Master of Dragons Page 22

  ‘He went in there,’ said the soldier, pointing to a nondescript tower a few yards down the left-hand street. ‘I counted six with him.’

  Caradryel glanced at Feliadh. ‘I’d rather not wait. Can you handle six?’

  Feliadh smiled condescendingly. ‘Worry not,’ he said, patting the hilt of his ornate Caledorian longsword.

  The captain took the lead. Feliadh walked up to the tower and tried the door. It swung ajar as he pushed it, revealing a shadowy hallway on the other side.

  Caradryel took a deep breath. This kind of work was not something he enjoyed – the prospect of blood, real blood, being shed made him nervous in a way that was hard to hide.

  ‘Let’s try to make this clean,’ he said, drawing his knife. ‘Remember – Imladrik wants proof before we take him in.’

  Feliadh gestured with a forefinger and his troops drew their blades.

  ‘For Ulthuan,’ he said quietly.

  Then he plunged inside, barging the door open and charging into the hallway. Caradryel followed closely, trying his best not to impede the movements of the Caledorians around him.

  The space beyond the doorway was deserted, but a stairway rose up steeply on the far side. Light and noise came from the upper storey – the sound of voices raised in anger.

  Feliadh raced up the stairway two steps at a time, reaching another landing with a heavy wooden door on the far side. An elf was slumped on the floorboards, unconscious. As Caradryel jogged past him he noticed the crimson edge-livery on his rumpled cloak, then Feliadh shouldered the door open.

  ‘Lower your blades!’ he roared as he and his soldiers bundled inside. ‘In the name of Imladrik of Caledor, lower your blades!’

  Caradryel was next inside, his heart thumping heavily.

  It was a large, sunlit chamber. A long table ran down its centre at which half a dozen elves in loremasters’ robes were seated. Maps, campaign plans and other documents covered the surface. Six soldiers in the armour and colours of Athel Maraya stood protectively around the loremasters, their swords hastily raised at the intrusion.

  Salendor stood at the head of the table with mage-staff in hand. He looked furious.

  ‘What is this?’ he demanded.

  Caradryel pushed his way to the front of his party. The Caledorians fanned out defensively around him.

  ‘My apologies, lord, but I have been tasked with ending this.’

  Salendor looked at him incredulously. ‘And who are you?’

  Caradryel stiffened. The contempt in Salendor’s voice was withering.

  ‘Imladrik’s agent,’ he replied, producing the seal of office he’d been given. ‘Please do not resist – it will be easier on everyone.’

  For a moment Salendor looked too outraged to speak. Caradryel worked hard to retain eye contact with him, painfully aware of how dangerous the mage could be and hoping Feliadh’s troops would have his measure if things turned difficult.

  ‘Do not resist?’ Salendor laughed harshly. ‘Blood of Khaine, you have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.’

  Caradryel walked over to the table and grabbed a handful of parchment pieces. He could see instructions scrawled in Eltharin outlining attack routes, all leading to the dawi lines. It was a pre-emptive strike, one designed to destroy the fragile truce.

  ‘This is the proof, my lord,’ said Caradryel. ‘I have been observing you for some time.’

  Salendor raised an eyebrow, and a dark humour played across his lips. ‘Have you, now? And you truly think you can bring me in?’

  Caradryel swallowed. ‘Know that I will do my duty,’ he said, gripping his knife tightly.

  Then Salendor laughed. He motioned to his guards, who all stood down and sheathed their weapons.

  ‘You’re a damn fool,’ Salendor sighed. ‘And two steps behind me.’

  Even as Salendor spoke, Caradryel noticed that the seated figures were not in the same livery as those standing – all of them wore cloaks lined with red, just like the one slumped on the landing outside. They also looked horribly afraid.

  ‘I don’t–’ he started, suddenly doubtful.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Salendor. ‘Tell your Caledorian savages to put their knives away. We are on the same side.’

  Caradryel hesitated, unwilling to lose the initiative, but as he looked more closely at the situation his confidence drained away.

