Master of Dragons Page 17

  Thoriol smiled. For the attackers, it would be like walking into a hurricane. He found himself almost desperate for them to arrive, just so he could witness it.

  ‘Stand down!’

  The order rang out from the tower at the far end of the parapet. All along the battlements archer companies leaned heavily against the stone, shaking down aching arms and counting their remaining arrows. A trumpet sounded as dozens of basket-carrying menials hurried out of the gates below, ready for the laborious process of retrieving the arrows and carting them back up to the armoury for re-use.

  Loeth smiled at him amiably. ‘You’re keeping up, Silent.’

  Thoriol nodded. ‘Seems that way.’

  Baelian pushed his way towards them, moving carefully along the crowded parapet.

  ‘It’ll be harder when we’re doing it for real,’ he warned, looking with guarded approval at Thoriol and the others. ‘Think your arms are aching now? They’ll be shredded by the end, and that’s before you see what the bastards will be hurling up at us the whole time.’

  Rovil laughed. ‘From fifty feet down?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Baelian. ‘Last time they breached the walls in nine places before we drove them out.’ He swept his scarred gaze across them, wagging a calloused finger in their direction like an old loremaster with his pupils. ‘Be careful. Remember your training. If they break through anywhere close to you, reach for your knives and fall back in good order. It’s not your task to stop them up close – that’s what the knights are there for.’

  Thoriol looked away then, his mind already wandering – Baelian had given them the same speech many times.

  As he did so, he caught a familiar whiff on the air, like burning embers. He craned his head, shading his eyes with one hand against the glare of the sun. He’d known ever since arriving that dragon riders were among Tor Alessi’s defenders but he’d made no effort to find out anything about them – the memory of the Dragonspine was still too raw for that and he’d had plenty to occupy him with the archery work.

  But as he looked up then, though, he saw it – the massive sapphire drake, the one he’d seen over Tor Vael and Tor Caled a hundred times. It was dropping fast, descending into the forest of spires behind them with an echoing clap of huge wings. A moment later and it was gone, lost in the vastness of the upper city.

  He felt his stomach twist.

  ‘That is Imladrik’s dragon,’ he said, blurting it out even as Baelian was still speaking.

  ‘So it is,’ smiled Loeth. ‘What did you expect? I’ve seen him aloft twice since we dropped anchor.’

  Florean nodded enthusiastically. ‘A monster. A true monster.’

  Thoriol turned to Baelian. ‘Then… he’s here?’

  ‘Of course he is.’ Baelian looked at him steadily. ‘He commands the army.’

  Thoriol almost felt like laughing, but not from mirth. Even the simple task of escaping his father seemed to be beyond him. A familiar sinking sensation fell over him: the embrace of failure.

  He started to say something, but Baelian’s look silenced him. The archery captain shot him a glare, the meaning of which was obvious.

  No one needs to know but you and me.

  Thoriol clammed up.

  ‘Are you all right, Silent?’ asked Florean. ‘You’ve gone pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ replied Thoriol. ‘Gods, but my arms are sore.’

  They could believe that, and so the moment passed. The archers gathered up their arrows into quivers and checked their strings for damage. Loeth reached for a pot of beeswax and began to rub at a splintered section of his longbow – it would need to be replaced, but the bowyers were already working flat out and spares were hard to come by.

  As the company fell into its familiar routines Baelian drew Thoriol to one side.

  ‘You’ve made a place for yourself here, lad,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

  Thoriol didn’t know how to reply. Thoughts of escape had faded days ago, replaced by the enjoyment of – for the first time – actually doing something worthwhile well. The fact that his father was in the city, no doubt preoccupied with the enormous task of organising its defences, shouldn’t have made a difference to anything.

  But it did, of course. It tarnished the whole exercise, putting into relief just how incongruous it was that he, the son of the King’s brother, had ended up serving in the rank and file of his armies.

