Also by Stephen Deas from Gollancz:
The Adamantine Palace
The King of the Crags
The Order of the Scales
The Black Mausoleum
The Thief-Taker’s Apprentice
The Warlock’s Shadow
The King’s Assassin
Dragon Queen
Stephen Deas
GOLLANCZ
LONDON
My mother was an enchantress and my father was an alchemist.
They taught me the magic of this world and of many others.
They forged me as I am, and for that I am grateful.
Note: This story contains a scene of a violent sexual nature
No fear for consequence remains
Contents
Cover
Also by Stephen Deas from Gollancz
Title page
Dedication
1 The Bloody Judge
Bellepheros
2 An Unexpected Departure
3 Tuuran
4 The Storm-Dark
5 The Enchantress
6 The Palace of Leaves
Skyrie
7 The Elemental Man
8 Skyrie
9 The Empty Sands
10 Someone Else’s Skin
11 Over Her Heart
12 The Queen’s Road
13 The Grey Dead
14 The Dragon Slave
15 Crazy Mad
16 Priests of the Vul Storna
The Dragon-queen
17 The Speaker and Her Spear
18 The Naked Dragon
19 Fickle Fortune
20 Silence
21 Dragon-queen
22 The T’Varr
23 The Kwen
24 An Understanding
25 That Which a Dragon May Not Have
Tuuran
26 The Palace of Leaves
27 The System of the World
28 Knives
29 Knowledge
30 The Desert
31 Harsh as a Desert Heart
32 Regrettable
33 Yena
34 The Layers of a Man
The Watcher
35 The Day the Dragons Came
36 In the Realm of the Dying Sun
37 Feeding Time
38 Khalishtor
39 The Council of the Sea
40 Dragon-rider
41 Unnatural Selection
42 A Dragon’s Touch
43 The Sea Lord’s Granddaughter
44 Hatchling Blood
45 The Hsian
46 Slaves and Executioners
47 The Walking Man
48 The Lord of Silver
49 Men of Stone
50 Damage
51 Lessons in Diplomacy
52 The Touch of the Wind
53 Stiff Around the Edges
54 The Devourers
55 Need
56 Dhar Thosis
57 Shades of Entanglement
The Bloody Judge
58 Never Forgotten
59 All Debts Paid
60 An Orphan Boy from Shipwrights’
61 The Point of Balance
62 The Void
63 Hatchling Disease
64 The Diamond Isles
65 Beneath the Skin
66 Fireships, Golems and Dragons
67 Purpose
The Sea Lord
68 Sail, Fight, Freedom
69 Desert Twilight
70 Death From Above
71 Snake Dance
72 Fire
73 Lightning
74 The Titans
75 Vul Tara
76 The Bridge of Eternity
77 Men of Stone
78 Shields of Glass and Gold
79 Burn
80 The Man in Grey
81 Who Am I?
82 Who I Am
83 Blood
84 A Crack of Light
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Copyright
1
The Bloody Judge
There was a peace to killing.
Men pressed him from all sides, crushed together. His own soldiers pushed against his back and to either side. Ahead, the enemy were forced before him by their own sheer numbers. He met them with remorseless savagery, slashing and stabbing, reaching for any inch of unguarded flesh. The black moonsteel edge of his sword glittered in the sunlight. Dark as night and sharp as broken glass, it shattered steel and splintered bone with a hunger all of its own. Spears and swords broke. Armour ripped open like skin beneath a tiger’s claw. Entrails spilled across the ground to join the bloody mess of severed heads and arms. His feet slipped and slid beneath him. Sweat stung his eyes. The air stank of iron and death. Blood ran down his blade and over his gauntlets. He could feel it finding its way through the cracks and joints and seams, oozing down his arm underneath the leather and the metal scales. A part of him forgot his name, forgot why he was there, forgot everything and gave itself over to the savage he kept inside, letting it fill up every pore, every hair, every thought. The rest looked on as if looking down on the battle from above, ready to tell the madman when to stop. Yes, there was a peace to killing. He’d always found it so.
A spear glanced off the scales covering his ribs. A bone cracked but he barely felt it; an instant later he split the spearman with a thunderous blow. The pain shot up and down his side with every breath. He screwed up his face and howled. Tasted blood in his mouth as he stepped over the fallen body and sheared an arm from the soldier behind him. Damned sword was a horror of its own. It would cut through anything.
The Tethis soldiers broke and ran. He held his sword high, signalling his men to hold and not to pursue. He was breathing hard, and still each breath came with a wave of pain. Under the sun he was drenched in sweat. There was a breeze across the battlefield – he could feel it now he had some space in front of him. He wanted to take off his helm and let the wind cool his head, but he didn’t. He’d been in too many battles for that.
‘Shield line!’ he roared. The ground right ahead was churned to mud, littered with spears and shields tossed aside by the fleeing soldiers. Bright sun glinted off discarded helms. He watched the Tethis soldiers go, scattering into the long grass, racing for the line of trees ahead. On another battlefield cavalry would have charged them down and made the slaughter complete, but Queen Gelisya had chosen her field well, edged with hummocks and holes and hidden ditches, and so he made himself be still and watch them go. The savage inside wanted their blood but the savage was always on a leash – always except in the thick of battle.
