Master of Dragons

Chapter Eleven

The chamber was dark, lit only by a few wall-mounted candles. Four bare walls enclosed an empty stone floor, a single door served as entrance and exit, and there were no windows.

Liandra waited impatiently. It was hard to resist the urge to pace up and down, like some prisoner in a cell. It wasn’t just her current surroundings; ever since arriving at Tor Alessi she had felt confined. The huge city bore down on her, shutting her in, cramping her movement. Every so often she had fled the walls for a short time, taking Vranesh out on the sudden, vigorous flights the dragon loved. They had circled high up, going as far east as they dared, hoping against hope to see the first glimpse of the dwarf army marching through the forest.

But she could not always be on the wing. Membership of the Council brought duties with it: fresh troops arriving at the harbourside every day, and every shipful needing to be garrisoned and supplied.

It had initially been exhilarating to see the huge strength of the asur legions being landed at Tor Alessi. It had felt for a time as if the real power she had craved for so long had finally fallen into her lap.

That feeling had not lasted. She was not in command, not truly; Imladrik gave the orders, locked away in his isolated tower overlooking the sea, taking no advice and heeding no requests for fresh Council meetings. The enormous strength at his disposal was kept behind the walls. No armies were sent out into the wilds. No regiments were spared for outlying fortresses such as her own Kor Vanaeth.

For a long time she had held her tongue, biding her time. Surely, she reasoned, Imladrik would come to her. As the long days passed, however, it became clear that he would not.

Liandra had almost gone to the tower herself. She had walked halfway there, rehearsing what arguments she would make to him.

‘Kor Vanaeth can be defended,’ she had planned to say. ‘Give leave for two regiments, that is all — two regiments and a battery of bolt throwers. The rest I can manage.’

She had never made it. As she had walked, her pride had got the better of her. Liandra had never begged, not even to him. Her father, still in Ulthuan fighting the druchii, had taught her that. If Imladrik had softened and turned away from the sacred savagery of his calling, then that was his loss; she would play no part in it.

Since then she had made no fresh attempt to contact him. She had festered, her frustration with enforced inaction growing with every wasted day. At times it felt like her heart was hammering at her ribcage, inflamed by imprisonment.

If he had not come back we would be marching by now, she thought, watching the candles burn low. If he had not come back, the battles would have started.

She heard a noise outside the door. Boots shuffled for a moment, then a key rattled in the lock. The door opened, exposing a cowled silhouette.

‘Did anyone mark you?’ asked Liandra.

‘What do you take me for?’ replied Salendor, slipping inside and closing the door. He pushed the cowl back, revealing coarse, battle-scarred features.

‘As yet, I don’t know,’ said Liandra irritably. She hadn’t wanted a meeting with him, not outside the confines of the Council and certainly not in the city, but Salendor was not an easy person to delay for long.

‘I know your mind, Liandra,’ he said, leaning against the wall. ‘You and me, we are spirits of the same temper.’

‘So you believe.’

‘I can see it in your face. You chafe here. You’ve fought the dawi, just as I have, and you know what must be done.’

‘And if I do?’ Liandra stared at him defiantly. ‘What does it matter? We have our orders.’

Salendor laughed. ‘You care nothing for orders.’

Liandra bristled. It was tiresome to have a reputation for impetuosity, forever likely to tear off on some reckless charge into danger. Doubly so when it was true.

‘Dragon riders,’ Salendor went on casually. ‘Gluttons for bloodshed, the lot of you. All but him. Why is that?’

‘He is capable of it,’ said Liandra.

‘So they tell me, but I’ve seen no evidence. If not for his bloodline, I might suspect he had no stomach for a fight.’

‘Then you would be a fool.’

Salendor shot her a shrewd look. ‘None know him better than you, eh? I heard that too. Tell me, what passed between you when he was last here?’

‘Why did you wish to see me, Salendor?’

‘You know why. Peace is not possible. He might put off war for a few months, maybe years, but not forever.’

Liandra said nothing. Salendor was right, of course, but there was no point in confirming it.

‘So we have two choices,’ Salendor went on. ‘First, we can change his mind.’

‘Impossible,’ said Liandra. Despite herself, a little sadness sank into her voice. ‘Trust me, there is no turning it.’

‘Then you know what must be done: we make other arrangements.’

