The Dusk Watchman: Book Five of The Twilight Reign (67 page)

He opened his eyes, rocked back by the buffeting winds, but still held steady by the sword. His shoulder screaming, his clothes billowing, Isak added his own voice, howling his pain up to an unhearing sky. The clouds roiled and the sun was driven off as even the air was ripped open by the deadlight of Termin Mystt.

Isak forced his head down and tried to make out the plain through the swirling magic surrounding him. Great rifts appeared in the ground, and as he watched, half-blinded by pain, the rents were savagely pulled open. The wild magic shook the ground and worried its wounds with a frantic fury. Ear-splitting crashes detonated as the plain opened up and three, then four enormous cracks in the ground started racing towards the enemy, a hundred yards long, then two hundred, swallowing the nearest of the cavalry, covering others in dust before the fissures finally stopped.

The cliff-edges of each rift shuddered all the while, the ground crumbling further with every passing moment. Isak watched them fall, while from below clouds of stinking smoke were expelled by the force of their collapse, and faint trails of red light tinted the sheer earth walls on either side.

Soon a huge wedge of ground ahead had fallen away completely, spreading out from where Isak knelt. The entire centre was broken up: a barrier to both forces if they still intended to fight.

For a time only red-lit clouds of dust were visible, but then he heard a sound, one he knew only too well: the heave of pained breath, the scrape and rasp of a body dragged over rock, the clank of huge chains.

Something moved below him and forced its way up the jagged slope he had created. He could see little, but he turned his head up to the sky and watched the distant dragons peer down from their far positions. The magic spent, they came closer once more. He could see their necks craned forward, their wings outstretched to steady themselves as they stared down.

‘I’ll see your dragons,’ Isak croaked, his throat dry and aching, ‘and I’ll raise you.’

The white dragons swooped closer, scenting power within the wedge-shaped crater, but unsure what they faced. They flew with the staggered creep of hunting animals, their growing hunger driving each other forward. It wasn’t the scent of prey on the air; even these mindless creations would know that, but they had been created to kill and now the scent of death hung thick around him.

They obeyed their compulsion, ignoring Isak as they came to the edge of the crater, hissing with savage desire. In the dimmed light they looked ghostly, but their claws and teeth were obsidian-black and more terrible than ever. The larger dropped to all fours, wings held high above its back, ready to take flight once more as it quested and snapped at the air.

A roar greeted it, an ear-splitting challenge that had purple stars bursting before Isak’s eyes even as he cringed from the sound. Through the smoke he watched the white dragon tense and crouch, ready to move, either in attack or escape – while from the darkness another winged shape slowly emerged. It roared again, wings also raised, but forever held crooked and stiff above its back. It was soot-black and massive, with a brutal horned snout and mad red eyes. The ragged, smoky wings cast an unnatural shadow over its awkward body. It was hampered both by the great chains that tethered it and the savage, unhealed wounds gouged from its rotting flesh, but still the Jailer of the Dark advanced on its smaller cousin, roaring.

Now Isak could see the terrible slashes oozing black-red ichor that Xeliath had inflicted as she fought it on the slopes of Ghain; only its unnatural strength allowed it to move with such injuries. Once again he felt the hot ache of loss for the fearless woman who’d died at this dragon’s claws.

The white dragon wove its head left and right, still hesitant, but its companion had no such uncertainties: it screamed an answer to the challenge and leaped forward, throwing itself down from the edge of the crater to strike across the newcomer’s back. Its claws tore into the larger dragon’s wings, tearing ribbons from the membrane as bones snapped under the weight. The Jailer rode the assault and lashed forward with its blade-tipped tail, punching a hole in the smaller dragon’s wing before stabbing its side and causing shocking scarlet blood to fly.

The other hurled itself forward, claws extended, and the Jailer wrenched itself around, half-dodging to one side despite the weight on its back, and its teeth caught the dragon’s left foot, snagged it and dragged it off-balance. The white dragon’s claws were scrabbling for purchase on the rocks while its wings slapped at the smoke-laden air, trying to regain its balance. The tattered black dragon didn’t give it time to recover but shot its head out with shocking speed and caught it by the wing.

