Master of Dragons Page 18

  ‘Sound the alarm!’ he shouted, breaking into a run. ‘Man the walls!’

  He made it as far as the citadel gates before it hit them. The stench was incredible – a rolling wash of hot putrescence, like a boiled corpse. He staggered, losing his footing and colliding heavily with the stone doorframe. From behind him he heard screams as others looked up into the skies and saw what was bearing down on them.

  Hands trembling, Alviar pushed his way through the citadel doors and scrambled up the spiral stairway beyond. As he raced up the steps they seemed to shiver underneath him.

  He reached the bell tower and caught hold of the long chain, yanking it frantically. That was the signal – it should bring the soldiers to their stations on the walls and summon everyone else to the sanctuary of the citadel.

  Alviar rang it furiously for a few seconds longer, his heart pounding and his pulse racing.

  It had been huge. Huge, and… wrong.

  Then he tore out of the chamber and up to the citadel’s summit. As he ran he started praying that the ballistae were manned and that they’d managed to get a few bolts away. He didn’t know whether anything they had would do much against that monster, but they should at least attempt a defence.

  He burst out into the open at the top of the stairwell, slamming the wooden door back on its hinges as he emerged on to the wide, flat rooftop. He was instantly reassured – several dozen guards were already there on the ramparts, hauling the heavy ballistae and bolt throwers into firing angles and shouting furiously at one another. The wind whipped across him, as hot as a desert sandstorm and flecked with eerie snarls of flame.

  ‘Where is it?’ he yelled, twisting around as he ran, his neck craned up into the skies.

  It was a superfluous question. The black dragon headed straight at them, less than a hundred feet away and tearing towards the citadel’s summit. Green and purple energies laced around it, dripping like molten metal from its outstretched maw. Alviar caught a blurred impression of massive jaws pulled wide and a pair of silver eyes blazing with madness before he threw himself on to the stone and covered his head with his hands.

  He heard a throttling roar that made the stone beneath his chest judder, then felt a sudden rush of air being inhaled into massive lungs. The stink intensified – a foul mix of mortuary scraps and magic. Amid all the roaring and the terror he thought he caught a woman’s voice, screaming out words that he couldn’t understand but that somehow amplified the paralysing dread that gripped him tight.

  That, though, was the last of Alviar’s fear-fractured impressions. A second later the jets of flame came, tempests of addled fire that crashed across the citadel’s battlements like breakers against a prow, immolating everything like the vengeance of Khaine and sealing, for a second time, the doom of Kor Vanaeth.

  The doors were barred with spiked iron bands and weighed the same as a fully laden trade cutter. Somewhere within the cavernous gatehouse, chains the width of wine barrels clanked taut around wheels, then pulled.

  Imladrik watched them draw to the full – first a slit, then a window of daylight, then the wide vista of the plains beyond.

  His mount was skittish under him. The horse could smell dragon, and that always unsettled them. He placed a reassuring hand on its neck and whispered the calming words that Yethanial had taught him.

  Twenty ceremonial riders passed through the archway ahead of him, each decked in dazzling ithilmar and carrying pennants with the emblems of Ulthuan and Caledor. Aelis rode on his left side, Salendor on his right. Gelthar and Caerwal came behind, along with three battle-mages.

  Liandra had still not returned from wherever Vranesh had taken her. Imladrik could have remained preoccupied, but the time had passed for that.

  One battle at a time.

  They rode out. Ahead of them, a mile from the walls, the dwarfs had taken up positions. Their army stretched across the eastern limit of the plain in a long arc. Imladrik could see regiments digging in: some carrying huge warhammers two-handed, others with axes or stubby crossbows. Their armour glinted dully in the sun, exposing intricate knotwork engraving on the helms and pauldron plates.

  He tried to estimate numbers. Fifty thousand? Sixty? There might be more still marching through the forest to join them. In any case, it was a brutally large muster.

  Thin columns of smoke were already rising from the dwarf encampment, marking the fires that they would drink and eat around, working one another up into battle-readiness with old tales of heroism and grudgement. Once those tales might have concerned Malekith and Snorri Whitebeard, though they would do so no longer, and for that Imladrik was thankful.

