Master of Dragons Read online

  ‘My lord, tidings from Ulthuan,’ reported one of them, a tall Sea Guard officer with a competent, soldierly look. ‘Sent by swift dispatch from Cothique.’

  Imladrik raised an eyebrow. ‘Very swift. What news?’

  ‘A single passenger. He awaits within. I checked his credentials.’

  ‘Very good. No disturbances, please.’

  ‘By your will.’

  Imladrik passed inside and the doors locked closed behind him. Though he could not see them, he knew that archers had been stationed all around the tower. Units of spearmen were deployed nearby and a mage was on duty at all times in a neighbouring spire, all of them watching against attack. Centuries of warfare, open and clandestine, against the druchii had made the asur protective of their commanders.

  His guest waited for him in the room beyond the entrance hall, lounging in a low chair by the fire. As soon as Imladrik entered he got to his feet, showing off a flurry of damask robes decorated with fabulously complicated images of serpents and seawyrms. His hair was straw-blond and arranged impeccably across slender shoulders. His face had a certain sharpness to it, but his smile came readily enough.

  ‘My Lord Imladrik,’ he said, bowing floridly.

  Imladrik looked at him steadily. ‘You were sent from Ulthuan? Who sent you?’

  ‘I sent myself.’

  Imladrik drew a seat up before the fire.

  ‘You had better explain.’

  ‘My name is Caradryel of the House of Reveniol, latterly in the service of Tor Caled. Though you will not remember it, we have met before. You did me the not insignificant service of saving my life when our ship was attacked by druchii. That placed me in your debt; since then, I have been searching for a way to repay it.’

  Imladrik regarded Caradryel doubtfully. His speech was polished, but there was something… slippery about it.

  ‘Latterly, though, I was fortunate enough to be presented with a way to remedy matters,’ Caradryel went on. ‘I learned you had no counsellor. This is, you might say, my speciality. I have a facility for the arts of state – negotiation, diplomacy, persuasion and inveiglement. I flatter myself, but to my mind there really is none better. So there it is: in this, you have my service.’

  Imladrik couldn’t suppress a twitching smile. Caradryel had front, that was certain.

  ‘Interesting,’ Imladrik said. ‘Perhaps you can tell me why I should prefer your service to my officials stationed here, all of whom have sworn oaths to the Crown and to my security?’

  Caradryel shrugged. ‘They are competent enough, no doubt. Two things count against them. First, they are loyal to the Crown, not to you. I have no especial fondness for your royal brother, if I am truly honest, but have every personal reason to see you prosper. You might even say that it has become my vocation.’

  ‘And the second?’

  Caradryel smiled. ‘None of them are as good as me. Not remotely.’

  ‘You are not short of confidence.’

  ‘Modesty is a waste of everyone’s time.’

  ‘I know someone who would agree with you,’ said Imladrik. ‘Myself, I have always thought it the mark of nobility.’

  ‘I make no claim to be noble. Far from it. Still, I am the best offer you’ll have out here.’

  ‘So you clearly believe.’

  ‘Perhaps you should ask how I got myself in here. Do you really think I had anything like the right credentials? Other supplicants have been waiting days for an audience and yet I arrived on the quayside yesterday evening with little more than the clothes on my back.’ He smiled to himself, drawing a few tattered leaves of parchment from his robes’ pocket. ‘Your guards are thorough and honest, but they need to check the provenance of official seals more carefully. Honestly, I could have been anyone.’

  ‘So you are a trickster,’ concluded Imladrik. ‘Tor Alessi has a thousand of them. Work quickly: your audience is drawing to its conclusion.’

  Caradryel nodded to himself. ‘You dislike subterfuge. Easy enough, for someone who can walk into any chamber in Ulthuan he pleases, though it has its uses for the rest of us. Here, though: perhaps this will speak more eloquently on my behalf.’

  Caradryel took one of the leaves of parchment and handed it over.

  Only a few words had been written on it, in a clear, elegant hand that Imladrik recognised only too well.

