88

An Hour Previously

"Keep them safe," said Candle, "make sure Murmux can't escape. And whatever happens, keep him away from Borlowen."

Pasco stood on the beach and looked down at the trussed-up body that was Murmux, the lightning bird. The impundela grinned up at him and blew a lock of his long brown hair out of his eyes.

"That is the name of the Queen of the Undead?" he signed. Candle nodded, before turning her head to the tiny redheaded girl beside Pasco.

"Stay with Pasco, Zephi," she said. "He will look after you."

Pasco looked at the tiny goddess who had been left in his care. Or rather, he looked down at the child that so closely resembled the gods and goddesses he had worshipped so long ago in his youth in the savage wastelands that were the Teurek deserts. He would figure out the truth later. In the meantime, it didn't hurt to be cautious. Pasco bowed to Zephi and she bobbed a curtsey, grinning impudently. The goddess was missing a tooth.

"Have you got something to eat?" she said, with a whining edge to her voice that sounded exactly like any other child. Any other child with silver horns and hair as red as a flame. Pasco swallowed and went to fetch her some of his rations. He handed over some bread and cheese, worried she would be displeased. On the contrary, Zephi sniffed it with great interest and then seated herself next to the bound man to devour her meal. "Do you have any cake?" she asked with her mouth full. Pasco shook his head wonderingly. Instead of being angry the tiny goddess shrugged and offered a piece of cheese to Murmux, who also shook his head.

"You know I prefer a liquid diet," he said.

"I know but I thought you might make an exception for something that smells so nice."

Pasco left them conversing on the beach and went to stand next to Ansel who was watching the flying lessons below. Pasco regarded the scene with not a little wonder. Never in his wildest dreams had he considered this a possibility. But then, gods walked the earth and the gate had fallen, what was one more miracle? He had had dealings with demons and monsters all of his life. On Candle's return, he had expected a tale of woe and of dark bargains made. Not this. Not the discovery of these mighty Ancestors. This would change everything. He blinked, watching his friends swoop and glide, the surface of the ocean shattering into a thousand glittering pieces as a dragon crashed through the waves. They were getting better, he observed. What must it be like to fly? What would the Mester make of it? How much of the country had the dormant dragon blood lying thick in their veins? Your average Havian could name their Ancestors back at least ten generations, sometimes more. It would be an interesting experiment.

After a few more minutes the dragons took to the sky. Pasco and Ansel waved them farewell, before returning, thoughtfully to the bothy at the top of the beach.

"What now?" asked Ansel. The beach seemed suddenly quiet, the deep peace of the night broken only by the gentle lap of the waves and the rustle of the tiny goddess as she drew pictures in the sand with a stick.

"As soon as the moongate is active, we go to the bothy on Sterlester hill," signed Pasco. "That should be the closest to where the breach is. The Own have word. Hopefully, others will join us."

"Will we be able to help, I wonder?" mused Ansel.

"That remains to be seen," signed Pasco. "But we have to try." Ansel nodded, and disappeared into the bothy, emerging with the ugly barbarian weapon he favoured. He sat on the ground and set about cleaning it with calm efficiency.

"What about them," said Ansel, nodding over his head to Zephi and Murmux.

"We'll have to take them with us."

Ansel looked doubtful but didn't comment.

On the hour the moongate activated and Pasco and Ansel were joined by a handful of worried-looking Own.

"The Mester?" he signed urgently.

"We have sent word," said the young woman in charge, her brow furrowed as she looked at Murmux. "She went to attend to an altercation on the border by the Donn but isn't back yet."

"She could be anywhere in the wastes," signed Pasco. "We can't wait for her."

Pasco turned, eying Murmux with deep distrust. Communication was going to be an issue, for while he could understand the lightning bird's words, Murmux did not understand Pasco's sign language. He and Zephi could talk to Pasco but Pasco had no way of responding other than elaborate hand gestures and pictures in the sand. With Candle gone, no one else could speak more than a few words of Old Teurek. It wasn't a skill taught outside of Aetheling circles unless you had the misfortune to be Teurek, like Pasco. In which case it was the language of the gods and hammered into you as a child. Sometimes by force.

The trip through the moongate was short and uneventful. Pasco emerged onto the protected hilltop with the talkative lightning bird over his shoulder and the goddess at his side. All three of them stared up at the carnage in the skies, their mouths open.