  The Sundering was largely unknown to the dwarfs. If they had ever been curious about the affairs of Ulthuan they would no doubt have uncovered the truth soon enough, but they were an insular race with little concern for internal elgi politics. For their part the asur had never made reference to it. In the early days many assumed Malekith would be defeated quickly. Only slowly had the dreadful truth become apparent – that the split would linger for as long as any could foresee, and that the Witch King was far too powerful to be reliably defended against, let alone destroyed.

  After that the asur kept the truth from the outside world, guarding their shame like an oil lantern in the wind, sheltering it from prying eyes and hoping that, somehow, it could be contained. When the strife in Elthin Arvan had first come, Imladrik had sent Gotrek letters, hinting at the truth, still constrained by the need for secrecy and veiled with vagueness. Perhaps he should have been more explicit.

  Ahead of him the dawi banners hung limply. Everything about them was blunt, grim, heavy. As the elves approached the dwarf lines, crossbow-bearing guards stomped out to greet them. Behind them came a company of foot soldiers wearing thick plates over chainmail, their helms carved into grotesque representations of dragon-faces. Imladrik pulled the reins gently, and the party came to a halt.

  The dwarfs assembled, crossbows levelled, saying nothing. An uneasy silence descended, broken only by the distant sounds of campfires crackling and supply wagons being unloaded.

  Imladrik removed his high helm, exposing his face to the enemy.

  ‘Tromm, dawinarri,’ he said, bowing respectfully. ‘Ka ghurraz Imladriki na Kaledor.’

  The wind whistled. For many heartbeats, no one spoke.

  ‘Your accent has got worse.’

  The voice came from behind the lines, hidden by the grim wall of steel and iron. Imladrik thought it sounded harsher than it had once done; back then, Snorri had always been the angry one, his cousin the voice of calm.

  ‘I have not had much time to practise,’ Imladrik called out, resisting the urge to scan along the lines to see where Morgrim was hidden.

  He did not have to wait for long. The guards shuffled to one side, and the iron-clad hearthguard replaced them. Then their ranks parted, exposing two figures standing within their midst.

  One was grizzled with age, his long beard flecked grey and his stance hunched. He carried a thick-shafted stave crowned with an iron anvil, the head of which seemed to shimmer as if in a heat-haze. Imladrik did not recognise him, though he knew well enough the marks of a runesmith.

  The other one he certainly knew, though time had not been kind to the memory. Morgrim’s helm and armour were smeared with blood, daubed in ritual marks of vengeance. His eyes had darkened and his previously open face had withdrawn into a scarred, tight visage of distrust. His boots and cloak were travel-worn, his fine armour splattered with the mud of the road. He carried an ornate axe, studded with runes. It looked new-forged.

  Imladrik dismounted, though even on foot he still towered over the dwarf lord.

  Morgrim did not bow. ‘You sent me a fool,’ he said.

  ‘He came to me recommended,’ said Imladrik.

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Someone I trust.’

  Morgrim grunt
ed. ‘We did not harm him,’ he said, in a voice that indicated he regretted the fact.

  ‘Then what of his tidings? Do we have leave to talk?’

  ‘My thanes counsel against it. They are hungry to see your walls in rubble. They ask me what you can tell us that we haven’t heard before.’

  ‘Little, perhaps,’ admitted Imladrik. ‘But not nothing. We used to speak often, you and I. Back then your cousin was the one who wouldn’t listen.’

  A shadow fell across Morgrim’s face. ‘His death is the cause of this.’

  ‘He should have been buried in the Everpeak with honour. He should have taken his place beside Grimnir, and should have done so intact.’

  As Imladrik spoke, one of his guards dismounted and bore him a rosewood box inlaid with silver renditions of the dwarfen runes of kingship. Imladrik passed it to Morgrim, stooping as he delivered it.

  ‘I brought this from Lothern, where it should never have been taken. It is presented to you in reverence, in the hope that it may be returned to where it belongs.’

  Morgrim glared up at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he opened the catch. A withered hand lay within, cushioned on silk and bound with fine linen. Its fingers had been severed at the first knuckle.

