Master of Dragons Read online

  ‘Then it seems I misunderstood,’ said Thoriol stiffly. ‘You should know this, though: I never lied.’

  ‘You hid the truth,’ said Taemon, as unbending as ever. ‘What’s the difference?’

  Thoriol scanned across the room, seeing nothing but hostile faces. They wanted him gone. Not until he left would the drinking start up again, the flow of jests and jibes that would last long into the night. It was a curiously wounding experience, far more so than the quarrel-gash in his side.

  ‘I won’t say anything of this,’ he mumbled, pulling his robes about him and walking back to the door. ‘And… I wish you fortune.’

  ‘And to you,’ said Rovil. No one else spoke.

  Then Thoriol ducked under the lintel and was out into the night again. The door closed behind him with a dull click. Few people were abroad; the street was quiet, no one paid him any attention.

  He looked down the mazy passages, the ones that led deeper into the lower city. There was nothing for him there. Then he turned the other way, facing up the slope towards the spires and interconnected towers of the old city. Their pinnacles reared up like stacked arrowheads, sharp black against the sullen red of the sky.

  They looked alien to him, like reminders of a harsher world he had almost managed to leave. Now they beckoned him back, as inexorable as the tides.

  Not much use fighting it, he thought.

  Slowly, his feet heavy, he started to retrace his steps, back up to where the highborn – his people – conducted their lives.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The first dwarfs were sighted on a cloudless morning following a rare lull in the heat. A griffon rider circling high above Oeragor’s northern marches was able to convey some useful tidings: a dozen lightly armoured scouts moving through the Blight. They weren’t going quickly; they were marking out the approaches, frequently stopping and conferring with one another.

  After that, three more riders were dispatched north. They all came back with similar stories – the first tendrils of the dawi host were moving within range, creeping down from the foothills and out on the plains. The numbers reported steadily rose: a few dozen, then a few hundred, then many hundred, then more.

  On hearing the news Liandra went down to the dungeons again. She did not enter the witch’s cell but ensured that Drutheira’s guard was doubled and that they would not leave their posts without explicit instructions from her.

  ‘If the dawi get this far, kill her,’ she had told them. ‘Do not untie her, do not ungag her, just kill her.’

  Then she headed back up to the northern watchtower, going as quickly as she could. The noises of preparation followed her all the way there: the thud of hammers, the tinny rattle of swords being drawn from armouries. In a way it was a relief to hear it again: things were moving.

  Kelemar was waiting for her at the summit of the tower, along with Celian, captain of the griffon riders. Both were already wearing their armour – light plates of steel over silk undershirts, open-faced helms, no cloaks. The heavier garb of regular spear companies would have been hopelessly impractical in such terrain; lightness and movement were the keys to warfare out in the blighted lands.

  ‘Here at last,’ said Kelemar as she arrived. It took Liandra a moment to realise he was referring to the dawi, not her.

  ‘Are they ready for battle?’ she asked.

  Celian nodded. ‘Very much so.’

  That was the final confirmation. ‘Then it has all been for nothing,’ said Liandra wearily. ‘Salendor told him the dwarfs would not listen to reason.’

  Kelemar reached up to wipe a line of sweat from his brow. ‘Maybe this army has not heeded its commands – there is more than one dwarf lord under the mountains.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Liandra grimly, unconvinced.

  She felt sweat on her hands as she gripped her staff. Facing the enemy without her dragon would be a new experience, and not one she relished. Even to use magefire without Vranesh alongside her felt… wrong.

  ‘Any numbers yet?’ she asked, screwing her eyes up against the glare.

  ‘Twenty thousand,’ said Celian flatly.

  ‘Really?’

  The captain nodded. ‘At least.’

  Liandra smiled wanly. ‘Perhaps I should not have asked.’

  ‘You could leave,’ said Kelemar. ‘No oath of fealty compels you.’

  Liandra turned on him, incredulous. ‘Are you jesting?’

  ‘I merely–’

  ‘Well, do not. Never again.’ Her face hardened. ‘I have never run from battle.’