  ‘I was alerted to this by one of Caerwal’s adjutants,’ said Salendor, leaning against the table. ‘A loyal one, but I took some time to establish that, because it is important to be sure, is it not?’

  Caradryel began to feel distinctly foolish. ‘The messenger at your mansion.’

  ‘So you have been watching me. I suppose I should be flattered.’ Salendor looked over the rows of seated loremasters and his expression changed to contempt. ‘I argued against Imladrik’s plans – you’ll know that. I tried to persuade the others to join me – you might know that too. But you think I’d be stupid enough to try this?’

  Caradryel stared down at the attack plans. They involved named regiments from the city. ‘Then who–’

  ‘Caerwal. Have you not seen the way he is? He lost half his people at Athel Numiel and will never forgive it. Even as he sits in that tent his loremasters have been planning to end it all.’

  Caradryel sheathed his knife, feeling a little nauseous, and motioned for Feliadh and his company to do the same. ‘When?’

  ‘Any time. Six regiments, all sent against the dawi right flank. Suicidal, but it would have brought the war he wanted. Look, you can see the plans here. You can even check the garrison sigils if you wish.’

  Caradryel looked down at his hands. ‘My lord, I owe you–’

  ‘Do not insult me. Learn from it.’

  Caradryel really had very little idea what to do after that. He felt deeply, profoundly foolish – like a child suddenly exposed at playing in an adult world. Various responses ran through his head, none of them remotely satisfactory.

  He started to say something, but the walls suddenly shook, rocked by a new sound that burst in from outside. Caradryel reached for his knife again, staring around him to find the source.

  Salendor tensed, as did his guards. An abrupt tumult rose up from the plain. Horn-calls followed it, harsh and dissonant, and the volume of noise quickly mounted.

  Caradryel hastened over to the window, followed by Salendor. He opened one of the heavy lead clasps and pushed it open.

  Up on the parapets, sentries were rushing to the bell-towers. Their hurried movements spoke of surprise, perhaps some fear. A great boom of drums rang out from the east, soon joined by rolling repetitions. He knew what that was, just as every asur who had spent any length of time in Elthin Arvan did.

  Caradryel turned to Salendor, his smooth face going pale.

  ‘The dawi,’ he murmured.

  Salendor nodded. ‘Indeed,’ he said, closing the window and making for the door.

  ‘Where are you going?’ asked Caradryel, hurrying after him.

  Salendor halted at the doorway. The disdain had not left his face. ‘It was always bound to end like this. Caerwal has not succeeded, but someone else has. Do what you will – I have more important tasks now.’

  As he spoke, the floor throbbed from the chorus of low drumming that now rolled at them from beyond the walls. Caradryel heard the tinny response of clarions, followed by the metallic clatter of soldiers beating to quarters in the streets outside.

  Salendor strode out of the chamber, his cloak swirling imperiously around his ankles. His guards followed him.

  Feliadh glanced enquiringly at Caradryel. ‘What now?’

  Caradryel looked around him. Caerwal’s loremasters all waited, mute and fearful, knowing the penalty for what they had done. Outside, the drumbeats picked up in tempo and volume, matched by the strident tones of bronze war-h
orns.

  Caradryel’s shoulders slumped. Everything he had worked for had just dissolved, and for reasons he did not yet even understand.

  ‘Chain them,’ he said miserably, drawing his knife again and looking distractedly at the dull edge. ‘Then report to me.’

  Feliadh saluted smartly. ‘And where will you be, lord?’

  Caradryel smiled coldly. ‘On the walls,’ he said, already moving. ‘Fighting.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  The pain was astonishing. It wasn’t physical, though her body had been battered badly on the way down. It was spiritual torture, as exquisite as any devised by the debased courts of Naggaroth. Liandra wanted to scream out loud, to rage against the fortune that had brought her such agony, but somehow managed to bite her tongue.

  Tell me you can restore yourself, Liandra sang.