  Though we parted at odds, my thoughts remain with you. The bearer of this message comes with my blessing. He is boastful and tiresome, but will serve you. Y.

  Imladrik looked at it long and hard. Though none but he would have known it, the Eltharin characters had been written in such a way as to conceal a second meaning amid the words, something that Yethanial had long delighted in doing. Trust him, the hidden text said, lost amongst the swirls and loops of the runic script.

  ‘Boastful and tiresome,’ said Caradryel ruefully. ‘I thought that a little harsh.’

  ‘She finds the company of most people tiresome,’ said Imladrik, reading the message again. ‘Do not take it personally.’

  Seeing Yethanial’s calligraphy before him sharpened the sense of loss. He could imagine her, bent low over the writing desk, painstakingly drawing each character with the attention to propriety and order that characterised all her work. Beauty existed in everything she did – the kind of raw, bleak beauty that was prized in windswept Cothique.

  ‘We spoke at length before I set sail,’ said Caradryel. ‘She understood what I understand: that Tor Alessi is a den of wolves, ready to tear apart your plans as soon as you make them clear.’

  ‘My wife does not concern herself with statecraft.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Caradryel, ‘but she is a good judge of character. I approached her thinking I would persuade her easily; by the end, I was the one being examined. She is a formidable soul, if you will forgive me saying.’

  ‘She is. She always has been.’ Imladrik leaned back in his chair, feeling fatigue bite at his shoulders and wondering what to make of the figure before him. ‘If she had not vouched for you, all your honey-tongued words would have made little difference. But she did, and so you give me much to think on.’

  Caradryel’s face become serious. ‘Think on it as much as you wish, my lord, but time is not on our side. I know what is happening here. I know that you wish to halt the war, but most in this city do not – they will work to frustrate you at every turn, even as they smile to your face and bow before you. You cannot fight them openly, because they will not contest you openly. Salendor is one; there may be others. If you truly wish to bend the city to your will, then we need to act now.’

  ‘I have done so. The orders have been issued.’

  ‘Ah, but will they be carried out?’

  Imladrik smiled coldly. ‘Have a care, Caradryel. I am not some simpleton ripe to be lectured – I am your master. Remember that.’

  ‘Master?’ asked Caradryel, slyly. ‘So we do have an arrangement?’

  ‘Perhaps. Some tasks that need to be performed are difficult; I had not yet decided who to assign them to. One in particular might serve as a test: perform it well, and I will look on your application with favour. I need to contact someone. It must be done quietly, and it must be done quickly. It will be dangerous.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Caradryel. ‘Who?’

  ‘His name is Morgrim Bargrum,’ said Imladrik. ‘He was a friend, once.’

  ‘A dwarf?’

  ‘If our scouts have it right, he is marching towards us even as we sit here. He will not be coming to talk.’

  Caradryel smiled, though a little less assuredly. ‘A challenge, then. We will have to change his mind.’

  ‘To change a dwarf’s mind,’ Imladrik remarked dryly. ‘If you can achieve that, my friend, then I may start to believe your boasts.’

  Chapter Ten

  Thoriol woke late. The sunl
ight hurt his eyes and he squinted against it, holding his hand up to the window. There were no drapes. He had no idea why.

  He felt sick, as though the floor were pitching under him, and let slip a weak groan of wine-sickness.

  He opened his eyes wider, getting used to the glare slowly. It was then that he realised the floor really was moving. For a few moments he had no idea what was happening. A stab of panic shot through his stomach.

  Then he smelled salt, saw the narrow window in one wall of the chamber, and felt the rough planks of decking beneath him.

  At sea, he realised, which made him scarcely less panicked. How, in the name of Isha…?

  He pushed himself into a seated position, head hammering from the rush of blood. The wine-sickness at least was no illusion – he felt like vomiting.

  So he did. He managed to get to the far corner of the tiny cabin before his guts rebelled, then retched for a long time, leaving a foul puddle of saliva-strung bile against the curved wall of the ship’s hull.