‘That could mean anything.’

‘It means acting,’ said Salendor. ‘He can talk with them for as long as he wishes, but there will be no peace if we do not allow it.’

‘You would not dare.’

‘We, Liandra. You and me. Forget the rest of the Council — they would not stir if the world was ending around their ears. Gelthar is obsessed with defence and Caerwal… I do not understand Caerwal. His people have been butchered and still he hesitates. But you know the truth — we are warriors. We have already blooded the dawi, we will do so again. Think on it: my forces will follow my orders. Add yours, and near half the armies of Tor Alessi would march on our word.’

Liandra closed her eyes wearily. She could already see images parading before her — legions of spearmen coursing through open gates, picking up speed as they charged towards dug-in ranks of iron and bronze, surmounted by the raging wingbeats of dragons sweeping east. She saw herself at the head of it, as glorious and unstoppable as Isha, festooned in flame and underpinned by fields of steel.

‘You do not know me,’ she said softly.

Salendor lost his smile. ‘What?’

Liandra opened her eyes. ‘If you came here asking me to oppose him, then you do not know me.’

‘So you spurn the offer.’

‘It is no offer!’ she said, her eyes flashing with anger. ‘You give me nothing but revolt, something the humblest archer captain would blush to consider. I had heard you were a tactician, my lord, not a gutter-thief.’

Salendor pushed clear of the wall, suddenly looking dangerous. ‘You dare to-’

‘I dare nothing!’ cried Liandra. ‘And neither do you — we are just following our instincts, doing what we were trained to do. Do you think Imladrik is a simpleton? His troops would fight for him until their last breaths — none of them will stir to support you. You might as well ask them to fight with the druchii.’

Salendor took a single step towards her, his right fist clenching. For the first time Liandra saw just how powerfully built he was. ‘Then you are in his thrall, just as I feared,’ he said. ‘What were you, then — his lover? His whore?’

‘Say no more,’ hissed Liandra, her own fists balling. A stray flicker of fire rippled over her flesh. ‘I swear by holy Isha if you say another word I will kill you.’

They stood facing one another, hearts beating powerfully, eyes locked together. Liandra saw the desperation in Salendor’s battle-scarred face. For a moment she thought he might goad her further, just to test whether her threats meant anything.

Then, slowly, grudgingly, he backed down. ‘They were unworthy words,’ he muttered. ‘I should not have spoken them.’

Liandra unclenched her own hands, feeling the burn from where her fingernails had dug in. He had dragged her close.

Salendor shook his head with frustration, looking like he wanted to punch the walls. ‘But by Khaine,’ he spat, ‘he drives me to it. He does not answer my pleas. He will not bend. He will damn us all.’

Liandra looked at him coldly. All at once, Salendor’s rage seemed ignoble to her, like the rantings of a child kept from his sweetmeats rather than the noble fury of a son of Ulthuan.

‘You have said what you came to say,’ she said. ‘No word of it shall come from my lips. Now go.’

Salendor hesitated. ‘I will not make the offer again,’ he warned.

‘You should not have done so now.’ Liandra ran her hands through her hair. She felt weary, tainted. Despite the insult, some of what he had said hit near the mark. ‘Salendor, I know why you suffer. On another day, in another war, perhaps I might have listened. But know this: I can never oppose him.’

Salendor looked at her grimly. ‘So there it is. I made the attempt.’ He started to leave, then halted. ‘He has some hold over you, I see that. I will not ask you again, but beware. Memories are a poor guide.’

Liandra didn’t reply. Salendor shrugged, withdrew down the length of the chamber and stalked back outside.

She waited for a long time after that, standing still as the candles burned down, leaving a suitable interval before following him out into the city. She had lost track of time and had no idea whether the sun had gone down.

It didn’t matter. Salendor’s words still echoed in her mind.

He has some hold over you, I see that.

Perhaps he had, once, but that was a long time ago. The more she thought about it, the more she doubted whether it had ever been true.

Caradryel rode uneasily. The guards Imladrik had sent to escort him were from his own personal retinue: Caledorian, each with a dragon-winged helm and riding a powerful black charger. Twenty rode within Caradryel’s eyeshot; twice that were in bow-range, fanning out through the trees in a wide, almost silent arc.