It dragged its prey closer, and both beasts reared with their claws extended, but the Jailer was by far the bigger and with ease it pushed past the white dragon’s defences and caught its arm. The white dragon twisted to bite its captor, but the Jailer pinned its other forelimb and raked a claw down its scale-armoured neck before continuing its assault, rocking from side to side to dislodge the one on its back.

It snapped and bit down on the white dragon’s wing, crushing it, before releasing and wrenching itself around to deal with the one half-perched on its back. It used its tail to tangle the other, which was quick to try and escape, but the combination of tail and huge iron chains snagged it and it found itself writhing and twisting to try and work its way free. Then the Jailer brought its huge claws to bear. One rear foot pinned the shoulder and it raked its claws horribly along the belly before gripping its enemy’s forelimb with its mouth. As it tore at the shoulder with its free claws, ripping open the scaled skin, the Jailer heaved backwards with all its Gods-cursed strength.

Isak heard an enormous crunch as the joint distended. The white dragon’s desperate clawing broke off as it screeched in pain, but the Jailer was remorseless and worked the ruined limb back and forwards. Bones snapped, flesh tore, and at last it heaved its prize free as the white dragon screeched and shuddered, bright blood pumping furiously from the wound.

The Jailer, seeing the other scrabbling back up the slope in an effort to escape, left its stricken prey. With its undamaged wing flailing frantically, the white dragon limped forward like an injured bird, pushed off-balance by its own efforts. The Jailer of the Dark was hampered by its own injuries and chains, and the white dragon reached the top of the crater and started to creep back towards the Devoted lines, but before it could go far, the larger beast caught hold of its tail.

The Jailer used its hold to haul its own brutalised body forward, viscous ichor oozing sluggishly from its wounds. In full view of the Devoted army, the Jailer bit down and tore free a great chunk of flesh, wrenching its head back as it did so and casting an arc of blood through the air above them. The scarlet-splattered white dragon tried to turn and fight, but it was pinned by the Jailer, which crushed the smaller beast’s forelimbs in its huge jaws while the crescent-blade of the Jailer’s tail chopped away at its flanks.

With savage exultation the Jailer of the Dark ripped at the dying thing in its claws. One forelimb had been torn clean away; the other had been chopped in two. The Jailer broke one thick hind leg before moving on to the dying dragon’s throat, tearing it open, then dipping its horned snout again and again into the bloody wound until the neck was half-severed and it could bite the head off entirely.

The huge black dragon stared out towards the Devoted army, blood pouring from the dead thing in its jaws. It tossed the head aside and bellowed a challenge to any still brave enough to meet it. Isak watched the Jailer and remembered the stories he’d heard about it: the all-consuming pride that led it to defy the Gods – and the strength to somehow resist even Death, forcing the Gods to chain it instead.

He looked down at the sword in his hand. His fingers were numb with the power shaking through Termin Mystt, and the raised scars on his blackened hand were bright in the half-light as magic surged through them. With an effort he forced himself upright, resting all his weight on the sword until he could arrange his trembling legs beneath him.

In the crater, the dragon was straining at its great chains. Isak gritted his teeth and heaved at the sword, but at first, barely able to feel his arm, he could not move it, unable to bring his strength to bear. He resisted the temptation to wrap his other hand around the grip. Instead, he stood over the black sword and tried again, crying out in private agony as the magic fought him and his ruined body disobeyed.

But then it moved – Isak felt the slight give, and so did the dragon, sensing the drag back to Ghain. It turned to face this new threat, but Isak ignored it, closing his eyes and focusing on the task at hand. The dragon started towards him, but the sword gave another inch and the huge chains jerked hard at the Jailer. It strained to fight, but Isak heaved with everything he had, and every inch he drew the sword out of the ground, the dragon was hauled back another dozen yards until it disappeared behind the hanging curtain of smoke and Isak felt the resistance give. With a great roar he pulled Termin Mystt free of the earth and sensed the ground close up over the Jailer of the Dark. The great, accursed dragon was once more sealed in its place of torment.

Isak staggered backwards and fell. He heard voices, shouting behind him, but he could not make out the words. Fatigue struck him like a blow. The Land turned to black and then he felt nothing at all.