  Vranesh could barely summon the strength to open her eye. It stared at Liandra from just a few feet away, immense and glossy like a golden pearl.

  Do not be foolish, the dragon replied. My fire is gone.

  Liandra caressed the dragon’s long neck. It felt like her heart was being torn out. She could feel Vranesh’s mortal pain, burning in her own body like an echo.

  I would go there with you, Liandra sang.

  You cannot.

  I would be the first.

  Vranesh attempted a laugh. A rolling pall of greyish smoke spilled from her open jawline, sinking into the dry earth and drifting away.

  She was right – the fire had gone.

  What it is like? asked Liandra, desperate to keep speaking, as if that alone could somehow postpone the moment.

  We are there as we were before you entered the world, sang Vranesh. Before the shaan-tar came to tutor you, before strife came from the outer dark. The eldest of us remember. I will see them again, the names of legend.

  Liandra inhaled deeply, breathing in the remnants of Vranesh’s scent. The ember-charred musk was weaker, tinged with the hot stink of blood. The dragon was covered in it, its scales sticky and matt with clogged dust.

  The land they had crashed into was a desolate one: sun-hardened plains of baked earth and sparse-brush hills. The heat was oppressive, as if sunk into the air like dye in cloth.

  Liandra had little idea where they were. For the long hours of pursuit all that had mattered was vengeance – running down the druchii witch. At least that had been achieved.

  Vranesh’s voice entered her mind again then, reading her thoughts.

  She is not dead.

  I saw her hit the water.

  The abomination, yes, sang Vranesh. Not the rider.

  You are sure?

  I can hear her still. Vranesh’s long mouth twisted at the corners in a reptilian grimace. She is fearful and alone, but alive.

  Liandra almost stood up then. She almost walked straight out into the heat-shimmer plain, once more driven with that thirst for revenge that had dogged her since first taking the drake-saddle.

  But she didn’t. She remained where she was, cradled in the massive claws of her mount like a child in the arms of her mother. Her cloak lay about her in singed tatters.

  We will hunt her, then. When you are ready.

  Vranesh did not smile that time. The dragon let out a long, long sigh, as sibilant as steel sliding across steel. You do not listen. You have never listened.

  I do not–

  Silence! Vranesh snapped. No time remains. The dragon tried to lift her head and failed. More blood bubbled in the corners of its mouth, popping like tar. Kill the witch if you must, but remember where the real battle lies. All that matters is the song sung between our peoples. If the kalamn-talaen falls then the bond will be broken.

  Liandra did not want to hear the words. Imladrik, for so long an obsession with her, had become an unwelcome reminder of the past, something to be put away and forgotten.

  He will not–

  Listen! He is the last. Though maybe you can learn. Vranesh blinked – a slippery movement with a leathery inner eyelid – and fixed her obsidian pupil on Liandra. Do not waste yourself out here. You will be needed. Preserve yourself.

  Liandra felt the words stab at her. I would follow you, she said again, tears of anger spiking in her eyes.

  Perhaps you might. Perhaps you, out of all of them, might.

  Then more grey smoke poured out of Vranesh’s blackened nostrils, flecked with black motes. The huge eye lost its glossiness, and a sigh like winter wind escaped from bloodstained jaws.

  I loved you, fire-child, Vranesh sang.

  Then she was gone. The mind-presence disappeared from Liandra’s thoughts, snuffed out in an instant. Although the pain went with it, the hollowness that came in its place was almost unbearable.

  Liandra rocked to and fro, balling her fists. For a moment it felt as if she were going mad, or maybe sinking into the same death-trance as her mount.

  The tears would not come. She had never been able to cry from grief, only from anger or frustration. Now, alone, stranded on the edge of the world, her companion sundered from her at last, she just rocked steadily, eyes staring, consumed by horror.

  Only much later did the first howl come – a rending wail that burst raw from her throat. Then more cries, each shaking with loss, each sent up into the uncaring, empty skies above.

  She lost track of herself, consumed by a grief so total if felt as if the world were swallowing her into its heart. It might have been hours before she returned to her senses.

