“I trust him,” she told them. “The gift you have given is gratefully received. But he is one, and the White has many in its thrall, and he tells the truth of it; if the White lives, we will perish.”
The giants’ rumbling became a discordant rattle that sounded like an avalanche. They reared back from Clay and Ethelynne, eye-beams lancing into the darkened sky as they let out a roar. Clay staggered under the weight of the sound, feeling as if it were tearing into him, pulling him apart. The surrounding vision shattered and swirled into a maelstrom of gravel, Clay feeling the sting of it in his skin, a sting that soon grew into a sharp continuous pain.
“A drake’s mind laid bare,” Ethelynne told him, standing placidly amidst the swirl. “Not something a human mind can stand for long, but he has to do this to call to them.”
She moved to Clay, reaching out to take his hands, which, he saw, were bleeding from a thousand or more tiny cuts. “Good-bye, Claydon,” she said with a warm smile. “It’s probably best if you don’t visit again. Not for a long time anyway. But, if you ever get the chance, do see if you can recover my note-books.”
He tried to reply but his mouth filled with gravel that burned like a swarm of tiny bees. Ethelynne gave a sympathetic wince and leaned forward to press a kiss to his cheek.
He blinked awake to find his gaze immediately assaulted by a bright beam of sunlight streaming through the jungle canopy. Letting out a grunt of pain he sat up, blinking watery eyes until Kriz’s concerned face came into focus. “How long?” he asked.
“A day,” she said. “And a night.”
Time moves differently in the trance, he remembered.
The tread of clawed feet on soft ground drew his gaze to Lutharon as he turned about, sinking to his haunches and angling his back towards them. Clay felt a faint sensation of impatience which he quickly realised wasn’t his own. Before his connection with Lutharon had been a vague thing, often feeling like he was trying to communicate through a thick fog. Now the drake’s mind was a clear and constant presence in his own. It was similar to his connection to Jack, but somehow felt deeper, Lutharon’s mind stronger and more coherent than the often-confused and scared soul Clay had poured into the fractured mess of Jack’s mind.
“Looks like we’re going somewhere,” he said, getting to his feet.
“We’re going to ride it?” Kriz asked with a doubtful pitch to her voice he knew had once coloured his own when presented with the same option.
“Him,” Clay corrected. “And it’s easy once you know how. Ain’t no skill to it. Just a matter of holding on and letting him take you where he wants to go.”
He moved to retrieve the Black crystal, which lay a few feet away, now shrunk once again into a small shard. Unsure whether it would be needed again but certain it would be a bad idea to leave it behind, he consigned it to his pack and strode towards the waiting drake.
Kriz took some coaxing to climb up behind him. Lutharon seemed to have abandoned his previous antipathy towards her and barely shuddered when she tentatively grasped one of his spines, but she retained an understandable nervousness.
“He hasn’t forgotten, has he?” she asked having finally settled herself onto Lutharon’s back.
“I don’t think they can forget,” Clay said. “But they do recognise more pressing concerns. Hold on,” he added as Lutharon flared his wings, “and if you throw up, don’t do it on me.”
A short loping sprint and they were air-borne, Lutharon pushing them higher with a few beats of his wings. The jungle fell away into a vast green blanket broken by the mist-shrouded, wedge-shaped bulk of the mountains. Clay let out a laugh at the familiar thrill of flying, something it turned out he had missed greatly, although he had forgotten how chilled the air could get only a few hundred feet off the ground.
Lutharon angled his wings and flew south, gliding for a time as he let out a long, loud call. It was different than the other calls Clay had heard him make, pitched higher than a roar but with a sustained volume that ensured it would carry for miles. The mountains and the jungle slipped beneath them for the length of several miles before he saw it, another winged shape gliding through the sparse mist below. Lutharon let out another call, identical to the first, and this time there was an answer. The other drake repeated the call as it rose to fly level with Lutharon. It was a young male perhaps two-thirds Lutharon’s size, coiling its neck to take in the sight of Clay and Kriz but displaying no sign of aggression.
Lutharon banked and began to fly in a wide circle, he and the other male continuing to call out. Another reply sounded to the rear and Clay looked over his shoulder to see two more Blacks rising to follow, with three more behind. Within the space of an hour the sky around them became filled with drakes, Clay losing count at twenty as it became impossible to keep track of them all as the ever-growing flock swirled around. The sound of their calls was extraordinary, a vast chorus of greeting and agreement that thrummed the air for miles around.
Clay leaned over Lutharon’s side to peer down at the mountains below, seeing drake after drake rise from the broad summits. He also saw that not all the Blacks were answering the call. Some looked up at the huge whirlwind of drakes in obvious agitation but showed no inclination to join it.
Guess they ain’t your kin, huh? he thought, running a hand over the scaly patch at the base of Lutharon’s neck.
It went on for over an hour by which time they were flying in shadow, so great were the number of wings obscuring the sun. Lutharon let out a final call, longer and louder than the others, and the great flock of Blacks answered with a vast cry of their own, so loud Clay’s ears throbbed with it. Lutharon levelled out, the jungle seeming to blur beneath them as he beat his wings, a thousand or more Black drakes following as he flew south.
They found the Longrifles trekking through the bush-country south of the jungle, keeping close to the tall cliffs that marked this stretch of the southern Arradsian coast. Clay obtained their location from Sigoral via the Blue-less trance, the Corvantine’s thoughts betraying a mounting but tightly controlled alarm at the sight of so many Blacks filling the sky. Lutharon set down a few yards from the company, all formed into a defensive knot with weapons at the ready. Contractor habits were hard to break.
Clay dismounted and went to greet his uncle, receiving a warm but distracted embrace in response as Braddon’s gaze roved constantly over the Blacks as they circled overhead or folded their wings to descend to the cliff-top.
“Seer damn me if you didn’t actually do it, Clay,” he said, fingers twitching on the stock of his rifle.
“Best if you keep that slung, Uncle,” Clay told him. “You really don’t wanna stir up any unpleasant recollections amongst our present company.”
Braddon nodded and slung his rifle over his shoulder, barrel down as marksmen always did, motioning for the others to do the same.
“Seems like you brought every Black in Arradsia,” Loriabeth said, coming forward to hug him.
“Not quite.” Clay raised his eyes to the host above. “Just hope it’s enough.”
“Reckon we’ll find out soon enough,” Braddon said. “Great many Reds flew over three days gone. We hunkered down in a fissure in one of the cliffs so they didn’t see. Next day we saw more Greens than I have in my life, all moving in one great pack.”
“Where to?” Clay asked.
“Same as the Reds, south.”
“Stockcombe.” He moved to the cliff edge, shielding his eyes to peer at the distant flank of the peninsular which led to the port. The White, he thought. Should’ve known it’d keep looking.