Master of Dragons Page 23

  Imladrik turned on him. ‘How?’

  ‘A sending. It may do no good, mind.’

  Imladrik felt like laughing. It could hardly make things worse.

  ‘Make it,’ he ordered. ‘I must speak with him, just one more time.’

  Salendor placed his staff before him, holding it two-handed and resting the heel against the marble floor. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the tip. A greenish bloom rode up from the centre of the marble, coiling like oily smoke. Strange noises echoed from it – the clash of metal against metal, shouting in a strange tongue, the rush of wind from another place.

  Imladrik watched distastefully. A sending was a crude thing, a simulacrum and a sham, but it was the only course left to him. The plain beyond the walls now seethed with dwarfen warriors and the great tent had been abandoned. With the gates having been sealed, no elf now walked outside the walls.

  Perhaps, he thought, they should have stood firmer – made some kind of principled stand at the site of the talks. But Imladrik had seen the looks in the eyes of the dawi once the war-horns had started blowing, a look he recognised from a long time ago. There had been no time, no means of responding. The only sensible thing to do had been to withdraw to the city until it was clear what had changed.

  Sensible, but hardly heroic.

  Salendor’s spell took firmer shape. The green cloud reached chest height and spread out across the floor. Within the swirling centre images began to clarify. Like an eye sweeping across a confused panorama, fleeting glimpses of dour faces flickered in and out of focus. The harsh tones of Khazalid rose and fell, fading as the roving search cast about for its target.

  Salendor began to sweat. ‘They are aware of me,’ he said, his eyes still closed. ‘That damned runesmith…’

  ‘Do not lose it,’ warned Imladrik.

  The cloud’s restless movement paused and the images within its centre sharpened. Imladrik saw faces looming up out of the gloom, like weeds slowly rising to the surface of a lake.

  One swam to the forefront.

  ‘Master Runelord,’ said Imladrik, recognising Morek’s grim visage.

  The dwarf glared back at him, eyes out of focus, as if struggling to see through the sending’s magical depths. He raised his runestaff and the anvil-head sparked with energy.

  Then Morek’s face was gone, replaced by a blurry image of Morgrim. The dwarf lord glowered at Imladrik, squinting hard.

  ‘Sorcery,’ he spat. ‘This will not be forgotten.’

  ‘What is happening, Morgrim?’ asked Imladrik. ‘Your war-horns are sounding. Your warriors are moving.’

  Coarse laughter sounded from somewhere behind Morgrim; perhaps Morek’s.

  ‘I believed you,’ Morgrim said. ‘For the sake of the past, I believed you. Grimnir’s beard, I should have known better.’

  Imladrik drew closer, peering with difficulty through the miasma. ‘I don’t understand. What has changed?’

  Morgrim didn’t reply immediately. He gazed back at Imladrik, scrutinising him as if for a sign of deception. Then, finally, he spat on the ground and shook his head.

  ‘Maybe you do not know,’ he growled. ‘Warriors from Karak Varn, attacked as they marched to the muster, their bodies still lying unburied in the great forest.’

  They were the words Imladrik had dreaded hearing.

  ‘This was not our doing,’ he said, though he knew it would sound empty.

  ‘No, nothing in this war seems to be,’ said Morgrim dryly.

  Imladrik could hear hurried mutterings all around him as his loremasters tried to ascertain the truth of what Morgrim was saying. It was a futile quest – no reports of a break in the truce had come in, not even rumours.

  ‘Tell me where,’ said Imladrik. ‘I will investigate, you have my word. If there has been–’

  ‘North of Kor Vanaeth,’ said Morgrim. ‘A woman – a sorcerer – on a dragon. She came on our warriors with no warning.’ Morgrim jabbed a stumpy finger in accusation. ‘Who but the asur ride dragons? Who among you commands them?’ He was getting angrier with every word. ‘This is the greatest insult – I believed you. For just a moment, you made me trust again.’

  Imladrik felt light-headed.

  Liandra.