Even to Caradryel’s untrained eyes they were quite obviously deadly. Their captain, a sour-faced killer named Feliadh, had made no secret of his contempt for his feckless-looking charge. Feliadh had ridden ahead during the entire journey, conversing with his troops in a local dialect and avoiding standard Eltharin. The days had thus passed in a procession of weary, wordless rides followed by lonely and windswept camps.

Every so often the party would encounter bands of scouts returning from the east. Some looked relatively unscathed; others had been savaged, down to one or two survivors. Feliadh would ask them for news, which was always the same.

‘They’re on the march,’ the scouts would say, voices wary. ‘They’re cutting down the trees as they come. We couldn’t see an end to them. No end at all.’

Feliadh would calmly ask them the most direct route towards the dawi vanguard, ignoring the incredulous looks on the scouts’ faces.

‘If you really wish to…’ they would begin, and then reluctantly offer directions.

Caradryel had lost count of how many such encounters they had had. Six, seven, maybe. With each one they passed a little further away from the security of Tor Alessi’s hinterland and a little further into the dark, uncharted morass of Loren Lacoi.

The Great Forest, they called it. ‘Great’ referred to its size, not its beauty. Caradryel had been prepared for neither: the utterly huge expanse, nor the stinking ugliness of it. His horse’s hooves sank deep into sucking slicks of mud. They ploughed through swarms of biting flies and had to cut through choking walls of briars. Strange noises welled up out of the shadows, echoing in the murk like laughter.

It was worse at night. Caradryel slept badly, huddled in his damp cloak and trying not to hear the whoops and calls of the distant gloom.

‘Why are we fighting over this?’ he muttered once to himself.

Feliadh overheard him. ‘You have not been to Athel Maraya, my lord,’ he said.

‘Should I have?’

‘Lord Salendor’s realm,’ Feliadh said, his voice full of admiration. ‘Filled with the light of a thousand lanterns. Only Avelorn is more beautiful. One day this whole forest will be as Athel Maraya is now.’ He glanced around them, scanning across the gnarled and bloated knuckles of the tree-branches. ‘That is why we came here: to turn this filth into something that reflects honour to Asuryan. Do you not see that?’

Caradryel grunted something like agreement, though the pious tone in Feliadh’s voice annoyed him.

That had been days ago. Since then they had pressed on, skirting south of the sprawling port-city of Sith Rionnasc and along the northern shores of the wide River Anurein. On the south-western horizon loomed the distant Arluii; ahead of them was nothing but forest.

They came across no further bands of scouts, and no living settlements. Once they passed through an abandoned Kor, its walls black and broken. Another day they stumbled across mine workings, long since deserted though still bearing the angular runes of the dawi over heavy stone lintels. Feliadh went cautiously through the ruins, wary of an ambush. None came. The war had driven its old inhabitants away long ago, just as it had in all the smaller dwellings. Now only the great fortified cities remained — islands in a sea of unbroken wilderness, guarded by high walls and watchful towers.

They passed into a long, snaking valley overshadowed by marching terraces of pines. A stream, half-stopped with rocks and silt, ran uncertainly down its base. Above them the sun struggled to clear a screen of white-grey cloud, casting grey light weakly over a dripping vista.

Caradryel shivered. Feliadh remained up ahead, his shoulders rolling easily with the gait of his steed. The Caledorian horses trod with uncanny skill, making almost no sound as they moved along the valley floor. The only noise was the faint moan of distant wind and the crack of twigs under hooves.

He tried to relax in the saddle. The trek was beginning to exhaust him. If it went on much longer, he might have to speak to Feliadh and demand a change of tack.

The first quarrels came out of nowhere — the first Caradryel knew of them was when a Caledorian outrider bent double, clutching at his breast and coughing blood.

The guards around him immediately drew their blades.

‘Truce!’ Feliadh roared, his harsh voice outraged. The captain’s standard-bearer brandished the white flag wildly.

Caradryel struggled to control his mount. More quarrels scythed across the open space, sending the beast into a panic. Cries rang out as the darts found their targets. Caledorian outriders spurred their horses up the slopes, seeking out the sources.

‘Where are they?’ Caradryel blurted out loud, drawing his sword but seeing nothing to attack. The enemy must have been dug in, waiting for them with the patience of statues.