  He was about to mumble something inconsequential when his attention was broken for a second time. Clarions, whole groups of them, began to sound from the tops of the highest towers. A rustle of movement followed, then the rising clamour of voices raised all along the battlements.

  Thoriol looked out across the plain just in time to see the collectors hurrying back to the gates, escorted by spear-carrying riders who hadn’t been there a moment ago. The clarions continued to sound, joined soon afterwards by ringing blasts from the city’s huge central keep.

  His gaze snapped up to the edge of the forest, only a few miles distant but hazy in the strong sun. He saw nothing moving there, but the sight nevertheless filled him with foreboding.

  ‘So they’ve been sighted,’ Thoriol said quietly.

  Baelian stared out in the same direction, eyes fixed on the horizon.

  ‘Sounds like it,’ he agreed. ‘Better get those arms limber again, lad. Looks like you’ll be using them soon.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  The dwarfs on the march were like a slow avalanche battering its way down a mountainside. They made little effort to skirt around obstacles or difficult terrain – they ploughed through it, never changing pace, keeping their heads low and their arms swinging in unison. In their wake they left a wasteland of hacked stumps and trampled-down foliage, a scar on the forest as wide as fifty warriors marching shoulder to shoulder.

  Behind those pioneers came the builders. Wooden bridges were thrown up over gorges; earthworks were hurriedly put up to shore the road’s margins; the stubbornest obstacles were simply demolished by a whole phalanx of bare-chested workers using axes, hammers, shovels and long-handled hods.

  Caradryel had plenty of time to watch the dawi at work, and what he saw gave him plenty to think about. Even the lowliest worker applied himself with almost fanatical zeal. He saw dwarfs staggering under their own weight in rubble, shining with sweat, refusing any help until their portion of the labour was done. He saw others carrying atrocious wounds and still working on, shrugging off levels of pain that would have had him in bed for a week.

  The dwarfs seemed consumed by a kind of low-level mania that drove them west, ever west, obliterating anything they came across on the way. He found their single-mindedness both repellent and admirable. An elf would have found a more elegant route, taking care to conserve strength for the battle ahead. Something about the dawi’s utter disregard for such considerations made him uneasy.

  He had spoken to Morgrim on and off during the trek towards Tor Alessi. The dwarf lord was busy for most of the time with his thanes and warlords and spared himself as little as they did, marching to and fro amongst the armoured columns tirelessly, taking counsel and ruminating with them long into the night. Dwarf discussions seemed to involve an inordinate amount of beard-tugging, ale-drinking and low grunting – even about seemingly trivial matters.

  Slowly Caradryel had come to realise why Morgrim kept himself so busy. The dwarf army, which was far, far bigger than he’d been led to believe, was composed of forces from many different holds. Each one was led by its own prince or thane, many of whom were older than Morgrim and had trenchant views of their own. Seniority was a powerful thing with them, and Morgrim had to work incessantly to keep the whole messy, fractious, temperamental caravan on the road.

  Caradryel found himself admiring the dour warrior. Morgrim was driven and irascible, obviously haunted by the death of
his cousin and the need for blood-vengeance, but he could keep his head when he needed to, cajoling and arguing with a deft mix of forcefulness and tact.

  ‘Does it make you nervous?’ Morgrim had asked Caradryel on one of their few conversations together.

  ‘What, lord?’

  ‘Being surrounded by those who wish to kill you.’

  Caradryel thought for a moment. ‘In truth, I have never found myself to be universally popular,’ he said eventually. ‘So, no.’

  Morgrim didn’t smile. It was rare to see him smile, and when he did it was a cynical gesture, bereft of warmth.

  ‘Morek tells me I am wasting my time with you,’ said Morgrim. ‘He says you should have been sent back to Tor Alessi with an iron collar round your neck.’

  ‘Morek is your counsellor?’

  ‘My runelord.’

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t listen to him.’

  Morgrim picked his nose and flicked the results to the floor. ‘You know what I despise about you elgi?’