  Finishing made him feel only a little better. His whole body felt shivery and feverish. He had a dim recollection of a female elf with silk-like hair offering him something, but he couldn’t remember what it was. It had smelled good, that he did recall.

  Hands shaking, he clawed his way back to where he’d awoken. He’d slept in his robes, the same ones he’d worn coming down from the Dragonspine. He peered cautiously at the window again. The movement of the horizon made his nausea worse.

  What day is this? How long have I been asleep?

  He got to his feet, bracing uncertainly against the movement of the cabin around him. The space was barely big enough to house him and he cracked his head on the low roof. Cursing, he fumbled for the clasp on the door. After a few false starts, he managed to push it open, and staggered out into a larger space beyond.

  Three figures turned to face him, all seated around a long table covered in charts. Leaf-shaped windows ran down the two sides of a larger cabin, each running with spray as the ship pitched.

  ‘Good morning,’ said one of them, looking at Thoriol with a smile.

  Thoriol stared back at him. The elf had strangely familiar features: a scar on his right cheek and a blunt, tanned face. For a minute he was taken back to that evening in the House of Pleasure. How long ago was that? Last night?

  ‘Who are you?’ Thoriol managed to blurt out. He had to grasp the doorframe to keep from falling. ‘Where am I?’

  The elf with the scar motioned to his companions, who rose silently and left the cabin by a door at the other end. Then Scar-face beckoned Thoriol to join him at the table.

  ‘Come,’ he said. His voice had an earthy quality, rich with the accent of Chrace. ‘You look like you could use a seat.’

  In the absence of better options, Thoriol tottered over to the table, collapsed onto the bench and slumped to his elbows.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked again, feeling like he might be sick a second time.

  ‘Baelian.’

  Thoriol stared stupidly, wondering if that should mean something to him. ‘That all?’

  Baelian shrugged. ‘What do you want to know? This is my ship. The archers aboard are my company. As are you, of course.’

  ‘As am I,’ Thoriol repeated. He felt thick-headed. Some of what Baelian said resonated faintly with him, as if he’d dreamed of it a long time ago. ‘I have no idea what has happened, but I warn you, sir, my father is–’

  ‘Yes, you explained all of that,’ said Baelian. ‘Do you not remember?’

  Thoriol managed to summon up the energy for a cold look. ‘Obviously not.’

  ‘You had taken a lot of it. Your first time, perhaps? It can do that to the unwary.’

  As Baelian spoke, some recollection began to filter back through Thoriol’s addled mind. The dream-philtre. The poppy.

  ‘How long have I been out?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘Three days.’

  Thoriol felt dizzy. He stared at the rough grain of the wood, trying to latch on to something certain. ‘If you have taken me against my will,’ he said, as deliberately as he was able, ‘you will suffer for it.’

  Baelian laughed. He pushed back, hands behind his head. ‘Do I look like the kind? This is what you wanted, lad. You may not remember it now, but you will.’

  As Baelian spoke Thoriol began to have the horrible feeling that he had done something very rash. His memory began to come back in slivers – he recalled speaking to Baelian in the House, watching the scar with fascination in the light of the lanterns.

  ‘Why don’t you remind me?’ Thoriol suggested. ‘That might save some time.’

  ‘As you wish.’ Baelian reached across the table and rifled through some leaves of parchment before drawing one out. He pushed it across to Thoriol. ‘Your scroll of warrant. You signed it before we left Lothern.’

  Thoriol stared at the sheet. It was covered with a dense screed of runes and had a wax seal at its base. Just above the seal he could see his own scrawled handwriting.

  ‘We spoke for a long time,’ explained Baelian. ‘You wanted to escape, I made you a proposal. You were very keen to take it up. It’ll all come back in time.’

  ‘What does this mean?’ Thoriol asked, struggling to decipher what he’d been given – the words seemed to swim before his eyes.

  ‘You are a member of my company of archers. You’ve had the training, you know how to use a longbow. The pay’s good, and in gold. You’ll get it, too: ask anyone. Nothing to worry about, lad. You wanted to escape, and this is your chance.’