‘We come under flag of truce!’ shouted Feliadh again. Caradryel saw him spur his horse onwards, pushing further down the valley. He made no attempt to hide.

Typical Caledorian, thought Caradryel grimly. More bravery than brains.

He dug his heels in, forcing his skittish horse to stagger up the stony incline away from the river. Pine trunks surrounded him, mottled with shadows. He heard the dull clink-thunk of a crossbow mechanism working. Without thinking, he threw his body forwards, causing his steed to stumble. A dart whistled past his left shoulder, tearing the fabric of his cloak.

Caradryel hauled on the reins, yanking his mount’s head around. For a split second he thought he caught a glint of armour in the undergrowth, but then it was gone, lost in a swirl of movement and shadows.

The Caledorian knights were more successful in unearthing hidden attackers, and the clash of steel against iron rang down from the upper slopes. Caradryel heard one of them shouting out an Eltharin battle cry before it was drowned by a sudden shout of Khazuk! Khazuk!

Nothing was in the open; everything was hidden. The Caledorians made heavy work of the defence, hampered by the trees and the terrain. Caradryel saw another one go down, the shaft of a quarrel shivering in his neck, but others gained higher ground and began to hunt down the crossbowmen.

‘Truce!’ bellowed Feliadh from further ahead, his voice increasingly forlorn amid the cries of aggression from all around. More quarrels fizzed between the trees, some clanging from shields or thudding into the trunks.

A few moments more and the encounter would be a bloodbath. The dawi either couldn’t hear Feliadh or didn’t care. Caradryel felt fear rise up his throat, ready to choke him. That would be a disaster — only he had the means of preventing a slaughter, and he was almost too scared to try it.

‘Khazukhan!’ he cried, standing in the stirrups and flinging his cloak back. If a dart were aimed at him now, he’d stand no chance. ‘Imladriki a elgi tarum a grikhaz Morgrim Bargrum! Morgrim Bargrum! Imladriki a elgi!’

Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, a horn sounded from high up the valley slopes. It was an unearthly sound — a brazen dirge that made the ground vibrate.

The rain of quarrels stopped immediately. Some of the Caledorians responded with cries of victory, thinking their counter-charge had routed the attackers, but Feliadh was astute enough to see what was going on.

‘Hold fast!’ he ordered, hauling his own steed round and hastening over to Caradryel’s position. ‘Do not pursue! Pull back!’

The rest of the riders did likewise, drawing together again, their swords still drawn and their manner wary. Three did not return; several more carried wounds or dented armour plates.

For a long, terrible period, nothing happened. The dwarfs seemed to melt back into the earth. The wind moaned down the valley, the needles rustled in the pines.

‘What was that?’ whispered Feliadh, keeping his eyes on the forest around them.

‘Honest answer?’ replied Caradryel, his heart still beating hard. ‘I’m not exactly sure. Imladrik made me memorise it.’

Feliadh raised an eyebrow. ‘Well memorised, then.’

Another horn-note sounded, a fraction higher, still with the thrumming reverberation that seemed to lodge in the bones. All around them, from just a few paces away to a hundred yards up the wooded slopes, dwarfs rose from the undergrowth. There must have been over a hundred of them.

‘By the Flame,’ breathed Feliadh, gazing at them.

Caradryel felt slightly sick. The trap had been artfully laid. If the Caledorians had kept up the pursuit they would have been overwhelmed, however bravely they fought. He had never seen such a display of stealth.

The dwarfs said nothing. They stood like graven images amid the bracken. Caradryel found it hard to tell one from another: they were all stocky, broad-shouldered, bearded and clad in thick plates of armour that overlapped across their burly chests. Dark eyes glinted from under the brow of iron helms.

Now that he saw them in the flesh, Caradryel at last understood some of what Imladrik had told him in Tor Alessi. When the asur called them the ‘stunted folk’, that implied something missing, something unfinished. He saw how false that was: they were almost as broad as they were tall, as sturdy as tree-roots and as heavy as ingots of pig-iron. They stared back at him without the slightest shred of fear or wonder. No doubt existed in those dark stares, just disciplined, regimented hatred.

They will never forgive, he realised. They will never give in. They do not know how to.

