Master of Dragons

Chapter Twelve

Caradryel sat on a low, rough-hewn bench, resisting the urge to scratch his neck. He kept his back straight and his hands clasped loosely in his lap, trying to project the kind of elegant disinterest that he supposed the dawi would expect him to display.

Since arriving at the dwarf camp he had felt eyes all over him, scouring him like some slab of precious metal ready for the hammer. They were subtle, though; they never looked at him straight on, but only from under heavily lidded eyes. He could never quite meet their gaze — they turned away, quick as cats, muttering impenetrably into their plaited beards.

He’d done his best to observe them in return, making mental notes of their habits and demeanour. Their physicality was quite astonishing, from the tightly corded muscles of their exposed forearms to the heavy tread of their ironshod boots. They crashed through the undergrowth like bulls, growling, expectorating and grumbling the whole time. Yet, when they truly wanted to, they could slip into the shadows like wraiths, sinking into an almost trancelike stillness.

They smelled strongly, though not in the bestial, unclean way he’d imagined they would, but more of burned things: metal, leather, embers. If anything, they reminded him of the faint aroma he’d detected from Imladrik, the residue from the drakes he rode.

They had treated their guests well enough — curtly, with plenty of snide remarks on elgi weakness and moral cowardice, but no physical violence. That gave Caradryel at least some hope that things were not as far gone as they might have been. Grondil had escorted him and the Caledorians to a clearing some five miles from where the ambush had been laid. On the way they’d passed several heavily armoured columns of dwarfs marching west. They didn’t so much march through the forest as annihilate it, smashing aside the grasping branches and treading the splinters into the mud. Now Caradryel sat alongside Feliadh and the others, waiting; ignored by the dozens of dawi warriors that came and went across the clearing, though their hostility was palpable on the air, hanging like a stink of contagion.

Perhaps, he admitted ruefully, thinking back on his grand plans for ingratiation, on this occasion at least, I may have overreached myself.

‘Who is the one sent by Imladrik?’ came a voice then from the far side of the clearing.

Caradryel’s head snapped up. A dwarf had emerged from the trees, flanked on either side by a retinue of axe-wielders in iron battle plate. Unlike most of the others he wore no helm, and his black beard spilled openly across his finely worked breastplate.

Something about his eyes, the way he looked straight at Caradryel in the way that none of the others did, gave away his status. Those grey eyes had the fixed certainty of command that he’d only witnessed before in Imladrik. Like him, this dwarf walked with a kind of unconscious air of confidence. Also like him, there was a bleakness to him, an austere mien that lined his face and gave his wrinkled skin a greyish sheen.

‘I am,’ Caradryel said, rising from the bench and bowing.

The dwarf lord looked at him for some time before snorting. ‘You’re no warrior,’ he observed.

‘Indeed not.’

‘Why did he send you?’

‘I perform these things for him. My service is with words, not with blades.’

‘I can see that.’

Caradryel worked hard to maintain a deferential manner, fully aware of his danger. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the heavily armoured guards regarding him carefully, as if yearning to find an excuse to strike.

‘Imladrik spoke to me highly of the dawi,’ Caradryel said.

The dwarf lord grunted. ‘Imladrik,’ he repeated slowly, as if savouring the bitter taste of the word. ‘He is here again, on this side of the ocean?’

‘He is at Tor Alessi.’

‘Why did he not come himself?’

‘For the same reason, I imagine, that you do not walk in the vanguard.’

The dwarf nodded slowly. ‘Once he rode freely all the way to Karaz-a-Karak. He was our guest at the Everpeak. Did you know that?’

‘They were freer times.’

‘They were.’

The dwarf lord gestured to his retinue — the faintest movement of a finger — and the armoured warriors withdrew a few paces, crossing their arms and glowering on the edge of the clearing.

‘These are my bazan-khazakrum,’ he said to Caradryel. ‘Each has sworn a death-oath and would lay down his life a dozen times over before any harm came to me. They find your presence an insult.’

Caradryel resisted the urge to glance at them. ‘I regret that.’

‘Perhaps you think that your status will be enough to protect you.’

Caradryel could sense Feliadh and the others tensing up and willed them not to do anything stupid. Caledorian hot-bloodedness was an asset on the battlefield but a handicap for this sort of work.

‘I understand the point you are making,’ he said.

‘Do you?’ The dwarf lord drew closer to him. ‘What point am I making?’

‘What happened to your ambassadors was shameful,’ said Caradryel. Those words, at least, were no deception — Caledor had been stupid to humiliate the dwarf embassy and all but the most blinkered of his ministers knew it. ‘Imladrik regards it as an unforgivable crime.’

‘Unforgivable, eh?’ The dwarf lord came closer still. His forehead came up to Caradryel’s chest, but somehow the disparity in height did nothing to alter the unequal relationship of threat that existed. Caradryel felt ludicrously skinny next to the solid mass of flesh and iron that stood before him. He could smell the dwarf’s breath — a meaty, beery aroma. ‘Imladrik knows we never forgive anything, so that’s not saying very much.’

Suddenly, with a jerk of speed, the dwarf grabbed Caradryel’s long blond hair and yanked him down to his knees.

