ Gerud screamed, but A Ahmud Ki kept a firm grip on his arm.

‘I am the sole surviving descendant of the Elvenaar,’ he said. ‘I was known as Terin of Solweonyn among the Aelendyell and I inherited all that was taught in the
Book of Lore
.’ He released Gerud’s arm and the old man retreated several stumbling steps, staring in fear at the living legend before him.

‘All that you need to remake the blade for Abreotan’s sword is here,’ A Ahmud Ki continued. ‘You will be guided by my friend. She is wise in the ways of the Elvenaar.’

I don’t know anything of the Elvenaar ways
, thought Meg in alarm. She saw the old man cowering before the
Dragonlord and wondered why she had never dreamed of this moment. Why were some things clear and others never revealed?

‘You have work to do, my friend,’ A Ahmud Ki said to Gerud. ‘Liquefy the metal first, and include what you need to temper it, then the major ingredient must be added before you pour the mould.’

‘There’s no kiln, no bellows, no fire,’ Gerud complained, his fear dissipating.

‘Put the metal in the vat. We’ll create the heat,’ said A Ahmud Ki. He looked to Meg. ‘Can you heat the vat for Gerud?’

She approached the equipment, applied a spell to the squat maroon vat, and in moments it was radiating heat. ‘How hot?’ she asked.

Gerud lifted a lump of grey rock and dropped it into the vat and watched. ‘Hotter,’ he instructed. Meg increased the temperature. ‘Hotter,’ he ordered again. The rock began to liquefy. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘There. Keep it there.’

She stabilised the spell, conscious of her body beginning to sweat in the tremendous heat, and Gerud added lumps of metal and powders.

‘Come with me,’ said A Ahmud Ki. She followed him from the throne room, through a corridor and onto a platform suspended above the chasm at the castle’s centre.

‘Do you know what this was?’ he asked. She shook her head.

‘It was a dragon lair. Andrakis Va’Ristrin Nyavardenet made this plateau his redoubt. It had a chute straight down into the heart of the plateau, which his dragons used to come and go. The river was the water source. He kept an army here for a time, then moved it to another place, where I found it.’ He took her hand and gazed into her green eyes. ‘I was everything you read in the books.’

‘I know,’ she replied.

He smiled as if her answer satisfied him. ‘There are things I need to teach you, certain Elvenaar wards and bindings that you must ensure are added to the finished weapon.’

‘But you can do that,’ she said.

‘I will be dead.’

The finality of his statement made her shudder. ‘It has to be
all
of your blood, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘Now, the glyph I’ve created to keep the government and the army away from the castle has to become your glyph. Before this forging process begins, you have to ensure the glyph is securely in place.’ She nodded.

‘And something else,’ he said. He stepped back and opened his black robe, unlaced his tunic and pressed his hand against his chest. He concentrated, his eyes closed, his face contorted with pain and effort, and everything about him began to alter, to grow older. The cloak transformed back into his white presidential suit, his hair became shorter and whiter, his complexion lost its radiance. He sighed, as if waking from a long dream, opened his eyes and held out his hand towards her. In his palm glowed a sliver of amber.

‘Take it,’ he said. ‘You can’t bleed me if I keep that. We heal, remember?’

Trembling, Meg took the amber. Tears were welling in her eyes and she was lost for words.

‘Now you have to listen to me very closely,’ he said. ‘I have ancient secrets to teach you. The Elvenaar did more than put their blood into the blade, and now you have to do what they did to protect it. And when I am finished teaching you the secrets, you will take my blood.’

Meg wanted to scream at him. She wanted to scream at the gods, at Jarudha, at whoever or whatever it was that fixed their destinies. She wanted to scream at the Seers, at Mareg, at herself for the existence of the Demon Horsemen. There had to be another way. There had to be.

‘The museum had its uses,’ A Ahmud Ki murmured. He was stretched out on a low marble bench, his arms dangling above twin golden bowls taken from the ancient kingdom’s museum exhibits, blood flowing from long cuts in his veins. The colour was draining from his face. ‘It won’t take much longer,’ he rasped.

She wanted to grab his arms and heal the wounds, stop this madness, die with him in the face of the Horsemen.

‘No,’ he murmured. She looked into his grey eyes. They were duller. ‘You can’t stop this, Meg. I finally beat Mareg.’ A faint smile creased his cheeks. ‘Remember the Elvenaar runes in the blade.’

She wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘I won’t forget,’ she told him.

‘I won’t forget you,’ he whispered and closed his eyes.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘No!’ And clenched her fists. She wanted to beat his chest, force him to stop dying. ‘I love you,’ she cried softly, sobbing. ‘I love you.’

His lips moved faintly, forming the word ‘love’, and froze.

Only now did she understand why she had dreamed of A Ahmud Ki standing before her. Tears rolling down her face, she carried the heavy golden bowl of his blood from the museum to the throne room, where the swordsmith was stirring the molten liquid in his vat.