He looked up and down the line of his men, the shield wall packed hard again. Berren. My name is Berren. Berren the Bloody Judge. Berren the Crowntaker. Berren who’d once been a thief-taker’s boy. He’d killed a king. Queen Gelisya’s father. Ten years of hell and misery and now I will end it. He still tasted salt and iron. Blood. His or someone else’s? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. His men raised their swords and their spears and banged them together and roared. One tight line of them. A wall of shields and deadly steel.
‘On!’ He lowered the moonsteel sword, pointed to the trees and snarled at the pain from his side. His hands felt sticky inside his gauntlets. A steady march. No reckless charge at the wood. If there was a trap then he’d not fall into it. They’d come at the enemy one last time, if there were any of them left. He’d smash them before the Dark Queen could rally. Ten years and she’d cost him every drop of blood she could take from him, her and her vicious coven. Their feud had defined them both.
A knot of the enemy emerged from the trees, half a dozen swordsmen packed tight. They ran straight at him, one mad suicidal charge. Pressed around by hi
s own men in the wall of shields he had nowhere to go. He bared his teeth. The men either side of him readied their steel, and then Berren saw the seventh man, hidden between the screaming swords, and a flood of rage swept through him. A man in the colour of death – grey robes, grey cowl – and at the sight bloodlust clamped his head in a vice and roared, all else forgotten. As the swordsmen reached him, crazy-eyed and wild, he bashed and battered their swings aside with his shield. The men either side of him lunged and slashed. One of the swordsmen barged into him, staggering him back, but the press kept him on his feet and he drove the moonsteel blade straight through the man’s mail and into his heart. Blood sprayed over him as he snapped the sword away and the man fell, already dead. Another struck at him but his armour took the blow and turned it aside, and then the grey sorcerer was in front of him and it was the easiest thing in the world to drive his moonsteel through the heavy robes, through flesh and blood and bone until the point emerged from the man’s spine and only its hilt stopped Berren’s hand from reaching inside to pull out the warlock’s entrails. The surviving swordsmen turned and ran, four of them still on their feet. Madness.
‘For Talon and Syannis!’ he hissed. Vicious triumph coursed through him, blood pumping hard and full of victory. He stared at the warlock, at the pale pasty skin of the sorcerer’s face, the lines, the wrinkles, the sheen of sweat, the tattooed sigils, the dark flecks of blood, the dying gleam in the eyes, then snapped back his sword. ‘One less of you.’
The warlock’s lips drew back. ‘For Saffran,’ he whispered. The sorcerer’s hand emerged from the sleeve of his robe and pressed a strip of paper covered in sigils to Berren’s breastplate. Berren lurched back but there was nowhere to go in the crush. With a finger from his other hand, the warlock slashed one last bloody mark onto the paper.
Berren reached for the warlock and grabbed him. ‘What have you done? What is this?’
The warlock was laughing. Blood ran out of his mouth and down his robes. He clutched at himself and clawed handfuls of it and threw it at Berren’s face, then crumpled and fell, lips drawn back across his teeth, grinning blankly at the clear blue sky. Berren felt dizzy. For a moment his vision blurred.
Madness? They’d come at him to do this. They’d been ready to die. The warlock had given his life.
The sigil clung to him, fluttering in the wind. Cold fear spread across his skin. He tore at the strip of paper with his gauntlet but the metal fingers were too clumsy. It seemed stuck. He plucked at the strip of paper again but it wouldn’t come free. Stuck fast. His heart was pounding now, harder even than in the thick of the battle. Sweat ran into his eyes. He tore off his helm and lifted his sword. ‘Stop! Stop!’ Then the sword fell out of hands. He was shaking so badly he could barely stand any more. He threw off his gauntlet and tore at the paper with his fingers, but when they touched it they tingled and went numb. The numbness spread up his arm. He pawed at the thick leather straps of his breastplate but his fingers had lost all feeling. They seemed to belong to someone else.
His friend Tallis One-Eye beside him him threw down his sword and shield and grabbed at the paper too but it slipped through his grasp.
‘Get it off me! Get it off me!’
Tallis gripped Berren’s shoulder. Threw off his own gauntlet.
Berren fell to his knees, gasping shallow panicked gulps of air as though he was dying. The world slowly spun. Tallis’s fingers closed over the strip of paper. The spear-pinned and arrow-pricked bodies lying in the grass ahead shimmered into darkness. He could hear the dying warlock’s laughter.
The sigils began to tear.
Skyrie … The name oozed inside his head.
Bellepheros
2
An Unexpected Departure
Nine months before the Adamantine Palace would burn in the rage and fire of woken dragons, Bellepheros wiped his brow. It took him a few seconds to realise that Queen Shezira’s knight-marshal hadn’t followed her mistress away. She leaned in to speak quietly in his ear.