  Caradryel didn’t offer a suggestion.

  ‘Your lack of seriousness,’ said Morgrim. He held up his axe. ‘This is Morek’s finest work. He spent decades crafting the symbols into this metal. He bent his neck over it, honing, tapping, seeking. He never smiled, never made an unworthy remark – he worked until it was done. Now the power within it almost scares me.’

  Caradryel thought of all the wasted, half-finished endeavours he’d embarked upon in his life, only to discard them when something more appealing came his way.

  ‘This land rewards such work,’ Morgrim went on. ‘It is a serious land. You can carve a living here, if you work at it, but it will never repay sloth. I’ve seen the way you people look at the grime under the leaves and I know what you think of it, but we cherish every shadow, every pit. It is our place. You should not have come here.’

  ‘We have been in Elthin Arvan for a thousand years,’ countered Caradryel carefully. ‘There is room enough for both of us, is there not?’

  Morgrim hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat it messily. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  Caradryel paused before speaking again. ‘If I may, then, lord – a question.’

  Morgrim grunted his assent.

  ‘Why are you not sending me back to Imladrik? Why are you entertaining his proposal at all?’

  ‘Because of who he is.’ Morgrim drew in a long breath. The leather-tough skin around his eyes creased as he remembered. ‘He never looked down on us. He did not scorn our food, nor our caverns, nor call us stunted. When I showed him the vaults of the Everpeak he remained silent. He bowed before the great image of Grimnir, and for a moment I could not tell whether it was elgi or dawi who stood there.’

  When Morgrim spoke of Imladrik, his harsh voice softened a little, losing its cold edge of disdain.

  ‘I looked at him and I saw one of us,’ Morgrim said. ‘A soul that understood the path of duty.’ Morgrim glanced at Caradryel. ‘He learned Khazalid. He spoke it well, for an elgi. It took him twenty years, he told me, to master the greeting-forms, but he did it. I know of no others of your kind who have even tried, let alone succeeded.’

  As Morgrim spoke, Caradryel remembered the ephemera of Yethanial’s patient scholarship at Tor Vael. He had wondered at the relationship between the two of them back then, struck by how pale and grey she seemed next to his vigorous dynamism, but perhaps there was something more profound there than appearances.

  ‘His brother is a fool and my people will rejoice when his neck is cut,’ continued Morgrim. ‘But my cousin was not wise-tempered either.’ The dwarf’s nose crinkled as he attempted what passed with him for a smile. ‘What might have been, if Imladrik and I had been the heirs? Perhaps none of this foolishness.’

  He looked sidelong at Caradryel.

  ‘But all we have are the things set before us, and I will tell you this: I respect him for the reason I do not respect you. He is serious.’

  Caradryel remembered how, despite himself, that accusation had wounded him. Alone among all the insults and contempt he’d faced from that dawi, that one had somehow struck home.

  Perhaps, he thought, if I somehow make it out of here alive, I will have to address this. Perhaps I have been playing at life for too long.

  Now though, days later, the march was coming to an end. Caradryel had taken his place beside Feliadh again. He and the other Caledorians walked by his side, leading their horses, looking dishevelled from the long trek but otherwise unharmed. For the last few hours the trees had been thinning out around them, gradually giving way to a bleak country of grass, sea-wind and loamy earth.

  The dwarf vanguard pulled together, forming up into squares of impeccably ordered warriors. Morgrim and his bazan-khazakrum hearthguard had forged their way to the forefront, taking the combined standards of the army with them – a heavy-set collection of banners bearing stylised images of forges, hammers, flames and mountains.

  ‘Now we see where this game has led us,’ whispered Feliadh to Caradryel.

  Caradryel nodded, keeping a careful watch on Morgrim’s progress ahead.

  ‘We will indeed.’

  They crested a low tussock of tufted grass and sucking mud, beyond which the plains running down the sea suddenly opened out before them. Caradryel breathed in deeply, relishing the brine on the brisk air.

