Master of Dragons Page 3

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked.

  ‘As if starved for a year.’

  Imladrik sent for food. In the time it took the servants to prepare it, the two of them rose and dressed. They broke their fast in an east-facing chamber of the old tower. The rain lashed against the glass of the windows and the wind sighed around the walls as they ate, making the fire in the grate gutter and spit.

  Imladrik leaned back in his chair. The kitchens at Tor Vael cooked food the way he liked it: plain. He swallowed the last of a round oatcake and reached for a goblet of watered-down wine.

  Yethanial had been as good as her word; she ate ravenously, like a scrawny mountain wolf at the end of winter.

  ‘It troubles me,’ said Imladrik.

  ‘What troubles you?’

  ‘That you do not look after yourself when I am away.’

  Yethanial shrugged. ‘Too much to do.’

  ‘You have servants here.’

  ‘Yes, and I have been cooped up with them for too long. Tell me of the real world.’

  Imladrik took a cautious sip of wine. ‘What do you wish to know?’

  ‘Everything.’ Yethanial crossed her arms, waiting.

  ‘Well, then. My brother heads back to Ulthuan and Lothern runs with rumour. They tell me he has won his war in the colonies, that the stunted folk are defeated, and that we can at last turn our attentions to ridding the world of druchii.’

  ‘The stunted folk are defeated? Should I believe that?’

  Imladrik leaned forward, his elbows on the table. ‘Have you ever met a dwarf?’

  ‘I have read accounts.’

  ‘Scrolls do not tell the truth of it.’ Imladrik felt his mind roving back over the past, the years he had spent in the wilds. ‘Imagine, somehow, if rock were to come to life, growing limbs and a heart. Imagine that every virtue of rock – durability, endurance, hardness – were somehow condensed into a living thing.’

  Yethanial smiled affectionately. ‘Language is not your gift, my lord.’

  ‘It is not. But think of it: a race of stone, as resolute as granite, as unyielding as bedrock. That is the dawi.’

  ‘Dawi?’

  ‘What they call themselves.’ Imladrik shook his head. ‘And they are not defeated. Menlaeth has killed one of their princes, but dozens more remain under the mountains. I have seen those places. I have seen halls of stone larger than our greatest palaces. I have seen their warriors gathered around the light of ritual fires, each one wearing a mask of iron and carrying an axe of steel.’

  Imladrik looked down at his hands. Speaking of such things took him back. ‘They can never be defeated,’ he said. ‘Not there, not in their own realm. I tried to tell my brother that.’

  Yethanial listened carefully. ‘I am sure he took account of that.’

  Imladrik’s lip twitched in a wry smile. ‘I met the dwarf prince he is said to have killed. Halfhand, they called him. A brave warrior, though headstrong. The dawi will hold a thousand grudges against us now, and they will never stop.’

  ‘But they will have to relent soon, no? They cannot fight us forever.’

  Imladrik’s smile remained on his lips. ‘Relent? No, I do not think they have a word for that.’ He took another swig of wine. ‘I read the tidings from Elthin Arvan. They tell me that Tor Alessi will soon be attacked again. There are dozens of dawi thanes, all with their own armies. Athel Maraya is exposed too. It is only arrogance that makes us believe these places are invulnerable.’

  ‘But here we are told–’

  ‘Here you are told that the war will be over in a year, the colonies will expand and the dawi will soon be suing for peace on their knees.’ Imladrik looked into his goblet sourly. ‘It is lunacy. At Athel Numiel even the infants were butchered, so they say. Menlaeth has set the fire running; I hope he understands the inferno that will come of it.’

  Imladrik put the goblet down. ‘I love my brother,’ he said, his jaw tight. ‘Or I try to. He is the mightiest of all of us, the crown is his by right, but…’

  Yethanial rose from her chair and hastened to his side. She knelt beside him, catching his hands in hers and pulling them to her lap. ‘You do not have to pretend, not with me.’

  ‘I never pretend.’ Imladrik shot her a bitter smile. ‘The dragons see through it, so I lost the knack. Believe me, I do not envy him. He has our glorious father to live up to, and I would not wish that on anyone.’

  ‘You both have that to bear.’