  Celian leaned out over the balcony railing, shading his eyes. ‘And there they are.’

  Liandra and Kelemar turned, following his outstretched hand. There was very little to see – just a faint plume of dust on the north-western horizon. It looked strangely innocuous, a wisp of wind gusting across the powdered earth.

  It would grow. Steadily, slowly, just as it had been at Tor Alessi, the dawi would tramp out of the wilderness, their armour caked in filth from the road, their standards hanging heavily in the air.

  Liandra thought then of the vast armies that Vranesh had shown her from afar, crawling in the shadow of the peaks, pouring out of the ground like tar sliding up from a well.

  ‘So it starts again,’ she said grimly.

  Brynnoth, King of Barak Varr, was both irritated and intrigued. The orders had been given, the front ranks of warriors were already within sight of the elven fortress.

  He had been looking forward to the fighting. Taking Oeragor would eliminate the elvish presence on his southern flank, freeing up forces for the more serious campaigns in the west. Oeragor might not have had the prestige of Tor Alessi, but it was an important step nonetheless. Brynnoth wanted his name in the book of victories, and he wanted Barak Varr taken seriously alongside the larger holds of the mountains.

  He wouldn’t have held up the advance if the name he’d been given had been anyone else’s. A part of him remained sceptical – Tor Alessi was a long way away. When he finally saw the incoming party hove into view, though, he saw it to be true. Morgrim Elgidum stood before him, sweltering in the heat.

  Brynnoth laughed, partly from disbelief.

  ‘You are lost, lord?’ he asked.

  Morgrim didn’t smile. ‘You are already attacking?’

  ‘The advance has begun.’

  ‘Then I will fight with you.’

  ‘I thought you were–’

  ‘Things have changed.’

  Brynnoth puffed his cheeks out thoughtfully. Morgrim looked fatigued. His whole troop looked fatigued. If they truly had come all the way from the coast… well, he’d have been fatigued too.

  ‘So I see,’ Brynnoth said. ‘Your axe with mine, then; it will be an honour.’

  Morgrim limped closer. ‘Do you have the new machines?’

  ‘New machines?’

  ‘The ones that fly.’

  Brynnoth smiled. ‘Ah, Copperfist’s devices. So you’ve heard about those. No, they’re not ready. May never be.’

  Morgrim grunted. ‘When this is over I need to speak to him.’

  Brynnoth decided he didn’t like the way he was being addressed. Morgrim was a prince, one held high in the runelords’ estimation, but Brynnoth was lord of an entire hold.

  ‘I’ll decide that,’ he said. ‘You could tell me why you wish to. You could also tell me why you’re here at all.’

  Morgrim looked at him sourly. ‘Drakk. The elgi are using drakk.’

  Brynnoth snorted. ‘And?’

  ‘They kill faster than anything I’ve ever seen. What war machines do you have?’

  ‘Ballistae. Bolt throwers. They’re being rolled up towards the city.’

  ‘Keep them back. Angle them steeply and save them for the skies. We weren’t prepared for them – you should be.’

&
nbsp; Brynnoth narrowed his eyes. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They tore us apart.’

  Morgrim’s expression was thunderous. Brynnoth decided not to press the matter. ‘I’ll heed the warning then,’ he said, ‘but there are no drakk here.’

  ‘For now.’

  Morgrim’s own soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder around him, as grim-faced and battered as their master. A runelord leaned on his staff some way distant, looking nearly at the end of his strength.

  They didn’t look capable of adding much to his own forces, all of whom were in prime condition for the fight. Adding a few hundred exhausted refugees from a failed campaign didn’t seem like much of an asset.

  Still, it was Morgrim.

  ‘Then we should march,’ said Brynnoth. ‘Or do you need rest?’

  Morgrim gestured to his warriors, all of whom took up their weapons and fell into formation.

  ‘Just show me the elgi,’ he growled.

  Caradryel raced up the stairs to Imladrik’s arming chamber. The news had reached him late that Imladrik was leaving the city; he hoped not too late.

