The Rinn increased their pace and Jasper heard more swords ring out, but this time he knew what he was hearing: the swords of Dainriders. They made another pass like the first, scattering the scaramann and thinning their ranks.
“How did you ever find us?” yelled a familiar, powerful voice.
“There are still a few birds braving the dragonflies,” shouted Dubb. “But it was the Rinn knowing this ground so well that brought us the advantage.”
“I thought they had us,” said the voice, and this time Jasper realized it was Andros speaking. “You got to us just in time. Where are we headed?”
“To Fangdelve!” yelled Dubb. The Rinn sprinted away in tight formation, allowing the Dainriders to communicate.
“Andros!” Tavin yelled. “What did you learn?” Tavin then leaned further out of his saddle than seemed physically possible.
“The valley is lost!” yelled Andros. “I haven’t heard the sound of so many scaramann since the battle of Perianth, and they’ve begun to swarm.”
“But how can that be?” asked a voice Jasper couldn’t identify.
“There must be another queen,” yelled another.
“Impossible,” roared Roan. “Our lunamancers combed the fields after we killed their queen, and there has been only the one crossover since—and that was with Dain.”
“But how else do you explain—”
“I cannot!” yelled Roan.
Nimlinn evaded a boulder and shot in close amongst the riders.
“Jasper!” yelled out Andros. His face was bloodied, and a fresh cut bled freely from his left cheek. “What are you doing—hey, nice sword!”
A number of the Dainriders twisted in their saddles to get a look at Jasper and Nimlinn. Jasper recognized Quib, Jemma, Boots, Marred, Arric, and Tavin. There were other men and women riding whom Jasper did not recognize, but he didn’t see Cora or Ember.
“They must have made themselves a queen, then,” said Nimlinn.
“Are you suggesting there’s a dwythbane in that tower?” shouted Tavin.
“It would explain a great many things: the fire-breathing dragonflies, the scaramann emerging fully grown, the great numbers in which they hatch.”
“Dubb!” shouted Andros, “If you want to take that tower, it will have to be now. The scaramann are at our heels!”
“The gates of Fangdelve are far too powerful,” roared Nimlinn. “We would have to bring all of our lunamancers to bear, and they would be easy targets for the dragonflies, to say nothing of their archers within the tower.”
“Then we will have to do it quickly,” shouted Tavin, and even with all the dust, galloping at breakneck speeds upon their Rinn, Jasper could see Dubb and Tavin staring hard at one another, as though passing thoughts through their eyes.
Dubb nodded his head. “Sheathe swords! Form a line! Keep it as tight as you dare!”
“Dubb,” warned Nimlinn. “The gates of Fangdelve are magically sealed!”
“Your Majesty,” yelled Dubb. “even the strongest magic can be breached by force.”
Smoke and ruin lay thick upon the battlefield, giving the Dainriders very little intelligence on the terrain, but above their heads, the layers of murk were not so thick. Looking up, Jasper could make out the veiled forms of moons, but which moons he could not tell. After many minutes of hard riding, the upper reaches of Fangdelve loomed into view. Once they reckoned the position of the tower’s base, the Dainriders trimmed their line even more, running side by side with only inches between them.
“On my signal!” yelled Dubb.
In unison all twelve of the Dainriders reached forward and opened the leather flaps protecting their dirazakein, hoisting one of the heavy, bladed wheels in each hand.
“Full gallop!” yelled Dubb.
The Rinn stretched out their long limbs, raking the earth, sprinting with all their might. Jasper strained to keep himself in the saddle while holding the dirazakein steady.
“Mark!” yelled Dubb.
In unison, the Rinn’s heads dipped down. Their rear limbs stretched forward, claws digging into ground. Roaring like dragons, they launched themselves into the air, freeing their powerful front limbs long enough to reach back over their shoulders and grasp the dirazakein passed by the riders. With the force of every muscle in their bodies, the line of Rinn released two dozen razor-sharp blades directly at the gates of Fangdelve. No sooner had the first volley of dirazakein vanished into the dust-filled air than Dubb yelled, “Mark!” A second volley followed the first into the mists. Then a third. “Mark!”
The walls of Fangdelve materialized with no warning. Jasper grasped the saddle pommel and braced himself as Nimlinn sheered off, narrowly missing the curved wall of the tower’s base.
The gates had borne the first volley well. On the second volley, however, the stone began to crack. On the third volley, the gates fell. By the time Nimlinn circled back, the Dainriders had already slipped from the backs of their Rinn and were disappearing through the ruined gate.
Jasper reached down to unbind his leg from the saddle.
“You will stay here,” said Nimlinn sternly. “It’s up to the Dragondain now.”
