Hest knew a moment of utter disbelief. ‘But …’ he began to protest, and then fell silent as the Chalcedean leapt to his feet. He shook his head like a man who stands in a swarm of midges and then raised a shout. ‘No! I will never be a slave. I am Lord Dargen of Chalced and I will sooner die than bow my head to the yoke!’
His hands were just as fast as Hest remembered them. The little knives were snatched from hiding and took flight as if they had wills of their own. They did not miss. They rattled like hailstones off the hulking blue-black dragon’s thick scales. One stuck for a moment at the corner of one of the great creature’s silvery eyes. He shook his head and the dagger fell free. An oily drop of scarlet dragon blood welled from the wound and began a slow slide down the dragon’s face.
The Chalcedean gave a shout of triumph. It rang oddly in the absolute silence that had framed his act. Then a smaller silver dragon gave a shrill trumpet of outrage. But the blue-black one made no sound as he took one step forward. All around the Chalcedean, his fellows crouched or cowered as the dragon stretched his head toward the man. He did not hiss or roar as he opened his jaws. As a man might snap an offending branch from a wayside path, the dragon bit the Chalcedean in half. In one head-snapping gulp he swallowed his head and torso. A moment later, he picked up the man’s hips and legs and likewise downed them. Then he turned and stalked off. One of Lord Dargen’s hands and part of a forearm had been sheared off in the dragon’s first bite. It remained where it had fallen, palm up on the muddy earth as if offering a final plea. One of the other Chalcedeans turned aside and vomited noisily.
The scarlet man seemed unsurprised and untroubled. ‘He has had his wish. He will not bow his head.’ He turned back to his dragon and leapt lightly onto her shoulder and then settled himself just forward of her wings. She snapped her wings wide. All around them, the other dragons were crouching and then leaping skyward. Wave after wave of wind, heavy with the smell of dragon, washed over Hest, until only the red dragon and her scarlet rider remained. The warrior looked over them with hard eyes.
‘Do not be slow. If you need guidance, look to the sky. There will always be a dragon over you, making sure that you do not pause until you reach Kelsingra.’
Then, to Hest’s astonishment, the red dragon made a trundling run down the muddy strip of riverbank before leaping into the air. She flapped her wings frantically and ungracefully until she was airborne. In another time and place, he might have laughed at her ridiculous launch. Today, he knew only a moment of great relief that the dragons were gone.
A ringing in his ears that he had not noticed faded. He blinked. The day seemed dimmer, the smells of the swampy riverbank less intense. Around him, other men were shifting, looking at one another, shaking their heads and rubbing their eyes.
‘They made us accuse ourselves!’ one of the Chalcedeans shouted in fury.
A slave next to Hest stared at the man and then a sneer crossed his face. ‘Is that what it takes to make a Chalcedean tell the truth? A dragon standing over you?’
The man lifted his fists and advanced on the slave, who stood his ground to meet him.
Someone screamed. A silver dragon swept in low over them, and the slave stood alone. Hest had a glimpse of a body dangling from the dragon’s jaws before it flew over the trees and out of sight. He turned and ran for the ships. He was not the first to get there.
There was an interruption in the light. And another. A gust of wind rattled the tall rushes all around her. Tintaglia managed to open one eye a slit. She was still dreaming. A female green dragon looked down on her.
She had not seen the golden dragon. He had landed behind her. It was only now, as his head came into view, that she knew he was there. He sniffed her, his black eyes roiling with sorrow.
Other dragons were alighting nearby. A blue queen, a silver drake, a lavender drake. Dragons. Real dragons, dragons that could fly and hunt.