CHAPTER 33

Doranei felt something nudge his elbow. When he bothered to look up, High Mage Endine was offering him a bottle. The King’s Man grunted and took it, not even bothering to sniff the contents before taking a long swig.

‘Easy,’ Endine said, patting him on the shoulder, ‘that’s the good stuff.’ He walked around Doranei and sat opposite him, staring at him over the fitful flames of a cooking fire. It was late and most had turned in for the night, ready to be up at dawn, but Doranei had wanted some time alone and that was in scant supply on the march.

‘Apricot brandy?’

Endine beamed. ‘Indeed!’

Doranei took another gulp. ‘Goes down well enough – smooth as a virgin’s tit.’ He paused and inspected the bottle. ‘Where’d you get this from? There’s a bitter almonds flavour at the back of it.’

‘I tested it for poison first.’ Endine laughed. ‘You think I’m such a fool I’d just accept the finest spirits in the kingdom turning up free without a little suspicion?’

‘Why in the name of the Dark Place did it turn up at all?’

‘A small part of the resupply consignment – some merchant from Canar Fell, one of those old pirates the king befriended during the wars of conquest and made rich after. The man rode into camp a few hours back, at the head of a wagon-train, food, weapons – even bloody horses.’

‘Free?’ Doranei asked between gulps.

‘Well, not quite free. I asked Dashain about it. It appears our friend Count Antern has been busy these last few months back in Narkang, making deals, selling concessions or assets – Antern’s mortgaged half the nation, as far as I can tell, and the credit extended to the Crown has been – well, I doubt even the Brotherhood could have bullied such terms out of the nobility and merchant houses.’

Doranei gave a snort and shifted to a more comfortable position. ‘Antern’s mortgaged the nation? Aye, the king’s a man of forward thinking, no doubt about that.’

‘What do you mean?’

The King’s Man gave him a sour smile. As much as he’d drunk since they’d eaten, his brain was still working all too well. ‘The prosperity of Narkang – you think that was a selfless act?’

‘It’s a fine legacy for any king.’

‘Aye, well, sure it is. You’re a member of the Di Senego Club, right? Where the king collects intellectuals and the like? There’re a lot of merchants on the membership rolls too: all men who owe the king more than a few favours. They got help over the years, and now they’re all figures of note in their particular trades. But haven’t you ever noticed the common thread in those trades?’

Endine frowned. ‘Perhaps – but what king wouldn’t involve himself in such things? He’s long admired Farlan horse-breeding, and the population’s increased in the last few decades, so food production has to be able to keep up.’

‘Iron ore and leatherworkers, too,’ Doranei said. ‘Our responsible king, putting these merchants in the same room as inventors and mages of all types; no other reason for it, I’m sure.’

‘What are you saying?’

The King’s Man pushed himself to his feet. ‘This nation he built, these men he surrounded himself with: now these merchants are falling over themselves to support his war effort, all ready at a few weeks’ notice to lead supply-trains into a lawless warzone.’ He spat into the fire. ‘It’s almost like he knew one day he’d want to wage a war of some sort and built a nation to service it.’

‘What? That was his motivation?’

‘Pah, who don’t like power too? It’s not been a hard life for a man like him, being king – when you’re that clever it’s always good to make sure the whole Land knows it. And the richer Narkang became, the better he could fight his secret war. Before his sister died, screaming about shadows with claws, he was just some nobleman drinking and whoring his way through life, forever looking for a use for that big brain o’ his.’

‘And that’s all the nation is to him?’

Doranei shrugged and belched. ‘Maybe, maybe not. Who’s to say? You ever thought you knew his mind, truly?’

‘Narkang and the Three Cities is just a machine for this war, one built over two decades?’ Endine gasped. ‘No, there must be more to it than that – one loss doesn’t define a man like that. He’s not Vorizh – he’s not so cold that he’d see us just as tools—’

‘Sure, if you say so. He’s not one for being ruthless, our king, that’s for sure. All gentle smiles and gracious waving at the commoners; no surrounding himself with murderers and madmen who drag fucking great dragons out o’ Ghenna itself.’ Doranei made a show of looking down at himself, prodding the brigandine he wore and pretending surprise at the sword hanging from his hip. His point made, the King’s Man swung around and stared out at the dark camp beyond.