  He pushed his way past the guards at the doors and entered the chamber breathlessly. Imladrik was still there, fixing the last silver pauldron in place, his tall helm placed beside him on a stool.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, bowing.

  Imladrik acknowledged his presence with a curt nod. ‘You’re out of breath.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were leaving so soon.’

  Imladrik reached for his long cloak and draped it over his shoulders. ‘The dawi are moving. We should too.’

  Caradryel sat down heavily on a chest made from varnished Lustrian hardwood. His breathing took a while to return to normal.

  ‘I have news,’ he said.

  Imladrik looked at him coolly. ‘More reliable than your last?’

  Caradryel flushed. He would not be allowed to forget about Salendor any time soon. ‘I trust so. It concerns Liandra.’

  Imladrik turned on him, suddenly interested.

  ‘Refugees from Kor Vanaeth have got here,’ said Caradryel. ‘They told me she was in combat with a black dragon and pursued it over the Arluii, heading south-east. They swear on Asuryan’s Flame she had nothing to do with the dwarfs killed there.’

  ‘A black dragon?’

  ‘So they said. I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

  Imladrik looked distasteful. ‘They exist. Creatures of the druchii.’

  ‘She did not desert, though: that is the important thing.’

  For a moment Imladrik’s expression became almost desperately hopeful. ‘How reliable is this?’

  ‘They all said the same thing. A sorceress on a black dragon, attacking the fortress before being driven off by the red mage. I believe them.’

  Imladrik reached for his sword. ‘Where did their fight take them?’

  ‘They don’t know. South, over the mountains.’

  ‘Anywhere, then.’ Imladrik took his helm under his arm and walked towards the doors, fully armoured and ready for his steed.

  ‘Should we not search for her?’ asked Caradryel, following him.

  ‘Elthin Arvan is vast.’ Imladrik’s voice was flat.

  ‘But a druchii dragon! Is that not worth–’

  ‘Just stories. The dawi are real, and they are here.’

  ‘But you cannot–’

  ‘Enough.’ Imladrik kept walking, out of the chamber and up another flight of stairs. ‘Liandra was always reckless. She should have been here, with us, when the city was under siege. I will not leave the war now.’

  Caradryel followed him uneasily. ‘Oeragor is out there,’ he offered. ‘She might have made it that far.’

  ‘And if she has?’ Imladrik emerged at the top of the tower and donned his helm. A large courtyard extended out around them, open to the skies. ‘I do not choose my battle-grounds on a whim.’

  Caradryel looked up just in time to see the giant sapphire dragon descending to the courtyard, its wings a blur of motion. He retreated in the face of it, his robes flapping and his hair streaming. He’d not been so close to it since the first encounter out at sea, and the experience was almost overwhelming. He retreated to the far edge of the courtyard and pressed his back against the railings.

  The dragon landed impossibly lightly, its huge talons barely scraping the stone beneath it. Its long, inscrutable face didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Imladrik walked up to it casually, placed a foot on its crooked foreleg and hoisted himself up into position.

  ‘So where will you go?’ Caradryel called up to him.

  Imladrik did reply, but by then the dragon was already moving, thrusting heavily and coiling up into the air. The response was lost in the downdraft of smoke-flecked turbulence.

  Caradryel watched him go, overcoming his fear of the beast just enough to admire its smooth, powerful movement up into the heavens. He felt a pang of envy then, just for an instant, seeing the flash of sunlight on the creature’s sparkling flanks and hearing the low growl of its breathing.

  Soon it had gone, undulating into the distance, thrusting through the heavens with its ever-astonishing speed and grace.

  Caradryel pushed back from the railings and walked around the courtyard’s edge.

  It was a good vantage. He could see out over the plain to the east, the cluster of spires in the old city to the north, the deep blue curve of the ocean to the west. Only one ship broke the waves – a light warship carrying full sail and working hard.