“But Nimlinn, why aren’t the Rinn going in?”
“A Rinn would be at the mercy of a dwythbane’s magic. Besides, we have our own impossible task to perform. We must hold this gate against a swarm of scaramann until our Dainriders finish their task. Then we must flee before we are overrun. Roan! Where are our remaining warriors and lunamancers? Where are the Broadpaw?”
Roan galloped over to Nimlinn. “They were all on the northern rise, staying out of crossbow range. But by now they will have seen what we’ve accomplished. I expect them to arrive any moment. The Broadpaw have long been out of arrows, but luckily for us they packed their claws and teeth as well before leaving Rihnwood.” Roan gave Nimlinn a fierce grin.
A low rumbling began to shake the earth, but not from the northern rise. It came from the valley. It was the sound of thousands of scaramann running as fast as their legs would carry them.
“Roan, what are our chances of holding back the scaramann—with
all
our forces?”
Roan cast his eyes away. “We will not stand for long. Even if the Dainriders manage to slay the dwythbane, there will still be enough scaramann left to wash over us like a sea.”
“And if we make our stand
in
Fangdelve?”
“We’ve destroyed the gate. They will pour in on us, working through every crack. They will use the ceilings and walls. They will climb the tower and reach the upper windows. We wouldn’t last the night.”
Nimlinn turned and faced the rumble of the advancing scaramann. “Then this is where the Rinn will make their last stand. This is where it ends.”
“But not for you,” said Roan.
“What do you mean?”
“You must leave, Your Majesty. As long as you have that saddle, you will be able to outrun them.
You
must bear Jasper to safety. You both
must
get away. You know this is true.”
Nimlinn lowered her head. “I’m glad Greydor is not here to see this,” she said.
A new sound came from the direction of the old road. A moment later, saddled wirtles raced out of the dust, weaving in and out at breakneck speed. An army of wyflings were mounted on their backs. Witcoil, lance in paw, led the way.
Snerliff and Twizbang, wearing what looked like ceremonial armor, were among those in the front. Upon spying their Queen, they immediately broke ranks and, accompanied by Witcoil, steered a path to her. Behind them, hundreds of mounted wirtles emerged from the dust. Witcoil reigned in his wirtle just feet shy of Nimlinn. Its many legs thrashed, and its head wove constantly back and forth on its powerful neck, its wide snarling mouth baring sharp rows of teeth. Witcoil held up his small lance in salute.
“Witcoil Lightfoot, Lancespeed First Class, Royal Guard to Her Majesty the Queen. We have come to offer you our service.”
Nimlinn stared at him, having forgotten for the moment that the wyflings had military leaders of their own. She made the smallest of nods to Snerliff. “Take whatever position of advantage you may find, my small, brave friends.”
The warrior Rinn appeared next, galloping at full speed.
“Nimlinn,” shouted Jasper. “There’s always a way.” He ransacked his memories for all the bedtime tales Uncle Ebb had ever told about the Rinn. When he could find no help in them, he conjured the tales of the valiant men of Dain and their intelligent, winged dragons—now gone, lost to time or myth. Were they just stories? He thought of the merfolk of Dik Dek, their steam-breathing seahorses, their magical pearls; the giants of Min Tar; Faerathil and her black unicorns, faerie folk, and Morgoroth the Devourer, the mightiest dragon in all the Moon Realm. Was there nothing in these tales to help stop a tidal wave of scaramann?
Jasper grasped the moon coin and stared at its face. Lily had used it to call down the darkness and save the Rinn. Surely, there was something
he
could do with it.
Several scattered and bloodied Rinn began to emerge from the direction of the advancing scaramann. One of them, with fur the color of sandstone, approached quickly. He was thin, like a mountain Rinn, but his fur was much longer and tangled in long mats.
“Your Majesty!” he exclaimed, on seeing Nimlinn. “What are you doing here?”
“Tanglemane. How far off are they?”
“There is
no
time. You are a fool to be here. And with Jasper! You must leave immediately!”
Nimlinn glared at Tanglemane. “
I
will make my decisions,” she said icily.
Tanglemane regarded Roan. “Jasper
must
be borne to safety. You understand this, yes?” Roan nodded.
The lunamancer Rinn began streaming in now, forming a protective circle around Nimlinn, Roan, and Tanglemane. The warrior Rinn formed a loose outer circle, and between them ran the rapid wirtles, weaving and darting with boundless energy.
“The Dainriders are within Fangdelve, Tanglemane,” explained Nimlinn. “We must hold this gate.”
“To what end? The scaramann will not tire of following us. They will chase us—mercilessly—across this valley of yours. Most of your Rinn are wounded, scattered. If you feel you must die here—fine. It’s as good a place as any. But if death is your choice, you must give that saddle to one who can bear Jasper to safety.”
