‘But all that is immaterial if Senedai kills The Raven,’ said Blackthorne. ‘Because, if you’re right about these dragons . . .’
‘. . . the only chance any of us, Wesmen or Balaians, have is if Senedai is stopped,’ finished Darrick.
‘And Tessaya won’t believe us,’ said Gresse. ‘Gods falling, I’m not even sure I believe us.’
‘Just say all this is right, how long can the Protectors hold out? Long enough to see The Raven complete their task? Long enough for us to skirt Tessaya and hit Senedai ourselves?’ asked Blackthorne.
Darrick shook his head. ‘As to The Raven, I don’t know. All I do know is that we won’t get around Tessaya, not an army this big. He already has us scouted.’
‘So we’re going to fight him?’ Gresse looked less than upset at the idea.
‘If we fight and win, it’ll take two days minimum. No.’ He smiled at what he was about to say. ‘We’ve only got the one choice and, far-fetched as it is, we have to have his help.’
‘So?’ asked Blackthorne, though Darrick could see he knew the answer and was already fighting with thoughts of placing his need for vengeance to one side, much as Darrick himself was doing.
‘So, we’re going to march right up to him, as quickly as we can, look as powerful as possible and then we’re going to persuade him to send a message to Senedai.’
Hirad had known it would be beautiful, the feelings in his mind when Sha-Kaan had spoken of it told him that, but he hadn’t imagined the half of it. They had climbed several hundred feet up a steep-sided rocky slope with the deep orange sun beating down from the same blue sky that had lain above them ever since their arrival in the dragons’ dimension.
The remainder of their journey had been a nervy rush across the fire-ravaged plain. The surviving travellers had reformed an hour from where the Veret dragon’s attack had taken place and while The Raven were unhurt, barring a few scratches, only Cil and two Protector brothers remained of the six that had come through the rip, and Jatha had lost seven of his people.
Styliann had remained quiet about what he had seen as his Protectors died but the flinch he had given when a Kaan dragon overflew them on the way back to its homelands was all the information Hirad had really needed. The Xetesk Master had been pale and clearly shaken and, for the first time, Hirad had actually felt a little sympathy for him.
The battle in the sky had been won, just, though Hirad had felt Sha-Kaan’s sorrow as he had spoken of singling out one Brood, the Veret, for attack until the Kaan had driven them off, breaking their spirits and a fledgling alliance between enemy Broods. But, in a notable change to his attitude, he had detailed a quartet of Kaan to shadow their journey despite the extra attention the action would inevitably bring.
And so they had travelled, humbled by their experience and all too aware of the awesome destructive power of even a single dragon. No more was that evidenced than by the plain they left after a further day’s travel to move into the rocky foothills of the mountains they had seen from the dead forest. Looking back, they saw the scars and open wounds that would probably live on forever.
No longer did the plain shimmer in its pale blue and red frond-topped light as far as the eye could see. Now, beneath a huge shifting pall of smoke and ash, a yellow and orange glow told of the fire still burning, consuming the stunning vegetation, voracious and insatiable in its appetite. Where it had burned itself out, the land was blackened and smouldering, laid waste to its roots and beyond in the heat of the consumption. The vegetation was resilient and would sprout again but that thought made the sight no less terrible.
‘Just one dragon,’ The Unknown had said as they watched with hypnotic stillness the countless miles of smoke and flame. ‘Just one.’ His words had speeded their ascent.
Now here they stood, The Raven, apart from the rest as befitted the Dragonene of the Great Kaan and those pledged to help him, and looked down for the first time on the Kaan homeland. The slope they had climbed had flattened into a pitted rock plateau which swept to a point jutting out over the homeland. As they stood at its edge, the rock beneath them formed an overhang, arcing down and out of sight the Gods knew how far below. And all around them was a different world.
Left and right below them, a carpet of shifting green lay covering a wide valley, the walls of which were just visible through the veil. Massive leaves waved gently, attached to huge boughs that sat darkly beneath the surface and Hirad could only imagine the size of the trunks from which they grew. Across the undulating surface, the sun’s orange light shot delightful rays of colour through pale strands of mist, and the stark backdrop of white peaked mountains tumbling down to dark flatlands completed the serene picture.
But that alone wasn’t the beauty Hirad saw. In the sky above the canopy, the Kaan wheeled and dived, lazy beats begetting long, graceful glides as they circled while those entering the trees from above swept their wings back and shot past, golden bodies sparkling in the orange glow as their bodies spun, dragging vortices of mist after them as they disappeared.
And they called to each other. Sounds of welcome, of farewell, of sadness, of love and of enduring devotion. To the Brood, to each other and to their home. The calls were brackish and guttural, or haunting hollow cries that echoed from the valley walls. They tugged at Hirad’s heart and senses, filling him with the warmth of belonging and the emptiness of the war that stole Kaan from the sky each day.
Hirad felt the strength falter in his legs and he crouched, one leg under him, his right hand on the ground as he rocked forwards, watching. He could have stayed there all day, such was the majesty of the Kaan and their homeland. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. It was Ilkar.
‘Can you believe it?’ asked Hirad, gesturing at the awesome view all around them, his eyes again on the Kaan and the trees and mist covering their valley, a warm moist breeze blowing in his face.
‘If I live to be five hundred, this will be my abiding memory as I die,’ said the elf, the magnitude of it all plain in his voice.
‘Never mind Balaia. They’re too busy grasping for themselves, most of them. This is what we’re really trying to save. And this is why we can’t fail.’ Hirad stood up, wiping damp eyes. To his left, Jatha gazed down on the homeland with an almost stupefied expression on his face.
‘Home,’ he said.
‘See what it means to them? He must have seen this a hundred times but just look at him.’
Ilkar nodded. ‘We all want this to work, Hirad, and your reason is probably more compelling than most but I think you need to be realistic about our chances.’
‘Tell me on the way down. I think Jatha is anxious to get there, as am I.’
Jatha led them to a stairway carved from the stone of the mountain on which they stood. Steep and moss-covered, it swept under the overhang, twisting and turning through cleft, behind waterfall and around the enormous boles of the trees whose leaves hemmed in more strands of mist, building clouds the further down they went.
Descending through the dancing, orange-striated cloud, the atmosphere closed in hot and damp, vision was impaired and the stairs became slick and wet, treacherous to the unsure foot. Ahead of The Raven, Jatha and his men scampered down with practised confidence, Jatha’s voice at odds with his movement as it periodically echoed ‘Careful!’ up through the mist.
But for the Balaians the way was far slower. Leaning into the rock wall, which ran with water or was covered with a thin film of slime, they kept away from the far edge which plummeted down through the mist to death on the valley floor.
Hirad, walking behind Ilkar, had decided not to ask any questions until they breached the mist but when they did, it was a long time before he could find any words. In a few paces, the mist had thinned and cleared beneath the leaf layer, giving them their first view of the Kaan homeland.