  Caradryel screwed his eyes up against the distance. Few ships had come to Tor Alessi since the days of constant reinforcement; more recently the flow had been the other way, with heavy troop galleons setting off up the coast to Athel Toralien and the other coastal fortresses. This ship was heading in from due west, straight out of the open seas.

  Caradryel watched it, wondering whether it brought any interesting news. He pondered whether he should head down to the harbourside. He was about to demur when he made out the emblem on the ship’s sails: the mark of House Tor Caled, picked out in gold, shining in the sun just as the dragon’s scales had done.

  It was then he knew who was on that ship, and it made his mind up for him. Hurrying again, he passed down the stairs and into the tower, wondering what possible errand could have brought Yethanial of Tor Vael away from her books and over to Elthin Arvan.

  They came out of the dust, a rolling tide of iron and leather, bodies pressed close together, standards swaying to the rhythm of hide drums.

  Liandra watched them come, standing on the upper battlements with Kelemar and her fellow mages. Not many of them: just five besides her, and she far surpassed the others in power. Aside from the griffon-riders and some battle-hardened Chracian warriors sent east a decade ago, Oeragor’s defences were modest, designed for stray incursions of greenskins.

  The dwarf army closing in on them was more than an incursion. The front ranks came on quickly, wading through the ochre dust, kicking it up and tramping it down. A vast rolling cloud came with them, rearing above the army like a protective mantle.

  They brought wall-breaking engines with them, ballistae mounted on huge platforms and battering rams on rollers. They had crossbow units, axe-wielders, hammer-bearers and ironclad maul-bringers. The mismatch between the attackers and the defenders was almost ludicrous. Oeragor was like a lone spur of rock thrust out into a rising tide, isolated and ripe to be overwhelmed.

  Kelemar watched them stoically.

  ‘Signal the archers,’ he said. ‘Let fly at two hundred yards.’

  A messenger ran down to the parapet. Clarions rang out with the signal, and all across the ramparts longbows were notched and raised. The few bolt throwers mounted on the walls were primed, loaded and swung into position.

  The gates were the weak point. Even though they had been reinfor
ced with terraces of granite and cross-braced iron beams, that was the place where the outer stone barrier broke its smooth uniformity. Five hundred of Kelemar’s best troops waited on the other side of it, crouched in the shade, waiting for the inevitable breakthrough.

  Liandra looked up to the skies. The griffons were aloft, hugging the central towers and circling slowly. Their riders would not venture far from the walls once the assault began, restricting themselves to counter-attacking runs until the armies were grappling at close quarters. No sense in being torn to pieces by quarrels before getting a chance to land a claw.

  The dwarf vanguard ground closer. The tumult from the drums and war-horns became all-consuming, forcing the captains on the walls to shout at their own troops just to be heard. Infantry squares spread out across the northern face of the city, extending in either direction as far as Liandra could make out through the swirling dust. The air became thick with it, surging up over the ramparts and coating the stone.

  ‘Perhaps he was right,’ said Liandra softly to herself, thinking of Imladrik. Now that she saw the scale of the dawi host in the full glare of daylight, the sheer immensity of just one of their many armies, she found herself wondering whether anything could prevail against them for long.

  Then the long grind would begin. Athel Maraya would burn. Athel Toralien, Sith Rionnasc, Oeragor – they would all burn.

  ‘Did you say something?’ asked Kelemar.

  Liandra shook her head. ‘Just preparing myself.’

  The dwarfs marched to within bowshot. The orders went out, and Liandra watched the archers loose their arrows, angling the shafts high so they plummeted down hard in a solid curtain. It was an impressive enough show, and some dwarfs in the front ranks stumbled.

  Not nearly enough, though. The army kept coming through the onslaught, its pace hardly dented. Bolt throwers opened up, sending heavy quarrels whistling directly into the front ranks. Wherever they hit they tore furrows in the infantry formations, scattering dwarfs and throwing up fresh plumes of dust.

  They kept coming. The hammer of the drums became almost unbearable. The heat, the dust, the blare of the war-horns – it was like being thrust into the maw of insanity.