‘Grand Master Alchemist. A private word, if you please?’
They had their quiet word and she gave him a spherical glass bottle, stoppered and sealed with wax. It fitted nicely into the palm of his hand and, from the way its weight shifted, it was filled with a liquid of exceptional weight. The knight-marshal had no idea what it was, but Bellepheros did. There was nothing curious about what was inside, but what was intriguing was where it had come from and how several such bottles had found their way into the knight-marshal’s hands. It was a long journey home, though, and there would be plenty of time to ponder and plenty of comfortable inns and fine wine to help him think. Not that the knight-marshal’s bottle would be top of his thoughts. Queen Aliphera’s death – that was the mystery that needed thinking about. Fallen from the back of her dragon? A tragic accident? Absurd, but he’d been through the whole of Prince Jehal’s eyrie with his truth-smoke and questioned everyone he could think of and what had he found? Nothing.
Who profited from the queen’s death, then? Her first daughter Zafir would take the crown. Was there something between her and Jehal? Maybe so. The other daughter, Kiam? Her brother Kazalain? But then you didn’t have to try too hard to find half a dozen kings and queens and princes who might be quietly joyful at Aliphera’s passing.
He left the Veid Palace the next morning. He borrowed a carriage from Prince Jehal – the least the Viper could do for wasting so much of his time – and took a handful of soldiers for an escort while he was at it because apparently there were bandits on the road to Farakkan. From there, the Pinnacles and the Silver City – Aliphera’s palace and home – were straight on his way back to the Adamantine Palace. It wouldn’t seem odd for him to pass through and stay for a day or two. Maybe there he might find a clue.
He tucked the knight-marshal’s bottle under his seat, carefully packed in straw. The alchemists at Clifftop could find their own way back. They had better things to do than smoke out a murderer. Alchemists had their business with dragons, not with men.
Two days out of Furymouth, in the middle of nowhere, the carriage stopped. He had no idea why; but he was trying to read and it was hard work at the best of times squinting to make out the tiny words – he’d have to have some scribes make copies of books with bigger letters – and so it was a relief to have a pause in the jolting up and down. Going by river would have been so much easier and more pleasant. He’d been ruing his decision to visit the Pinnacles almost ever since he’d left, but it needed to be done.
He heard a shout from outside. Alarm. Then several screams and cries of terror. Then silence. He sat very still, exactly as he’d been a moment before with the same words right before him but now they blurred as his eyes glazed. He listened, hardly daring to breathe. Not a sound.
The carriage swayed slightly in a gentle gust of wind and then the door burst open. An odd-looking man stood outside. He was small and his skin was dark from the sun. His hair was black and slick and he was panting and sweating. Strangest of all, though, was the black robe edged in woven strands of red and blue and white. It struck Bellepheros as more suited to a palace or a temple than to robbery on the road.
‘Out, you!’ he snapped. He had an odd lilt to his voice.
Bellepheros snapped his book shut. ‘Who in the name of the Flame are you?’ Indignation scoured a frown across his face. Then he saw past the man to the body on the ground outside. His heart skipped a beat and started to race. ‘What do you want?’
The man reached in and grabbed him by the wrist and pulled. He was strong and Bellepheros almost fell out of the door on top of him, but the man moved nimbly aside and Bellepheros sprawled out into the road instead. Dry autumn leaves covered the ground, yellows and reds and browns rustling gently in the breeze. Birds sounded in the trees to either side. The carriage stood still, the horses standing in their harnesses as if nothing had hap
pened. One of them snorted and stamped a hoof. There was no sign of anyone else. Every bit a tranquil autumn morning if it hadn’t been for the blood and the dead man at his feet.
‘People call me the Picker.’ The odd-looking man climbed into the carriage. He rummaged around and came out holding Lady Nastria’s bottle and Bellepheros’s book. ‘That all you got in there?’
Bellepheros sat up. Around the carriage Prince Jehal’s soldiers were lying in the leaves, every one of them. They weren’t moving. Bellepheros stared at them. ‘Are they dead?’ he whispered, his mouth suddenly dry.
‘Yes. Shame for them. Wrong place to be.’ The Picker climbed onto the carriage and hauled Bellepheros’s chest off the roof. ‘You really need all this? Can you do without it?’ He went over to the horses and set about freeing them from their harnesses. Bellepheros rose shakily. He looked up and down the road. He had no idea where they were. No idea how far it was to the next town or village or what chance there was of someone else coming along.
‘Are you a bandit?’ One man? Bellepheros crouched beside the closest of the bodies. Expertly killed. One slash across the neck. Blood everywhere, pooling about. The leaves were sticking to it. This one hadn’t even drawn his sword before he’d died. Bellepheros peered into the sun-dappled shadows between the trees. Jehal’s soldiers were spread around the carriage, six of them. They hadn’t had time to close up. It had happened with murderous speed. There had to be more than just the one man. ‘Where are the rest of you?’ He had a knife of his own, as every alchemist did. A little thing. He slipped it out of his belt and cut a little slash into his palm.