Eventually, one of dawi made a move. The dwarf broke ranks and waded towards them through knee-high undergrowth that reached his waist. His beard was steel-grey, plaited and folded up in a baroque array of knots and tassels. His exposed biceps were a patchwork of scars, tattoos and iron studs. Unlike the crossbow-wielders, he carried a warhammer, the head of which was beautifully engraved with runes and dragon-head knotwork. His helm was open-faced and crowned with drake-wings just like the Caledorians, though his were bulky and blunt in comparison.

When he was a few paces away he rested the hammerhead on the ground before him, folded his hands over the hilt, and leaned on it. His eyes, sunk deep under bristling brows, surveyed Feliadh’s troops with calm disdain.

‘Who here speaks Khazalid?’ he demanded. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if clogged with coal-dust.

Caradryel swallowed. His usual self-assurance would not help him here. ‘None do,’ he said, edging his horse to the fore of the Caledorian group. ‘I was given the words by another.’

The dwarf chuckled. It sounded like loose stones tumbling down a ravine. ‘So I thought. You speak like a stupid child. We barely understood you.’

Caradryel bowed in apology. ‘Forgive me. I had little time to learn. I had hoped to speak in… other circumstances.’

‘No doubt,’ said the dwarf. ‘Thank your pale gods that we heard the name Imladrik — that is all that saved you.’

‘He wishes to pass a message to his friend, Morgrim Bargrum,’ said Caradryel. ‘We had hoped to find him here.’

The dwarf scowled. ‘If they were friends once, they are friends no longer. But if you carry terms of surrender we will hear them.’

Caradryel paused. This was difficult. ‘Imladrik’s tidings are for Lord Morgrim alone,’ he said, trying to sound authoritative without being haughty. ‘Unless, that is, it is he to whom I am speaking.’

The dwarfs broke into a barking, growling fit of laughter, filling the valley with their bizarre and guttural mirth. Caradryel could feel Feliadh’s annoyance, and placed a hand on his forearm to restrain him.

Laughter is good, he thought, studying the chortling dwarf before him carefully. I will endure a thousand insults if it gets us to where we need to be.

‘Your mind is as slow as your speech, elgi,’ mocked the dwarf. ‘You think we would risk Morgrim in the vanguard? You speak to Grondil of Zhufbar, slayer of your sickly kinfolk, and I ask you again: what are your tidings?’

Caradryel recalled what Imladrik had told him of the dawi.

‘They despise weakness, and they despise arrogance,’ Imladrik had told him. ‘Steer a path between the two: never show frailty, but never insult them. Everything they do is a challenge. Give in to it, and they will hold you in contempt; ignore it and they will assume you mock them. Remember: they kill anything that mocks them.’

Caradryel swallowed.

‘Grondil of Zhufbar,’ he said. ‘I am Caradryel of the House of Reveniol. I serve Imladrik of House Tor Caled. He commands me to speak only to Morgrim. You have us at your mercy and may slay us at your pleasure, but for all that none among us will break our vows. I will speak with Morgrim alone, or I will die here in this valley. They are the choices: you, my lord, have the decision.’

For a moment, silence. Caradryel felt a chill run up his arms. His stomach felt weak. The words ‘die here in this valley’ had slipped out rather easily.

Then Grondil chuckled again, and shook his head. ‘Elgi amuse me,’ he said. ‘So serious, all the time. And you love your fine words.’

He shot Caradryel a sly, intelligent look.

‘I’ll take you to Morgrim,’ Grondil said. ‘Though you’ll have to watch your scrawny backs with him — he doesn’t have my sense of humour.’

Thoriol emerged into the sunlight, blinking and stumbling. He carried his gear slung across his back, just like the others. They were dressed the same way: loose-fitting white robes trimmed with a deep crimson. Baelian’s company shouldered their longbows casually, used to the cumbersome lengths of yew and silk-spun bowstrings. Thoriol remembered enough of his training to use the weapon but struggled to look proficient with it.

‘It’ll come,’ Baelian had told him during the crossing, grinning as ever. ‘Soon you’ll forget what it was like not to carry one.’

Thoriol gazed up at the soaring spires of Tor Alessi, glistening white in the strong sunlight. Gull-shrieks filled the air. Behind him, the length of a gangplank away, the Resurviel bobbed on the quayside. Harbour-hands were already crawling all over her, furling sails and stowing lines.

