“Aye, he remembers you well enough. Has done ever since you were a lass. They don’t forget you know.”
“I know,” she said thinking that might be a few more betrayals before this particular adventure was done. Ah well, what was one more act of treachery in a life full of them.
She waited for the sun.
“I see no sign of your father, mistress,” said the Keeper, squinting out into the gloom.”
“Saddle Ironfang. I want him ready.” The keeper made the signal with his staff, and Ironfang crouched, wings flexing slightly. He sniffed the air, his long tongue flickering outward, a sure sign of excitement in a dragon. He knew he was going to fly.
The handlers wheeled the saddling platform into place, climbed up it and strapped the saddle on at the base of his neck. Ironfang growled as the hooks of the control harness went into his nostrils and inner ears, but he knew better than to fight it. Tamara was relieved. Sometimes dragons became rebellious just for the sake of it, and that might prove disastrous this morning.
She had to fight down the urge to go outside and check for Xephan’s men. They might be waiting for her even now. Well, if they were, they would be in for a surprise. Ironfang was a war-dragon, and a fierce one.
After what felt like hours the Keeper was satisfied. Tamara did not rush him. A badly fitted saddle and harness might be fatal once she was in the air. A broken strap could result in a long fall.
“Take him out,” she said. The Keeper looked at her again. Technically that was an order that only a dragon’s master could give, and that was her father. “Hurry. Every second counts.”
The Keeper grumbled but gave the signal to the handlers. He was used to her father’s strange comings and goings. The handlers took the control reins and led the old monster out into the light.
He looked magnificent as the sun caught his scales. In daylight, there were few sights to compare to an old dragon getting ready to fly. Ironfang was excited now, flexing his wings experimentally. Even in the tunnel’s mouth she could feel the backdrafts of air swirling as they caught the breeze.
She pulled the heavy leather flying suit over her courier’s costume, ignoring the stares she got from the servants. It was good to have as many layers of clothing as possible on while dragon-mounted. It got very cold up there. She wrapped a scarf around her neck and put on the helmet. It had been designed with a slit to trap her plaited hair. She took the crystal goggles and strapped them on to her forehead. She settled her bag over her shoulders and pulled on the leather gloves.
“Looks like your father has arrived, Milady,” said one of the handlers. Tamara followed his pointing fingers and saw the cloud of dust as a pack of riders raced up the driveway towards the mansion.
Tamara smiled at them as she pulled herself up the ladder and into the foresaddle. She began to strap herself in.
“Milady, you are in the wrong saddle,” said the Keeper. “You should be pillion-mounted.”
Tamara checked the oncoming riders. They had noticed the dragon on the hillside and milled around outside the mansion. Dragons frightened horses and normally they would not approach save under sorcerous control. After a few moments, they began riding towards the Dragon Pit. That was one question answered. There was at least one magician down there, most likely more. It was time to be going.
She took up the reins. She heard warning shouts from below. She had definitely strayed into dangerous territory now. The Keeper and his men shouted for her to stop. She shook her head, feeling she owed them a warning.
“Run before those riders get here. They will kill you,” she shouted. She extended her power once more. She was not the sorcerer her father had been, nor would she ever be so great a dragon rider, but she had enough strength to forge the link between mount and mage.
She felt Ironfang’s presence in her mind, just as he could feel hers in his. She touched that jagged alien intelligence, felt the complex weave of calculation floating above the sea of raw animal appetite. She felt the old dragon’s enormous strength of mind flow over her. To complicate matters she was female and Ironfang was male, and there were reasons why male rider and male dragon were usually paired.
She pushed back, letting Ironfang know she was not be intimidated or dominated. She sensed something like amusement in his mind at her daring, and then the fierce thrust of his will against her own. She gritted her teeth and called upon her internal energy, pushing back hard, and the moment of crisis passed leaving her in control.
Exultation flowed over her. The dragon was hers. She tugged the upper reins and its wings snapped open. The dragon bounded forward. She felt its enormous muscles bunch and swell beneath her. The wind whipped past her face. The wings cracked like the sails of a schooner catching the breeze and moments later Ironfang was aloft.
It was all she could do to keep from crying out with triumph. She looked down on the tops of trees, and watched fences and hedges dwindle beneath her as the dragon gained altitude. In the distance some of the onrushing cavalry had drawn pistols. One of the mages had produced a lightning lash, an ancient weapon of formidable power, strong enough to harm a wyrm or even a dragon. He waved it backwards and forwards and its tip glowed as bright as the sun. In seconds he might even have gathered enough power to strike the dragon.
She tugged the reins and used her mental link to urge Ironfang ever higher. He responded magnificently, wings beating harder and faster he raced towards the clouds, and then banking hard she sent him arrowing towards the distant West.
Chapter Fifteen
“I don’t like the look of this,” said the Barbarian. “Not at all.”
Sardec had to agree with him. There was something about this place that set his teeth on edge. The village was quieter than any he had ever seen save those ravaged by war, and this place looked untouched. All the buildings were intact. There were no signs of pillage but the chimneys gave forth no smoke and no animals or children played in the street.
The cavalry had swept through the place earlier and detected no signs of life. It was not along the main route of the army, but perhaps it could provide supplies. They had been assigned to investigate it, just in case. Rumour had it that they were fast approaching the outriders of the Eastern armies and Azaar wanted everything looked at it.
“Maybe the villagers fled when they heard we were coming,” said Toadface, licking his lips with his long tongue.
“Can’t say as I would blame them,” said Weasel. He radiated a feral alertness as he surveyed their surroundings. He obviously felt uneasy too. The sun was low in the sky and something told Sardec that this would be no place to be after dark.
“Deaders,” he said. “I think we’re going to find them here, if anywhere.”
No one disagreed with him. “May as well check out the tavern. See if there is anything worth taking. Check the houses as well. Groups of four. Cover each other. Be careful.”
“No drinking if you find any booze,” Sardec ordered. “I want every man able to fight if we’re attacked.”
For once there were no protests. All of them felt as he did. There was something wrong about this place. Sergeant Hef looked at him meaningfully.
“The locals might have left in a hurry, sir. Taken to the roads. Maybe they wanted to get out of the way of the war.”
“You sound about as convinced of that as I am, Sergeant.” Hef made a rueful grimace and spat on the ground.