  ‘I did not order this,’ he protested. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘You know what?’ said Morgrim, his voice as bitter as wormwood. ‘I no longer care. I listened to your excuses for two days. I told my thanes to keep their blades in their sheaths. I told them that you were in control of your forces, that you alone were worthy of respect among your faithless people. I told them to listen while you spun stories of druchii, even as others warned me that it was lies and fakery designed to buy time to land more legions.’

  Morgrim was getting worked up, his eyes burning and his movements agitated. He had been made to look a fool in front of his thanes, something Imladrik knew he could never forgive.

  ‘If you can’t control your beasts, then you are to blame,’ Morgrim went on. ‘I sacrificed much for you, but no longer. Enough talk. We are coming for you with axe and hammer now. We are doing what we came to do: raze your walls and destroy your city.’

  Imladrik saw the mania in his eyes even through the distortions of the sending. Morgrim was in his full battle-rage now, fuelled by the burning sense of injustice his race took so much trouble to cultivate.

  ‘It was one dragon rider, Morgrim,’ said Imladrik quietly, though he knew it was almost certainly futile. ‘Just one. Can you vouch for all the warriors under your command?’

  Morgrim nodded angrily. ‘I can. They are already marching, elgi. A blood-debt of a thousand gold ingots hangs around your neck. I plan to claim it myself: for Snorri, who was right about you from the start.’

  Even as he finished speaking, the sending began to dissolve. Imladrik heard chanting from somewhere – the runelord, now working to banish the hated elgi magic from his presence.

  ‘This is the end, Morgrim!’ Imladrik cried. ‘You give Malekith what he wants!’

  ‘No, govandrakken,’ snarled Morgrim, his face fracturing into flame-like slivers as Salendor’s magic finally gave out. ‘It is what I want.’

  Then the images gusted away, snuffed into curls of emerald smoke by Morek’s command of the runes.

  After that, no one spoke. Salendor recovered his poise, breathing heavily. All in the chamber had heard the words. They stood still, waiting for Imladrik’s response.

  Imladrik stared at the floor. Nothing but despair came to him. The hard truth, the one he had tried so hard to resist, had asserted itself once more.

  This was the moment. This was when it all turned. No fellowship would exist between the two races again, not after this. He would be the last of his kind to gaze on the giant, rune-engraved images of Grimnir and Grungni, to peer into the gromril shafts and see the glittering metal hacked from the very base of the earth, to witness the ancient iron-bound tomes in the libraries of the runelords.

  The world would be poorer for it. It would be colder, darker and less glorious. Even as he contemplated it, reflecting on a future bereft of harmony and riven with suspicion, he could feel the cold vice of hopelessness around his heart.

  Imladrik lifted his head, looking first at Salendor.

  ‘We tried,’ he said, quietly. ‘When I stand before Asuryan I can at least say that.’

  Salendor nodded perfunctorily, but it was clear his counsel had not changed. ‘And now, lord?’

  ‘The path is clear,’ Imladrik replied, his voice heavy. ‘Look to the walls. Ensure the bolt throwers are trained. Let us hope they withdraw when our strength becomes obvious.’

  ‘And if they do not?’

  ‘Then they will die, Salendor,’ said Imladrik coldly. ‘If they force me, to the last warrior I will kill them all.’

  Chapter Eighteen

 
Thoriol ran up the steep stairway, taking the steps two at a time. Moving fast was difficult with bow in one hand and quiver in the other – the constant jostling from those around him made it even harder. The entire city was in motion, with troops rushing to their stations under the echoing blare of trumpets. The noise from the war-drums outside was deafening – a grinding, rolling hammer-beat that made the air shake.

  The rest of Baelian’s company raced alongside him, Florean in the lead with Loeth close behind. The captain brought up the rear carrying his own bow, a heavy yew-shaft tipped with silver that he’d carried into battle for sixty years.

  They ran up another winding stairwell, making the torches gutter as they swept past, before spilling out on to the east-facing outer wall. The ramparts were wide – over twelve feet – but were already filling with bodies.

  ‘Down here!’ cried Baelian, his voice impatient, directing the company to their allocated place. ‘Faster!’