  The sun was low in the east behind them, still pulling clear of the morning mists over the forest. Elthin Arvan’s coastline was visible in the distance, a line of barred silver crowned with piled seaborne clouds. The huge, proud outline of Tor Alessi broke its emptiness, jutting up from the plain in a mass of spear-sharp towers and soaring walls. Runes on its walls could be made out even from such a distance, picked out in gold and emerald, glowing warmly as the waxing sun caught the gilt tapestry.

  Caradryel saw the city then as the dwarfs around him must have seen it – huge, bristling with arms and magic, a fastness unrivalled by any the elves had built in all their colonial lands. It looked indomitable, as solid as the Phoenix Throne itself.

  If Caradryel had been one of those dour-faced, iron-clad warriors his spirits might have faltered then. Somehow, he doubted theirs would.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Feliadh. The Caledorian had started treating him with a good deal more respect since the events of the ambush.

  ‘The Doom of the Elves has made his arrival,’ Caradryel said dryly. ‘Now we wait for the Master of Dragons to make his.’

  Alviar walked along Kor Vanaeth’s main thoroughfare. Loose soil and straw clung to his boots – the stone paving that had once made the roads a pleasure to walk on had long since been ripped up for repairs to the walls and citadel. Everything that had any military use had been taken, including ornamental stone lintels, bronze statues, even articles from the temples.

  Alviar had disapproved of that at the time, as had most of the citizens. Liandra had been most insistent, though. She always was.

  If he was honest, Alviar had never truly agreed with the decision to repopulate Kor Vanaeth. It was too small, too isolated, too enclosed by the forest. He would have been happy enough to follow Liandra to Tor Alessi or Athel Toralien, to start a new life in one of the truly big fortresses, the only places where a modicum of safety was still preserved.

  He smiled as he remembered how Liandra had replied when he’d first suggested that, years ago. He’d never been able to repeat what she said in front of his four children, but the sight of her with eyes blazing, cheeks scarlet and spittle flying remained seared on his memory. She hadn’t agreed.

  Given all of that, it had been a disappointment when she’d accepted the summons at last to go to Tor Alessi. Right up until the end he had hoped she’d find a way to ignore it, but then Alviar supposed that it was hard to resist the Council for long.

  She’d been torn about it, at least, which boded well for her return.


  ‘I will come back,’ she had promised him.

  ‘I know you will, lady,’ he had replied.

  ‘And I will bring reinforcements too. It’s long past time Tor Alessi released some of its defenders – they can hardly house the troops they’ve got.’

  ‘That would be good, my lady.’

  Then she had gone, taking wing on that flame-red dragon of hers. Alviar had watched her go, wondering if anything she’d promised would be delivered.

  Since then, nothing. Vague reports had reached them of dwarf armies on the move again, but all had been from the north. Alviar had done what he could in the meantime: overseeing the last of the repairs to the walls, ensuring the soldiers he did possess were in a good state of readiness for whatever might come. They knew that attack was likely, particularly if the dwarf forces started to splinter as they had done so many times in the past, so he’d sent messages to Tor Alessi warning of the imminent danger, despite little faith they would be received.

  He looked up at the citadel ahead of him. It rose from the patchwork of houses like a tree-stump from the soil, streaked black from old fires. If all failed, the entire population could retreat to that redoubt, the only part of the old fortress that had remained intact after the dwarf attacks.

  Alviar narrowed his eyes, running his gaze along the battle-ments. He thought he should really send someone up to ensure the ballistae were all in perfect condition and safely stowed before the next storm came in.

  He was about to turn away, making a note to himself to have a word with the watch commander, when something else caught his eye. It was high up in the eastern sky – a lone bird with a strange, halting flight.

  He paused, wondering for a moment what it was. Then, as the speck of darkness grew larger, his heart missed a beat. For all its ungainliness it was coming at them fast. Far, far too fast.