  ‘My name will not be in the annals. When I remember to, I pity him. I wish to help him, but he takes no counsel.’

  Yethanial’s mouth twitched into a smile. ‘Remind you of anyone?’

  Imladrik gave a hollow laugh. ‘I am surrounded by the stubborn. Why is that? Do I attract them?’

  ‘Some of them.’ Yethanial stroked his hands. The touch was soothing. ‘I have made you melancholy. I did not mean to.’

  Imladrik slipped his hands free and reached for her, pulling her towards him. ‘No, it is me – I have let the past intrude. I was over there for a long time.’

  Yethanial nodded, looking up at him with sad knowledge written in her features. ‘It has been over twenty years. How much longer will you need before you let it go?’

  Imladrik didn’t reply. He knew that his face would give away his answer if he spoke.

  I will never let it go.

  Yethanial reached up to press her hand against his heart. ‘I am not a fool, my lord. I know enough, but it is over now. You came back, and the gods know we have enemies enough in Ulthuan to keep you busy.’

  Imladrik nodded. They were the words he needed to hear.

  ‘Whatever you left behind,’ she said, ‘whatever part of you that remains there, think of it no more. Think of me. Think of the realm you are charged with defending, for you are loved here on Ulthuan. Your troops would march beyond the gates of madness if you led them there. Remember that.’

  Imladrik lowered his forehead against hers. ‘And you are loved more than life itself,’ he said. ‘You remember that.’

  ‘Always.’

  They remained like that for many heartbeats, their limbs entwined. They said nothing as the rain ran down the glass and the gusts shook the stonework. For all the world outside cared, they might have been an image of Isha and Kurnous, frozen outside time.

  But they remained mortal. Time passed, and the clatter of servants coming to retrieve the silverware broke their communion. Yethanial extricated herself before they entered, smiling bashfully, kissing Imladrik on the cheek and taking her place at the table.

  Imladrik retrieved his wine, swilling it in the goblet before taking a draught. He felt unsettled. Duties would call for him soon – orders relayed from Lothern and Tor Caled, demands on his time, requests for aid. Part of him wearied of the burden of it, but part of him wished for nothing more. His duty would take him away from Tor Vael, away from Yethanial, but also from the emotions that preyed on him whenever he was forced to confront them.

  Whatever you left behind, he told himself, looking up at her and wishing his smile could be more carefree, whatever part of you that remains there, think of it no more.

  Chapter Three

  Liandra stood, shivering, in the hills above Kor Vanaeth. Her robes were heavy from rainwater and hung like dead weights.

  She ran a grimy hand through her copper hair.

  Mud, she thought grimly, gazing across her domain. Filth. Every year it gets dirtier. What in the name of Isha am I still doing here?

  As the years had passed, it had become harder to answer that question. The colonies were a hard place to live in for one of her breeding. The landscape was heavy with sludge, an endless grind of snarled, twisted, muck-thick forest. Every-

  thing was washed-out, mouldering, greying at the edges.

  Stubbornness, she concluded, glowering at a rain-washed s
ky. I cannot bear to see them win.

  She looked down at Kor Vanaeth’s walls, half a mile away. Some sections hadn’t been completely rebuilt, though years had passed since the dawi had razed it. It had been hard to attract artisans back, and harder still to secure the materials they needed. The stonewrights of Tor Alessi were busy with the city’s own immense defences and were loath to spare any of their fellowship for outlying fortresses.

  Liandra began to walk, retracing her steps down the rain-slushed path into the valley. Her robe-hem dragged behind her, sodden.

  When her father had founded Kor Vanaeth it had housed over thirty thousand souls. The streets had burst with life, spilling beyond the boundaries of the walls and into the forest.

  Hard to remember that now. Fewer than five thousand had returned. Most had done so out of loyalty to Liandra’s father, though a few saw opportunities to advance themselves amid the rubble. Some dark-eyed souls had just suffered too much and wanted to take something back.

  Twenty-five years. So much work, and so little to show for it. They were vulnerable still. If another army swept down the valley, even one half the size of the one that had destroyed them before, not a single stone would be left standing.