"What in the Ancestors name–"

Pasco shook his head and slung Murmux under a rocky outcrop where he would be hidden from sight.

"No time to panic," he signed, to the small group of Own who seemed paralysed, watching the clash of airship and dragons high overhead. He coughed. The smoke was acrid and foul. It reminded him of the funeral fires of his home. The smell of burning flesh and worse hung in the warm night air like a disease. "No time," he repeated, "get your weapons set up and let's see what we can do to help."

"Which dragons are ours again?" one young man asked, his hand shaking as he drew back his bow, following a lightning bird with the tip of his arrow but not shooting.

"If you are unclear, aim for the birds. Or the barbarians. Or those imps or the dead. The dragons are too high to hit anyway."

The Own got to work, setting their nerves aside, although hands shook. Here and there lips quivered. The knoll was protected by enchantments of illusion and Pasco hoped that in the chaos of battle no one would spot them, at least for a time. Their presence was practically insignificant in this fight. A small hand tugged at his gambeson and he looked down at the pale heart-shaped face of the goddess.

"Is Candle going to be okay?" she asked. Pasco shrugged and then nodded although his heart was tight in his chest.

"There will be no victory against the Necromancer Queen," said Murmux. He was wiggling in his bonds, trying to free himself. "This rope needs to be tighter. Whoops." The lightning bird got one thumb free. Pasco rushed over to fix the binding. "Thank you," said Murmux, even as he continued trying to work himself loose. "I'm really good at getting out of these sort of situations. I am tenacious. And rather clever."

Everyone ducked as two dragons barrelled past, raking the air with red hot flame. Three of the Own rushed to beat out a fire that started on the far side of the knoll. Murmux fixed Pasco with imploring eyes, the good humour dropping from his face to be replaced with thunderclouds.

"If that demon bitch who calls herself Queen sees me and tells me to bite your throat out, I will do it. I have no choice. I am no good to anyone. Let me spell this out carefully. I am a liability. I would really prefer if you killed me right now. It would bring me great peace of mind."

Murmux threw back his head, leaving his throat exposed. Pasco regarded him with some compassion. He remembered that feeling. Before he had joined the Own, before he had met the Mester, he too had been lost.

"Hurry up and kill me, you evil man," Murmux said, after a few seconds, tilting his chin down and glaring back up at Pasco.

Pasco shook his head, and signed, purely for his own benefit.

"Maybe later."

He did make sure Murmux was well hidden and stuffed a few bushes in front of him for good measure.

"We are all doomed," said one of the Own.

Pasco straightened and watched with horror as the Necromancer Queen raised the corpse of the fallen dragon from the dead. She too had the face of a goddess and Pasco was conflicted in his soul like he had never been before. How could they defeat such a one in battle? Perhaps if the Mester was there, as well as Jotham, but the Mester was nowhere to be seen.

"How can we kill her?" someone asked, their voice riding the edge of hysteria. "How can anyone kill her?" Zephi and Murmux could not understand the Own but the fear in their voices was as easy to read as an open book.

"You can't kill her," said the tiny goddess. "She is already dead."

"I told you," said Murmux, his voice slightly muffled. "It's pointless."

"What about the giant?" said Zephi. Pasco turned to look at her, frowning. The little goddess was clearly scared. She was sitting under the rocky overhand in the deepest shadow she could find, balling her fists in her skirt. Pasco offered an arm to her, hesitantly, not knowing if it was appropriate behaviour from a mere human. Zephi burrowed into his side instantly. Pasco tried to convey that he did not understand with one hand. "The giant," she said again, sniffling a bit. "The Queen kept him chained under the mountain. The King of the Mountain."

"The point the brat is trying to make," said Murmux, "is that a few dragons are just lunch on a normal day."

Pasco turned back to watch, worry in every line of his body. His friends were fighting hard but they were in danger of being overwhelmed. The addition of the undead dragon that fought without any concern for its own wellbeing was tipping the scale. Jotham fought like a hurricane, and Candle was competent but the others knew no magic, and the Night Nation dragons had figured it out.

The great wooden hull of a barbarian airship lumbered past overhead, so close the branches of the surrounding bushes bent and snapped with its passage. Everyone ducked, but the barbarians eyes were glued to the sky. How strange, Pasco thought, that he was happy to see more of the Lochlanach warships. Those same ships that he hated with a passion, he was now pleased to see harassing the Night Nation dragons and drawing the ire of the lightning birds.