  Morgrim stared at it for a long time. When he next spoke, his voice was thick.

  ‘I would have brought our armies to Ulthuan to retrieve this.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you think you can buy my goodwill with it?’

  ‘It was not intended to buy anything,’ said Imladrik, knowing the danger of mortal insult. ‘I give it to you now before fighting makes it impossible, so it may be returned to his father in Karaz-a-Karak and interred with the grondaz rites. I would have it known that Snorri Halfhand, greatest of dawi princes, can still grasp an axe in the afterlife.’

  Morgrim nodded slowly. ‘Aye,’ he said grimly. ‘It would be fitting.’

  Then he glared up at Imladrik again.

  ‘It can never go back to how it was,’ he said. ‘My army will remain on these plains, preparing for battle. But I will listen. Perhaps you can tell me something new, perhaps not: I make no promises.’

  Imladrik bowed, feeling a surge of relief wash over him. He felt like thanking Morgrim, knowing the risks the dwarf lord ran to make such a concession, but that would have been fatal – dwarfs cared nothing for gratitude, only debts, loyalty and payment.

  So instead he rose to his full height and withdrew slowly, never taking his eyes off Morgrim’s conflicted face.

  ‘So be it,’ he said. ‘The last chance to end this madness. By Asuryan, let us not waste it.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Liandra drove Vranesh hard, pushing her towards the far-off peaks of the Arluii. Her steed was happy to comply. As ever, their moods were intertwined, amplified and echoed in one another’s minds with every movement and gesture.

  She knew she should turn back. Her foray out over Loren Lacoi had given her a hawk’s eye view of dawi columns moving close to Tor Alessi’s hinterland – the vanguard of the main force would not be far behind it. On another day, she might have ordered Vranesh down, raking the slow-moving formations with a burst of dragonfire. She would have enjoyed that – it would have been a release after so long holding back.

  Imladrik, of course, wouldn’t have allowed it. His restraint was maddening. Liandra knew what he was capable of if he chose to unlock the power coiled tight within that proud, buttoned-up exterior. She had seen it for herself, and the memory still burned within her.

  But she had made herself weary now telling others of his potential, even Salendor had stopped believing her.

  ‘It doesn’t matter how much you tell me this,’ he’d complained, smarting after her rejection of him. ‘Weak elves tell good stories.’

  Salendor was within his rights to be sceptical – very few had ever seen dragon riders in action. The drakes were rare and majestic beasts, kept away from the battlefield by their riders unless the need was great. Salendor could have no idea what would happen when they were let loose. He could have no idea how contemptuously Draukhain or Vranesh could carve through the mightiest of defences, leaving nothing but molten armour fragments in their wake.

  The dawi did not understand it either. It was centuries since dragons had gone to war in Elthin Arvan – no dwarfs now lived who would have witnessed them unleashed to the full. They had only ever hunted miserable cave-dwelling wyrms of the eastern mountains – the colossally powerful Star Dragons of the Annulii were another proposition entirely.

  It was all so frustrating.

  He is a fool, sang Vranesh in sympathy.

  Liandra laughed bitterly. You’ve changed your tune.

  Who but a fool would spurn the chance to mate with you?

  It is not about mating, she sang back, affronted. Gods, you can be crude sometimes.

  Then what is it? Vranesh sounded genuinely interested.

  I see the things we could accomplish together. It was hard to conceal emotions from the dragons – they sniffed them out like prey. He sees it too, but holds back.

  Because he is promised to another?

  That is not all. Liandra’s mind-voice was hesitant; she didn’t like thinking of Imladrik’s motivations. He has his father’s example to think of.

  Imrik, sang Vranesh with approval.

  Indeed. Think on the lesson of Imrik, and you will understand both his sons.

  Vranesh dipped a little lower, pulling clear of a long grey cloudbank. Ahead of them, still many leagues distant, the grey profile of the Arluii pocked the southern horizon.

  His father refused to draw the Sword of Khaine, even though it would have ended the war, sang Liandra. Caledor believes this was weak, and has spent his life trying to erase the shame of it. He would go to war with his own shadow if it offended him.