  Tor Alessi’s walls rose up in three concentric layers: an outer curtain that soared up from the plain for over a hundred feet, smooth and pale with only one land-facing gatehouse; then an inner sanctuary wall that rose even higher, ringing the inner city with its clustered spires and mage-towers; and finally the ultimate bastion, a truly cyclopean cliff of ice-white masonry that protected the mightiest central citadel.

  The mages had been stationed up there, their bright-coloured cloaks rippling in the wind and their staffs already shimmering with power. Eagle-winged bolt throwers had been mounted on the next tier down. Some of those war machines were gigantic, carrying darts hewn from single tree trunks and bowcords the diameter of a clenched fist. The archers were stationed on the outer perimeter, thousands of them rammed close along the long, winding parapets.

  It was a daunting sight, a majestic display of Ulthuan’s glory. The banners of the King and the many asur kingdoms blazed clear under the powerful evening sun, draping the walls in a garland of vivid runes. Thoriol knew thousands more warriors waited within the cover of the walls, ready to advance swiftly if the perimeter were breached. Many of those were regular spearmen detachments, but he’d seen more heavily armed companies waiting in reserve, all clad in high silver helms and wearing ithilmar-plate armour. The entire city was teeming with violence, suppressed for so long but ready, at last, to unleash.

  Thoriol slammed his quiver on the stone in front of him, hefted his bow to shoulder height and adjusted position, placing his left foot forward and preparing for the first draw. Only then did he look out beyond the battlements, across the plains that had been until that day empty of life and movement.

  All had changed. Marching figures now filled the wasteland, teeming like flies. They were advancing slowly, arranged in long ranks of tight-packed infantry. He couldn’t begin to guess how many there were – the entire eastern fringe of the plain was dark with them. They marched in rhythm to the incessant beat of the war-drums, swaying in perfect unison under stone-dark banners. Some regiments were clad entirely in close-fitting metal plates; others had donned chainmail hauberks; still more wore heavy breastplates over leather jerkins, their warhammers and battle-axes clutched two-handed.

  Behind the front ranks came the war machines – huge and grotesque devices of iron, bronze and wood, dragged into position on massive spiked wheels or metal-bound rollers. Thoriol saw stone-throwers, pitch-lobbers, trebuchets, ballistae, battlefield crossbows, grapnel hurlers and other things he had no name for. Each was massive, towering over the hordes that milled around them, crowned with beaten war-masks and mighty iron rune-plates.

  Brazier pans glowed angrily under the open sky, polluting the clear blue with snaking columns of dirty brown. The war-horns kept on blaring, overlapping with one another in a cacophony of hard-edged, intimidatory clamour. None of the dwarfs spoke. None of them chanted or sang – they just tramped across the plain, sweeping with remorseless slowness, surrounding the city in a closing vice.

  Thoriol swallowed. He could feel his heart racing. Those on either side of him tensed, ready for the order to draw. Some of the archers were veterans of a hundred engagements and kept their faces stony with resolve; others were scarce more experienced than Thoriol and their nerves were evident even as they attempted to hide them.

  The dwarfs came on, closing to five hundred yards of the walls. At such a distance Thoriol could clearly see the details on their armour – the sigils, the battle-runes, the daubs and spots of blood. Every tattooed and bearded face was twisted into hatred, warped by a single-minded desire to break the walls, to drag them down, to drown the city in blood.

  So many.

  Then, with no obvious order given, the host stopped. Every dwarf halted his march and stood perfectly still. The war-drums ceased. The horns stopped. For an awful moment, the entire plain sank into a fragile silence.

  It seemed to go on forever. As if in some bizarre dream, the two armies faced one another across the empty land, uttering no words and issuing no challenge.

  Then, as suddenly as the dwarfs had stopped, each raised his weapon above his head. Tens of thousands of mauls, axes, short-swords, flails, warhammers and crossbows pointed directly at the walls, each one aimed in ritual denunciation.

  Khazuk! came the cry – an immense, rolling, booming challenge. Every wrong, every grievance, was distilled into that one word and hurled up at the white walls of the city like a curse.

  Khazuk!

  The din of it was incredible, a roar that seemed to fill the heavens and the earth. Thoriol had to work hard not to fall back from the parapet edge, to creep into the cool shade of the stone and escape the horror of it.