Another of the Night Nation dragons fell to the wicked iron of the barbarians. The Necromancer Queen let the corpse cool for bare minutes before raising it to fight. From where he was standing Pasco could see her pursing her lips considering. The Queen turned her head towards the dragon who had fallen at the start of the battle. He lay, alive but vulnerable on the valley floor, a wretched heap of misery and torn membrane as the fighting raged around him. With a flick of one disdainful finger, she sent imps swarming towards him. The dragon rolled and screamed as he was overwhelmed. Unable to get airborne with the ruin of his wings, unable to heal because of the iron buried in his flesh he fought to stay alive. He bit the imps he could reach, sweeping some away with his tail but his death was swift and inevitable. Soon the skinwalker dragons numbered three.

The tide of the battle was in danger of turning. The lightning birds attacked in gleeful flocks. Those that burnt to death in the dragons' flames rose again as skeletal creatures, charred and raw. Cawing and cackling they flew on bone wings, propelled through the air by the Necromancer's magic and their eyes glowing an evil blue.

"It's not looking good," said Ansel, aiming his gun with calm efficiency and felling an approaching imp. He reloaded, his face strained. Pasco stood up, coming to a decision.

"Hold fast," said Pasco, to the Own. "Keep an eye out for the Mester. If things get too bad, go to ground. Look after the child. I promised Candle."

"Please remember to kill me before you do anything," said Murmux. "You have that look in your eye like you think you are going to do something that matters. And while I have every confidence in you, man I have just met, I would prefer it if you would let me go back to the Night on my own terms before you do it."

"What are you going to do?" asked Carantok.

"I will appeal to my Ancestors," signed Pasco.

"Good luck," said Ansel, his eye glued to the sights of his gun. The rest of the Own exchanged glances.

"Don't do anything that would endanger your soul," said one of the archers.

"My soul was lost many years ago," Pasco signed. "Ancestors watch you."

He slipped out of the glamoured fortifications and down the steep slope of the hill before anyone else could object. He trotted briskly, across the fell, cracking the skull of a lone imp who tried to latch its teeth onto his leg. Ducking, he swerved to avoid some falling debris. A crack of lightning almost directly overhead startled him but he grit his teeth and moved on. He needed to find a spot where he could gather his thoughts undisturbed for a few moments. And quickly. He eyed the three-way aerial battle above him. The scene was so chaotic and away from the vantage point of the tiny bothy, it was difficult to see what was happening. He staggered over an unseen anthill, catching his foot in the dark, and fell forwards. The fell was dry beneath his fingers. Perfect.

He looked back towards the battle, which was now raging some distance away. The bulk of the Old Man of Sterlester rose to his immediate right, the Enchantments mere bumps against the starlit horizon. Was he far enough away? It would have to do. He cracked his knuckles and then stood, spreading his arms wide. Fire ripped out of his hands, dripping from his fingers in molten shades of orange and red. The flames spread in either direction, fanning out in runaway lines, radiating out from his body. The fell was parched, the grasses yellow and straw-like from months of baking beneath the heat of the summer sun. It caught instantly, and Pasco sent a stiff breeze to fan the flames of that destruction. The wildfire raced across the isthmus, burning out of control. A ravenous beast, the wall of flame consumed everything in its path, casting a lurid orange glow into the sky. Grass, fire-roses, trees and animals – anything that was unlucky enough to lie in its path was caught in the raging inferno. The Lochlanach houses and workshops burned too, their people fled screaming when the battle had been joined in the sky above. At least Pasco hoped they had. He didn't stop to look. Regret could come later.

Moments later the fire had done its job. The valley floor was left blackened and soot-smeared, the earth naked and raw in its wake. Pasco stood in the centre of the devastation, looking out.

"Enough," he thought, and the fires winked out. "My Ancestors," he signed. "A gift for you." And he named them. He might not have dragon blood in his veins but his Ancestors had been a bloodthirsty, destructive lot and they were pleased. Power roared through his veins. The essence of everything that had lived in that valley, the vitality of their life's blood, their beautiful deaths, their spirits filled his veins, filling him up like a dam fit to burst. He held it, savouring it.

Pasco released the energy in a wave, and ships began to fall out of the sky.