  And kalamn-talaen?

  He thinks otherwise. Liandra looked out at the vast spread of Elthin Arvan, regarding it with the mix of hatred and devotion that she had always felt. He thinks we carry the seeds of our destruction within us. He yearns for nothing more than to give free rein to the dragon, but dreads what it will do to him. He does not want to become another Aenarion.

  Liandra gripped her staff tightly. I am his Sword of Khaine, she sang. That is the problem.

  Vranesh snorted her contempt. Foolish.

  Liandra nodded slowly. It is. We are a foolish race.

  Vranesh angled steeply, pulling closer to the land below. Liandra peered over the creature’s shoulder, scouring the unbroken forest for signs of movement.

  When will you order me back to the city? sang Vranesh. Not that I am in a hurry – I enjoy the chance to stretch my pinions.

  Liandra was about to reply, to begin the long journey back, when something suddenly struck at her soul: a sharp pain, like a dagger-thrust. She winced, tensing in the saddle.

  ‘What is that?’ she asked aloud, voice tight with pain.

  Vranesh had felt it too – the dragon instantly gained altitude, powering aloft with an urgency she hadn’t employed for a long time.

  East, Vranesh sang.

  Liandra twisted around, feeling the pain intensify. Only slowly did she recognise the cause: echoes of agony in the aethyr, souls shrieking in pain, all wrapped in the poisonous embrace of Dhar magic.

  ‘Kor Vanaeth,’ she breathed, her heart suddenly chilling. ‘Blood of Isha – my people.’

  By then Vranesh was already flying hard, thrusting east, picking up speed with every powerful wingbeat.

  Liandra reeled, clutching her breast as more waves of misery impacted.

  She had always had a sympathetic link with her adopted home, but this was different. The pain was being shouted out across the aethyr like a beacon in the night. Someone wanted her to feel it.

  Abomination, snarled Vranesh. The dragon’s v
oice was twisted in fury. I sense it.

  Find it, gasped Liandra, trying to shake off the sickening pain and summon up her own anger. Find it, run it down. By Isha’s tears, you shall have the bloodshed you seek.

  The tent’s canvas walls swayed in the wind, buffeted by gusts that came off the western ocean and straight across the plain. It was an elaborate construction, a storeyed collection of fabric-walled chambers erected around a scaffold of thick wooden poles and taut hemp ropes. Imladrik had had it prepared weeks ago, hoping that it would be used for such a purpose; erecting it had taken just a few hours.

  The site was equidistant between the dwarf camp and the city walls. No more than a hundred delegates were permitted within half a mile of it, fifty from each opposing force. Despite the precautions, the atmosphere of tense antagonism was palpable. Dwarfs glowered at their elgi counterparts; the asur glared back at them with equal suspicion.

  Imladrik didn’t like to see it, but he wasn’t surprised.

  So are the dreams of our fathers diminished.

  He sat at the centre of a long table covered in white linen. He had come in his ceremonial robes rather than armour as a gesture of trust. Aelis, Gelthar, Caerwal and Salendor sat on either side of him, all similarly garbed.

  There was still no sign of Liandra. He had sent messages to her quarters. She might, of course, have been unaware that the dawi had finally arrived, but he doubted it. Whatever her feelings about remaining in his presence, she should not have stayed away.

  Perhaps that vindicated everything he had done. He wished he could feel surer.

  Opposite them, sitting at a similar table, were the dwarfs. Three lords, in addition to the runesmith, sat with Morgrim. Imladrik didn’t know them or recognise their livery; they had been introduced as Frei of Karak Drazh, Grondil of Zhufbar and Eldig of Karak Varn. They were neither princes nor kings, but thanes, advisers to their hold-master. Each looked ancient, as knotted and weathered as oak-stumps.

  For all of their grandeur, there could be no doubt who dominated the chamber. Morgrim brooded in the midst of them, his countenance hanging like a funeral pall over the proceedings. He still wore his fabulously ornate battle plate with its swirling curves of knotwork decoration and bronze-limned detail, looking ready to unclasp his axe at any moment.