  Khazuk!

  The third shout was the greatest, a mighty bellow that felt as if it would shatter crystal and dent stone. In its wake the war-horns started up again, underpinned by the frenzied beating of drums. The host began to move once more, but this time the shouts of challenge did not stop. Tor Alessi was besieged by it, surrounded by the maelstrom.

  ‘Hold fast,’ warned Baelian. His voice was as steady as the granite around them. Thoriol wondered if anything scared him.

  Four hundred yards. Trumpets sounded on the elven battlements, almost drowned by the surge of noise out on the plain.

  ‘Prepare,’ ordered Baelian, just as hundreds of other company captains did the same. Tens of thousands of archers stooped for their first arrow, fixing it against the string and preparing for the draw.

  Three hundred yards; just on the edge of their range. Thoriol held his stance, feeling like his muscles were about to seize up. He felt nauseous, and swallowed hard.

  A second trumpet-blast rang out.

  ‘Draw,’ ordered Baelian, notching his own arrow.

  Thoriol heaved the string to his cheek. He held it tight, feeling the feathers of the arrow’s fletching against his forefinger.

  Two hundred and fifty yards. Optimal range. The dwarfs must have known it, but they just kept on marching, still chanting, shouting, challenging and making no effort to evade the storm to come.

  This was it. This was the culmination of everything he’d been working for, the final fruits of a foolish flight to Lothern away from the deadening hopes of his father.

  Perhaps he might catch sight of me in all this, thought Thoriol dryly. Perhaps he might approve. Perhaps, for once, I might make him proud.

  Then the final trumpet-blast, the signal to release. Up until now it had all been a mere shadow-play, a rehearsal, a toothless precursor.

  ‘Let fly!’ ordered Baelian.

  As one they loosed their arrows, and the sky went dark.

  Drutheira woke with a start. For a moment she had no idea where she was or what she was doing. Sevekai’s face had been in her dreams again, chiding her for leaving him. She hadn’t had visions of him for a long time, not since Bloodfang’s presence had been in her mind.

  It unsettled her. Sevekai was gone, dead, his body rotting at
the foot of a mountain gorge. He had no business still affecting her, skulking in her dreams like a spectre of Hag Graef.

  It was dark – pitch dark. For a moment she feared she’d slept far into the night, but then, as her awareness returned, she remembered having to tie strips of her cloak around her eyes to blot out the sun. She ripped them off and the light came back as intensely as ever, burning like a brand thrust into her face.

  Blinking heavily, she gradually remembered where she was: a shaded hollow under a tumbled cliff of red-brown stone, the best shade she’d been able to find. The cliff wound its way south-east, following the course of an old dried-up river. She’d followed it, unable to stomach the brackish seawater where she had waded ashore and unable to find more promising tributaries.

  So far all she’d found was damp mud caking in the heat. The need for liquid was becoming pressing – despite the oppressive warmth she was no longer sweating, and her head felt thick and clogged.

  It had been foolish to fall asleep. More than foolish – dangerous.

  She looked around her, squinting against the hard light on the rocks. No sign of movement, pursuit or tracks.

  Drutheira pushed herself to her feet, collecting her staff and leaning on it heavily. For the first time ever she regretted having spent so long cultivating the arts of Dhar at the expense of all else. It might have been nice to conjure up something to drink. She could have fooled herself easily enough with chimeras of wine or ice-cool water but the effects would not last. The only things her sorcery could genuinely construct out of nothing were destructive – the bolts of aethyr-lightning that tore through armour, the snarls of unnatural flame that crisped flesh and melted eyes.

  It suddenly struck her as so pointless, so wasteful. Out here, in the parched hinterland, she was no better than any mortal.

  Drutheira started to limp, keeping to the shade of the cliff to her left. Ahead of her the path wound along the foot of the cliff, choked with loose stone. To her right ran the base of the dry riverbed, the far shore of which rose up again a few hundred yards distant in another cliff face. Its twin rock-tumbled edges were far apart, enclosing a shallow dusty bowl between them, but they gradually drew closer together the further she went.