  Liandra felt her fists clench. The movement was almost involuntary; she had caught herself doing it more and more often.

  I am changing. This war is changing me.

  Sometimes she awoke angry, fresh from vivid dreams of slaughter. Sometimes she awoke in tears with images of the slain crowding in her mind. And sometimes, more often than she liked, she awoke after dreaming of him.

  The years had not dulled the loss. It was for the best that he had gone back to Ulthuan. He belonged amid its refined spires of ivory, just as she belonged in the wilds of the east, doused by the rain and up to her ankles in blood-rich filth.

  ‘My lady.’

  Alviar’s voice made her start. She hadn’t seen him approach, trudging just as she had done up the steep hill-path from the valley. That was sloppy; her lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded, more sharply than she’d intended.

  Her steward bowed in apology. ‘You asked me to tell you when we had word from Tor Alessi.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Messengers are here. They bring greetings and news from the Lady Aelis. Do you wish me to summarise?’

  ‘If you please.’

  ‘Aelis agrees with you: now that Caledor has gone, the dawi will be quick to rally. She has tidings of new armies gathering in the mountains. She asks you to join her. She says she cannot promise to protect Kor Vanaeth when fighting resumes.’

  Alviar was so dutiful. He spoke like a scribe reeling off trade accounts. Liandra had preferred Fendaril, but he, of course, was dead.

  ‘What of Salendor?’ she asked.

  ‘Lord Salendor is already at Tor Alessi, along with the Lords Caerwal and Gelthar. In the absence of the King, a war council has been formed. They call themselves the Council of Five.’

  ‘Those are four names, Alviar.’

  ‘They hope for yours to be added.’

  ‘Do they, now?’

  ‘Salendor in particular, they tell me,’ said Alviar.

  ‘Salendor is a brute,’ said Liandra. ‘He understands the dawi, though. He knows how to fight them. If he wants me to be there then I should perhaps consider it an honour.’ She pressed her lips together ruminatively. ‘Do you remember, Alviar, when Caledor left us?’

  ‘Clearly.’

  ‘He thought he’d won the war for us. I heard him say it. Now finish the task, he told us. I felt like laughing. No one would tell him the truth. He left for Ulthuan with no idea of what we face.’

  ‘I should say not.’

  Liandra clasped her hands before her, pressing her chilled flesh against the rain-wet fabric of her robe. ‘We accomplished so much here. I cannot leave now. I was not here when the dawi came the first time, and that weighs on my heart.’

  ‘Shall I tell them that?’

  Liandra shook her head slowly. ‘No. No, I will give it more thought. You offered them lodgings?’

  ‘Of course. As much comfort as we could make for them.’

  Liandra breathed in deeply, looking around her, sucking in air that tasted of damp and rot. ‘So what would you do, Alviar?’

  ‘I would not presume to have an opinion.’

  Liandra smiled. ‘None?’

  ‘You are a mage of the House of Athinol. You require the counsel of princes, not stewards.’

  ‘Princes may be fools, stewards may be wise. But you speak truth – I’ve been starved of equals ever since…’

  She trailed off. It was still hard to say his name.

  ‘Enough,’ she said. ‘Return. Tell them they will have their answer soon.’

  Alviar bowed and withdrew, retracing his steps down the shallow slope towards the city.

  Liandra watched him go. When he was gone she resumed her vigil, alone at the summit, watching over the city of her father as the cold wind whipped at her robes.

  Now finish the task, she mused.

  Sevekai ghosted through the deep dark. His movements were silent. Years in the wilds of Elthin Arvan had only honed his already taut physique; his reactions had always been sharp, now they verged on the preternatural.

  The others were still on his heels, just as they had been on every fruitless trail since leaving Naggaroth: Verigoth with his pallid skin and dewy eyes; Hreth and Latharek, the brutal twins, their glossy hair as slick as nightshade. The two sorceresses, Drutheira and Ashniel, prowled ahead, lighting the way with purple witch-light. Malchior, their counterpart, brought up the rear.

  A whole party of assassins, gaunt from the wild, buried deep in the twisting heart of the Arluii. They were lean from hunger, their skin drawn tight over sharp bones. Elthin Arvan had not been kind to them. Why should it have been? After what they had done to it, a measure of hatred was richly deserved.