  When she finally did so the heat was still there with the harsh sunlight, and the yellow earth that was as dull and lifeless as the corpse of the dragon beside her.

  Liandra rose unsteadily to her feet. She stared at Vranesh. The dragon’s crimson wings were ripped and limp; the mighty chest deflated.

  There were rites for such occasions, ways of preparing the body for the afterlife, but they required time, strength and the use of a magestaff, none of which she still possessed. In their absence Vranesh’s mortal shell was ripe for carrion or plunder.

  Liandra collected herself, stilling the shuddering that made her breaths short. She extricated herself from the dragon’s clutches, working quickly now that she had some purpose, moving her hands in old patterns, murmuring words she had not used for decades. Even so, they came back quickly to her, just as if they had always been waiting.

  The air around Vranesh’s corpse seemed to thicken, to fill up, to clog. The raw blood-colour faded, replaced by a dun-yellow miasma. The serrated curve of the creature’s spine sank, fading into the profile of the sandy dune beyond. The claws, talons and eyes disappeared, replaced by the shadow of rocks or the straggle of desiccated vegetation.

  By the time she was finished all that remained was a vague hump in the landscape, bulbous in places but otherwise one with the stark earth around it.

  The deception was a minor cantrip – no determined traveller would be fooled by it, and it would dissolve at the first hint of a counter-spell. Liandra guessed that few travellers passed through such a place, though, let alone mages. By the time her illusion wore off, only heat-bleached bones would remain, themselves already sinking into the sand.

  She brushed her hands on her robes. Her blood pumped a little less strongly now, anguish replaced by a sense of exhaustion. Her mind still felt empty, bereft of the voice that had once shared it. Her intense grief, for all it might have been weak, had also been cathartic.

  She looked around her. To the south lay the long firth where the abomination had gone down. To the north and east lay a wasteland, as vile as it was hot.

  She would need to find drinking water, some shade, possibly food. Her arts would help her a little, but not much – she would need to work hard to stay alive.

  Liandra started to walk, heading towards the nearby reed-beds. She guessed it was an inlet of seawater, but it was a start. As she went, she
struggled to turn her thoughts away from Vranesh and on to the task at hand.

  It wasn’t easy, but it was possible.

  ‘First, to survive,’ she breathed out loud, picking up her pace and leaving the dragon-corpse behind. ‘Recover strength. Learn what manner of place this is.’

  Her eyes glittered darkly, remembering the witch.

  ‘Then vengeance.’

  The summit chamber of the Tower of Winds was full. Armed guards posted themselves wherever there was room; mages shuffled about, preparing spells that would not be ready for hours. A few loremasters tried to stay out of everyone else’s way, apologetically shuffling parchment maps and requisition ledgers.

  None of them dared to take a step within the inner circle of thrones. Four figures stood there, ignoring the seats, seemingly oblivious to the hubbub around them.

  Both Aelis and Gelthar seemed subdued. Imladrik couldn’t have cared less about the wretched Caerwal, whose plans would have been uncovered by Caradryel if they hadn’t been by Salendor. The only consolation he took from the whole sorry affair was that his most potent general had remained loyal and still stood at his side. As things had turned out, that might prove the most important point of all.

  But Liandra – where was Liandra? Her disappearance had gone from being regrettable, to curious, to worrying. She had always been impulsive, but Imladrik couldn’t believe she would have actually deserted, not when things were so poised.

  It was too late to do anything about that now.

  ‘Are they marching yet?’ demanded Salendor, his blunt expression hard to read.

  ‘They will be soon,’ said Aelis.

  ‘What changed?’ asked Gelthar, obviously still shocked. ‘We were talking. I thought we might be getting somewhere.’

  Imladrik shook his head. It felt as if events were running away from him. ‘We were.’ He slammed his fist into his gauntlet, a gesture born of pure frustration. ‘This was not Caerwal’s work – something else has riled them.’

  ‘We can find out,’ said Salendor.