But the right moment never came. Or else he hesitated whenever one of the wyrmkeepers glanced elsewhere or he got a quarter step farther ahead of them, and so lost his opportunities. They all rounded the big, patched tent containing the armorers’ portable forge, and they were facing the paddock where the drakkensteeds were waiting.
The reptiles gave odd cries, harsh, yet low and tremulous, when they spied their masters. They already had their saddles cinched around their middles and their saddlebags buckled in place, and they crouched down to make it easy to mount when the priests and their prisoners were still several paces away.
“Put them on the steeds one at a time,” Sphorrid said. “The boy first.”
Oraxes’s particular captor shoved him forward then backhanded him across the ear when he tried to mount. “Not in the saddle, blasphemer,” growled the priest. “In front of it.”
That made for a precarious and uncomfortable perch, with the drakkensteed’s vertebrae digging into Oraxes’s tender parts. Still, as the priest looked down to clip his fighting pick to the saddle, he thought Lady Luck might finally have given him his chance. But no, curse it, it wasn’t so, not with two of the other wyrmkeepers still hovering right behind Meralaine.
Oraxes’s keeper mounted behind him, buckled the straps that would hold him in his seat, and pulled his dagger from its sheath. Meralaine’s special guard got her and himself situated in the same way. Sphorrid and the other acolyte swung themselves onto their drakkensteeds. Then the reptiles rose, scuttled, lashed their batlike wings, and climbed into the air. The camp and Mourktar fell away beneath them.
This is it, Oraxes thought, clinging to the beast beneath him as best he could. As soon as we’re clear of the Brotherhood, they’ll set down again, gag us, and bind our hands. Then we really won’t have a chance. If I’m going to make a move, it has to be now.
But what move could that be when it was a struggle just to keep from sliding off the drakkensteed and his captor’s dagger was poised at his back? What would Gaedynn do?
Even in the midst of his desperation, he noticed that was a strange thought for him. He wasn’t used to wondering what others might do, probably because, when he was growing up in squalor in Luthcheq’s arcane quarter, who had there ever been worth emulating? Certainly not his teacher, an able wizard, but a bitter, drunken wreck of a man in every other way.
He shoved such useless reflections and memories aside. Think, curse it! Think, think, think!
Like a griffon, the drakkensteed had no reins. Was it possible that a rider controlled such a reptile in the same way, with voice commands and by touching it on the neck? Could the system of signals be the same for both sorts of creature?
Oraxes didn’t know, but maybe he could find out. His hands were already on the drakkensteed’s scaly, bony neck. Indeed, he could hardly have lifted them away without risking a tumble.
He surreptitiously pressed his right index finger into the reptile’s neck. It turned a hair in that direction. Oraxes held his breath while he waited for the man behind him to react but he didn’t. The shift had been too minimal to capture his attention.
Oraxes slid his finger half an inch down the ridge that was the drakkensteed’s spine. The beast lashed its wings and climbed a little. The wyrmkeeper still didn’t react.
All right, then. Oraxes took a breath then, pressing harder, swept his whole hand toward the drakkensteed’s head. The reptile furled its wings and plummeted.
The wyrmkeeper cried out in surprise. And at that instant, when he was presumably intent on asserting control, Oraxes heaved himself backward, smashing the back of his head into the priest’s face.
The man didn’t instantly retaliate with a dagger thrust, so Oraxes assumed he must have stunned him. But he didn’t think he’d hit the whoreson hard enough to knock him out. As the drakkensteed started to level off, he flung his head backward again.
But he failed to connect because something held him away. Dazed or not, the wyrmkeeper had evidently interposed an arm.
Oraxes was lucky it wasn’t the arm with the blade. Otherwise, he would probably have impaled himself. That didn’t make what he had to do any easier. Since he no longer had surprise on his side, his only hope of contending with the priest was to let go of the drakkensteed, twist around, and fight the man more or less face-to-face.
As soon as he turned, he started to topple. When he grabbed the wyrmkeeper, it was as much to anchor himself as to fight him.
The priest’s nose was flattened and streaming blood. He didn’t have the dagger in his hand anymore-he must have dropped it when Oraxes butted him-so he hammered at his captive with both fists. At the same time, he shouted a command in what sounded like Draconic. The drakkensteed started veering back and forth, making it even more difficult for Oraxes to stay on top of it.
Oraxes realized that the wyrmkeeper wasn’t trying to subdue him. The bastard meant to throw him to his death and stood an excellent chance of succeeding. They both knew how to brawl, but the cleric was bigger and stronger and, seated as he was, possessed every other advantage.
Except wizardry. If Oraxes could bring his gift to bear even with the wyrmkeeper mauling him and without a talismanic device to focus his power, he might still have a chance.
Clinging with one hand, struggling to shield himself from his adversary’s bludgeoning fists with the other, he gasped the opening words of an incantation. The acolyte’s eyes widened when he realized what his captive was doing. The man redoubled his efforts to fling or shake Oraxes off the drakkensteed’s back or, failing that, to hurt him sufficiently to make him stumble in the midst of his recitation.
As Oraxes reached the final words of power, the wyrmkeeper grabbed him by the arm he’d been using to block. Oraxes had no way to make the necessary mystical gesture except with the hand he’d been employing to hold on to his foe. He let the cleric go, and now there was nothing except the cleric’s grip keeping him in place.
He could see the realization of that fact dawn in the wyrmkeeper’s face. The man snarled and started to heave him sideways. Oraxes curled his free hand through the necessary pass, thrust it under the priest’s scale-armor chasuble, and grabbed hold of the leather garment beneath.
Force stabbed from his hand just as if he’d cast darts of light, but it passed directly into the wyrmkeeper’s body. The man convulsed, then went limp as a rag doll. Still zigzagging, the drakkensteed made him flop from side to side.
Oraxes was afraid to let go of the corpse, but he had to if he was going to turn back around and try to control the drakkensteed. He did it in one fast, frantic motion, then leaned down over the serpentine neck, so he was lying on the reptile as much as sitting astride it.
He squeezed a fold of skin, giving the command that meant stop what you’re doing. To his relief, the drakkensteed resumed flying in a straight line. Whether or not it understood that one of the humans on its back had just killed the other, it was evidently willing to obey the only rider left.
Oraxes looked around. The sky was somewhat lighter, light enough to reveal the fury and consternation in the faces of the remaining wyrmkeepers. He sneered and started to make a filthy gesture. Then Sphorrid bellowed, “Surrender or we’ll kill Meralaine!”
A jolt of dread obliterated Oraxes’s momentary feeling of satisfaction. But he was sure that if he gave up, he and Meralaine were as good as dead anyway.
“I’m going to fight to the death no matter what!” he shouted back. “If you kill both of us, you won’t have anyone left to question!” At the same time, he made his drakkensteed climb, seeking the advantage of the high air.
It was a sensible tactic to attempt, but he knew he couldn’t afford to let the fight come down to who was the best flyer because it surely wasn’t he. Still a novice when it came to riding griffons, he was bound to prove even clumsier on his current mount. He started another incantation.