  Only Kaitar looked untouched. Kaitar the enigma, Kaitar the cursed. Sevekai loathed him. There was something deeply wrong with Kaitar. His eyes were dull, his manner disquieting. None of the others liked Kaitar; he himself seemed to care little either way.

  Sevekai avoided Kaitar’s gaze, just as he had done for all the years they had suffered one another’s company. It had been surprisingly easy to work with someone and barely exchange words. Their routine tasks – slitting throats, administering poisons, squeezing tender flesh – lent themselves to a cold, mute kind of pragmatism.

  Now, though, after so long without word from the Witch King, Drutheira had taken matters in hand. It could not continue as it had been. They had done what was required of them and had now been forgotten. So she had taken them south, then up into the peaks, then down again, deep down, burrowing through cold, lost shafts of feldspar and granite. Sevekai could only guess how far they were underground now. He liked the chill of it, though. It cooled his limbs and made him feel languidly murderous.

  ‘Be still,’ whispered Drutheira from ahead.

  The druchii froze. Her witch-light died away, plunging them into darkness.

  Sevekai switched to a state of high awareness. Twin blades slipped soundlessly into his hands. He tensed, feeling the muscles of his arms tighten and the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

  For a few moments, nothing changed. Then, from far away, from far down, he heard it – a long, low rumble, as if the mountain itself stirred. Then silence.

  ‘What is this, witch?’ whispered Kaitar. His voice gave away his uncertainty. That in itself was unusual; Sevekai had never heard him sound uncertain before.

  ‘I told you,’ replied Drutheira. ‘The weapon.’

  ‘The weapon,’ he repeated. ‘I asked you before what it was.’

  Drutheira’s voice remained perfectly calm, perfectly poised. Sevek
ai had to hand it to her: she knew her craft. ‘Do you doubt me, Kaitar?’

  Sevekai smiled wolfishly. He could just make out the ivory glow of her bleached-white hair. She was savagely beautiful, as cruel and fine as an ice-goad.

  ‘No more than you doubt me,’ said Kaitar. ‘Tell me what you know, or I go no further.’

  ‘Just what have you sensed down here, Kaitar?’ asked Drutheira, her voice intrigued. As she spoke, a soft blush of colour spun into the void, lighting up her alabaster cheek. ‘What worries you?’

  ‘You do not wish to provoke me.’

  ‘Nor you, me,’ she said, before relenting. ‘It is a relic, one that will cause the asur more pain than we have ever caused them. If that does not stir your curiosity then maybe you are in the wrong company.’

  Sevekai saw Kaitar’s face flicker between doubts.

  ‘Maybe I am,’ Kaitar said, ‘but you could retrieve it yourself. There is no reason for me to be here.’

  ‘Why do we wait?’ hissed Malchior from the rear of the party, unable to hear what was being said. ‘We need to move.’

  ‘Yes we do, so do not be foolish!’ snapped Drutheira to Kaitar. ‘Without me to guide you, you’d stumble down here for days. I’d happily watch you starve but I need every blade for what’s to come. If you had doubts you should have voiced them on the surface.’

  Kaitar hesitated. Still, the uncertainty; Sevekai enjoyed that.

  ‘So be it,’ Kaitar muttered at last, drawing a curved knife. ‘Take us down. But this blade will be at your back.’

  ‘And this one at yours,’ said Sevekai, shifting his weight just enough to prod the tip of a throwing dagger into Kaitar’s tunic.

  Kaitar turned to glare at him. Sevekai shot him a frigid smile.

  ‘Watch your step,’ Sevekai warned. ‘The stone’s slippery.’

  Slowly, deliberately, Kaitar sheathed his blade again.

  ‘Very good,’ said Drutheira mockingly. ‘Now, if we may?’ As she turned back down the tunnel Sevekai caught the look of capricious enjoyment she gifted him.

  They crept onwards, going near-silently, treading with feline assuredness in the black. The tunnel wound ever deeper, switching back and plunging steeply. It became narrow, barely wide enough to take two abreast, clogged with stalagmites and glossy tapers of dripping rock.