Nimlinn’s eyes widened. “And
who
here but
I
would bear this saddle?”
“If I must,” said Tanglemane fiercely, “I will rip it from your back!”
Roan pounced between them, but it was obvious to Jasper that Roan was conflicted.
“Do you think, Tanglemane,” said Nimlinn, “that a saddle such as this would sit on a back such as yours?”
“ENOUGH!” roared Roan. “Snerliff and Twizbang! Help Her Majesty remove this saddle and—”
The skies suddenly darkened. Jasper and the Rinn looked upward to see a thick swarm of dark shapes falling from the sky.
“Dragonflies!” hissed Nimlinn. “Into the tower! Protect yourselves!”
“Take Her Majesty through the gates!” ordered Roan to a group of warrior Rinn, who hastened to obey him, only to slow once they felt the full fury of Nimlinn’s glare.
Roan bounded to Wizcurs and freed two dirazakein from his war saddle. Sheen and Keenscent followed Roan’s lead, seizing dirazakein from the saddles of their comrades.
“Shadopads! Do whatever you must, but get her into Fangdelve!” roared Roan, and this time a press of warrior Rinn began forcibly herding Nimlinn through Fangdelve’s shattered gates.
Roan reared up on his hind legs and heaved his first dirazakein into the air with deadly force just as the first gouts of fire spilled down around them, spreading out into great pools of bright flame. The Rinn leapt wildly to escape, but not all were successful. The lunamancers set to casting enchantments to quell the deadly flames, but it was slow work. The Rinn recklessly heaved more dirazakein into the air. Bits of severed dragonfly, along with more belching fire, rained down.
And then, like the dropping of a curtain, the skies became darker still. A scream split the air, a scream unlike anything Jasper had ever heard or imagined. Nimlinn broke loose from the Rinn herding her and leapt high into the air, landing next to Roan and Tanglemane.
“What was that?” she demanded, peering upward with her great amber eyes.
“By the moons, they’ve arrived,” said Tanglemane.
“Who has arrived?”
Parachuting down on great leathery wings, a dragon as large as a house landed on its two legs with a thud that shook the earth. It held a crushed dragonfly in each of its taloned claws and the body of a third in its great, crunching jaws. The wyflings, seeing the scaramann spilling off the dragonflies’ backs, quickly whirled their wirtles into action and with their lances dispatched the bugs before they could do any harm. Then a second dragon dropped out of the sky, and a third, all landing on their powerful hind legs, holding out their wings like the masts of tall ships under full sail, taking care not to step on anyone. All at once, a dozen dragons landed, then two dozen, then a hundred—and then a hundred more.
The first dragon to land twisted its long neck around to face Tanglemane, who, like Roan, had bowed his head as he stepped behind Nimlinn.
The dragon, sensing the distinction being afforded to Nimlinn, turned its great spiked head to her. In a booming voice full of gravel, it said, “Your Majesty! We meet at last. The dragons of Dain have hidden in the safety of your mountains for far too long. But no more. Today, we will endeavor to earn our keep.”
The dragons moved to form an outermost circle. With a great sucking sound, they filled their lungs with the thick smoky air. As the first of the scaramann appeared from the mists, the dragons stretched out their long necks and poured forth a wall of withering flame. The scaramann before them crumpled and turned to ash, but as the dragons’ breath ran out, a new wave of scaramann swept in.
Nimlinn ran forward. “Protect them!” she roared, and the Rinn bounded through and around the dragons’ immense legs, smashing into the onslaught of swarming scaramann. The line of Rinn rose up on their hind legs, raking their claws into the scaramann with a speed that blurred their paws. And as their line teetered in the balance, the dragons sucked in more of the thick air. Jasper, sword drawn, stood in the stirrups and landed blow after blow on scaramann attempting to climb over the line.
The Rinn defense held, and the dragons spewed forth another blast of devastating flame, turning all the scaramann within sight to cinders. But within seconds, like a living sea, a new wave of scaramann swept in to take their place. The Rinn leapt forward to meet them, protecting the dragons until they were ready to release another blast from their lungs.
And so it continued, wave after undying wave. The air grew hot, stinking of brimstone and burnt bug.
Several times, during his all too brief respites, Jasper glanced over his shoulder to Fangdelve, only to find its upper reaches still enshrouded by billowing, oily black smoke. Standing in the saddle, wielding his moon sword on high, Jasper willed his eyes to see further into this sea of scaramann. But always there were more. How fared the Dragondain? Were they still alive? One thing was certain: the dragons’ fiery breath would not last forever. And without them, it was only a matter of time before they’d be overrun.