  Thoriol ran a shaking hand through his blond-grey hair. His nausea got worse with every revelation. Some of what Baelian told him resonated, some of it didn’t.

  ‘You took advantage,’ Thoriol accused, putting as much authority as he could into his voice. ‘I was not in my right mind. You have no hold over me.’

  Baelian looked amused. ‘Is that right? That’s not what the parchment says.’

  ‘I had taken a… dream-philtre.’

  ‘A dream-philtre? I’m shocked. You know they’re prohibited?’

  Thoriol looked up into Baelian’s eyes and saw the mockery there. ‘So that’s how this works.’

  Baelian sighed. ‘Look, lad, this can be as easy or hard as you make it. You’re one of the company. You can’t change that, not until I release you, but you’re no slave. Like I say, you’ll be paid, you’ll be trained. The captains aren’t too picky about who serves these days, not with two wars running at once, so you’ll be fine. Anyway, I look after my own.’

  Thoriol barely listened. Already thoughts of his father’s vengeance were running through his head. He guessed that this Baelian didn’t fully understand who he’d taken on; telling him again would do no good, as he’d surely not convince him now. A familiar voice of derision echoed through his head.

  You are a failure. You have failed again. And this time you are on your own.

  ‘So where are we going?’ he asked. He had to plan, to think, to recover. He was of the House of Tor Caled, the lineage of the Dragontamer – something would turn up.

  ‘Where do you think? Where the fighting is.’

  For a moment, Thoriol had a terrifying vision of Naggaroth – a land he had only heard about in hushed whispers. He knew that his father had campaigned in the seas off the frozen coasts, and there were rumours that asur raiding parties had penetrated the interior. Even before Baelian spoke again, though, he realised how stupid that idea was.

  ‘The colonies, lad,’ said Baelian. ‘A long way from Ulthuan. You should be happy – you can make a fine fortune in the east, and whatever you’re running away from back home won’t follow you out there.’

  Thoriol nodded wearily. So that was that – a single night’s indiscretion, and he’d allowed himself to be hoodwinked into a stint in the wilderness. Once the ship made landfall he’d hav
e to think hard on how to get out of it.

  ‘Tor Alessi?’ he asked, trying to picture how the next few weeks were likely to unfold.

  ‘Where else?’ said Baelian. ‘Or, as you’ll start to think of it soon, home.’

  Thoriol smiled acidly. The stench of vomit was beginning to seep from his cabin, mirroring his mood. It was hard to think of a way in which he could have got things more badly wrong.

  Of course, there was one silver lining; though by means he’d never have chosen, he was getting almost as far away from his father as possible.

  That was something.

  ‘You will break!’ screamed Drutheira, slamming her staff on the rock at her feet.

  Bloodfang reared up before her, forty feet in the air, its body snapping and twisting like a fish caught on a wire. Flames gusted and flickered, covering the black dragon in a nimbus of ash and light.

  From her cliff-edge vantage high over the northern scarps of the Arluii, Drutheira could see its anguish – its jaws were twisted and torn, its eyes stared wildly. Every so often it would swoop down, flames licking at the corners of its mouth, ready to snap her up in a single bite.

  She stood firm, staff raised and feet apart, knowing the creature could not break its magical bonds. Bloodfang would always pull out at the last moment, doubling back on its length, screaming with frustration and shooting back into the sky.

  The beast’s misery radiated out in front of her, a pall of anguish that seemed to stain the air itself, the agony of a great and noble mind laid to waste by the slow arts of the Witch King. Though she knew little of dragon-lore, she understood well enough what a mighty feat it must have been to enslave one of the famed fire-drakes of Caledor.

  She wondered what exactly must have been done to break its spirit. Had it been raised from an egg by Malekith and tortured from birth? Or had it somehow been lured into the Witch King’s clutches once full-grown and imprisoned in secret? She could not imagine what torments must have been applied, perhaps over decades, to turn what had been born as a creature of ecstatic fire into such a twisted, ruined horror.