### 205

With a mighty screech, the dragonmounts take to the air in unison, the beat of their great wings filling your ears with a thunderous drumming noise. Your stomach heaves as the leader tugs at the reins, sending the beast labouring steeply into the fire-orange sky. The ground below falls away at an alarming rate and within minutes you are travelling hundreds of feet above the plateau, your vision blurred by the speed of the rushing wind.

Beneath you the trackless waste stretches away to the burning horizon. Without sun or moon or any change in the brightness of the sky you find it impossible to gauge the passage of time. Twice you lapse into sleep, for how long you cannot guess, yet each time you wake the arrow-shaped flight formation of the dragonmounts remains unchanged and the Yoacor themselves show not the slightest sign of fatigue.

At length the featureless wastes give way to thick, violet-coloured grasslands dotted with scab-like patches of marsh and bog. The air becomes humid and the faint smell of rotting vegetation conjures up memories of time spent in the Danarg. Gradually the lowlands rise and you soar above high valleys and rock-strewn meadows, broken hills and weather-worn crags. As you approach a narrow cleft between two mountainous peaks the leader raises his hand. Upon this signal the others close into single file. An immense crater lies beyond the pass and at its heart stands a city, the most beautiful city you have ever seen.

Turn to 50.

Text copyright © 1987 Joe Dever.
Illustrations copyright © 1987 Brian Williams.