Baelian’s company assembled on the stone quay, all twenty-four of them. Crowds pushed past them as Baelian attempted to call them to order and speak to the harbour official. Everything in the waterfront seemed to be in constant motion — a carnival of unloading, loading, shouting, moving and hauling. The wind was stiff and thick with salt. The aroma of it was different to Ulthuan — fewer spice fragrances and somehow… dirtier.

While Baelian argued with the official, Thoriol let his eyes wander across to the towers rearing up ahead. Some of them still bore the scars of ballista strikes. Banners of the King and various noble houses rippled in the breeze, exposing images of trees, horses, sea-serpents and hawks.

Everything was martial, hard-edged and poorly finished. Tor Alessi seemed to have no purpose to it but war.

Eventually Baelian turned away from the official, his scarred face tight with irritation.

‘Fools,’ he spat, rolling up some parchment and stowing it under his robes. ‘This place is full to bursting and they’re running around like startled pheasants. Useless.’ He started to storm off, then turned and gave Thoriol a significant glance. ‘Stay together. I’ve got us lodgings in the lower Eliamar quarter. Let’s not get lost in the crush, eh?’

Thoriol smiled dryly. The captain had little to worry about — Thoriol had no plans to make an escape any time soon. Despite himself, he had found himself rather enjoying his reacquaintance with the archery he had learned as a youth. He’d taken a surprising degree of pleasure in handling the long yew bow, in stringing it and leaning in to the pull.

It came back quickly. He remembered how he’d taken hunting bows into the forests west of Tor Vael, and how proficient he’d become at bringing back a haul for the larders. He’d always had a quick eye, and enjoyed the lightweight spring of the weapon; far more elegant than a sword or an axe. Only later had that enjoyment faded, and he’d never had the chance to become expert with the battlefield weapons of the asur companies — long, slender bows with a range of over two hundred yards and a fearful delivery. The effort required just to bend those bows was considerable, and after days of practice on the ship he was only capable of matching his counterparts’ most elementary efforts.

For all that, the process had been oddly cathartic. The others had accepted him readily, showing little or no interest in his origins but willing to help him learn. They shared watered-down wine, bread, hard cheese and olives, discussing the potential for riches in the east, the prospects for the war against the druchii, tales — implausible or otherwise — of love affairs in Saphery and Avelorn.

After the worst of his sickness had abated, Thoriol had found himself more at ease in their company than he would have imagined possible. His early reticence had earned him the moniker of ‘the Silent’. Despite opening up a little since then, the name had stuck, and he saw no harm in it.

He had made friends: Loeth, the tall one from Tiranoc; Taemon, the intense brooder from Chrace; Rovil and Florean from Eataine, good-natured, jovial and as close as brothers.

They did not judge him, except in jest. They accepted the strange gaps in his history without question, for most of them had similar missing pieces from their own half-told lives. They did not talk of arcane matters or the deep counsel of kings, but they laughed often, and seemed to have few cares beyond the acquisition of prestige, the payment in gold coin every month, and the care of their bows and quivers — about which they were all fastidious.

So the crossing had not been as arduous as Thoriol had feared. He still rankled over the deception that had brought him there, and remained wary of the ever-smirking Baelian, but he could not pretend that it had been unbearable.

Now, looking at the teeming mass of asur around him, letting the rough-edged splendour of Tor Alessi sink in, feeling the firmness of solid ground under his feet for the first time since passing out in Lothern, he smiled ruefully.

The world was a strange place. For the time being, he would see where the current path led. Thoriol the Scholar was long dead, confined to a past that he could not talk about. Thoriol the Dragon rider had always been a fiction, something that he’d known deep down would never amount to much.

Thoriol the Archer, though. It had a certain ring to it. Perhaps not enough for him to tarry with it for more than a few weeks, but a certain ring nonetheless.

‘Lost in thought?’ came a familiar voice just ahead of him. Rovil was grinning at him.

‘Always lost in thought,’ said Taemon sharply.

‘Or seasick,’ said Loeth. ‘Though that won’t be a problem now.’

Thoriol said nothing, happy to live up to his new name, but smiled back amiably.

Then he pulled his hood up against the chill sea-wind, taking care to avoid the crush of bodies around him, and followed his companions up the winding streets from the waterfront to whatever future awaited him in the city.