‘Shall I rip these golden locks from your head?’ he hissed, pushing his face towards Caradryel’s in a snarl. ‘Shall I shave your head and send you limping back to Tor Alessi?’

Caradryel grimaced, feeling his scalp flex, hoping Feliadh had remained completely still. The dwarf twisted his fist further, half-pulling a clump free, making Caradryel gasp.

Then the pressure released. The dwarf let him go, shaking a few loose tresses from his gauntlet in disgust.

‘We do not do such things,’ he muttered. ‘We leave that to savages.’

Caradryel caught his breath, still on his knees.

The dwarf lord glared at him coldly. ‘So what do you have to say to me?’

Caradryel looked up. ‘You are Morgrim?’

‘I am.’

‘Then I am instructed to tell you this. Imladrik knows of the wrongs done to your people. He laments the death of Snorri Halfhand. He grieves for the loss of trust between our peoples, and understands that much blood has been shed on both sides, but still believes that an unwinnable war between us may be averted. He wishes to speak to you, as he once did, to explain what we know of this conflict’s origins.’

Morgrim looked at him wearily, as if he’d hoped for something better, but did not interrupt.

‘There are things about my race you do not know,’ Caradryel went on. ‘We are divided. This war is part of that.’

Morgrim laughed harshly. ‘You say this now, when your cities are besieged. You say this now, when our strength is revealed and you realise the folly of shaming us.’

Caradryel wanted to stop him there, to point out that however strong the dwarf legions were they had nothing to compare with the flights of dragons, and that Imladrik’s embassy was sent not from weakness but from strength, and that Tor Alessi had been turned into an anvil on which even the mightiest of hosts would break like foaming surf.

But he said none of that — it would have done no good.

‘So what can Imladrik offer?’ demanded Morgrim, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘My cousin lies dead. Some of my people now live only to see the elgi driven into the sea — what shall I say to them?’

Caradryel clambered back to his feet, brushing the soil from his robes. Just as he had done before, he aimed to find the balance — not craven, not arrogant, not supine, not threatening.

‘Imladrik knows you will march on the city. He knows your people demand vengeance and knows you are sworn to deliver it. All he asks is that, for the sake of your old friendship, you speak to him once before giving the final order. He will meet you, under flag of truce. He requests nothing more — no assurances, no treaties — just the chance to speak.’

Morgrim’s grey eyes flickered, for the first time, with less than certainty.

‘That’s all?’ he asked.

Caradryel risked a nod. ‘If he has any further tidings, he has not shared them with me.’

Morgrim shook his head and turned away. ‘This army is drawn from all the holds,’ he muttered. ‘There is no dam capable of holding it back now.’ He snapped his gaze back to Caradryel. ‘It is too late. It cannot be stopped.’

Caradryel met his glare evenly. ‘He told me you would say that, and so told me to reply thus: The runes never lie, but nor do they compel. Nothing is fated.’

That held Morgrim’s attention. The dwarf pondered the words for what seemed like an age.

Caradryel watched him, saying nothing. He had heard it said that dawi minds were slow, like those of simpletons or children, but he saw the lie in that immediately. Morgrim was no fool, and if his thoughts worked with more deliberation than an elf’s then perhaps that was to his credit. Caledor had a quick tongue and a ready wit, but it had not made him a wise king.

Finally Morgrim’s face lifted again.

‘The march continues,’ he announced. ‘I swore an oath to bring this army to Tor Alessi and I will not break it.’

He drew close to Caradryel again, the familiar breath-stink of meat and ale wafting over him.

‘But I will think on your words,’ Morgrim said, making it sound more like a threat. ‘By the time you smell sea-salt, you will know my answer to them.’

Final preparations had been made. The great hawkships of the fleet put to sea again, packed with ballistae and Sea Guard units to keep the supply routes open. The last repairs were made to the city’s battlements and bulwarks. Standards bearing the runes of war — Charoi, Ceyl, Minaith, Urithair — were slung from every parapet and balcony, rippling down the pale stone in a riot of blues, reds and emeralds. Tor Alessi’s many walls stood proudly against the desolation of the land about them, rising up like spars of dirty bone from the scorched and scoured earth below.

They will drown in their own blood, observed Draukhain, wheeling high above the tallest of the towers. The city is impregnable.

Imladrik gazed down at the sprawling fortress below, not sharing the dragon’s assessment. To be sure, the defences were awe-inspiring — taller, thicker and more heavily manned than at any time since the city’s foundation — but he’d seen what the dwarfs could do when their blood was raging.

Our strength is not in the walls, he sang. I hope, though, that they will prove enough of a deterrent.

Draukhain laughed, pulling hard round and swinging over the sea. The long, maundering coasts extended far into the north, their smooth strands broken by rocky dune country.

So restrained, the drake mocked. You really are not much sport.

The sun blazed strongly, making the sea sparkle and lifting the worst of the gloom from the nearby forest. Imladrik turned his head to the east, watching curls of mist rise from the brooding treeline. It looked like the woodland had somehow contracted, pulling together like an inhalation before the storm.

Just on the edge of sensation, he almost felt something, like a faint whiff of burning, or the distance-muffled sound of iron boots crashing through rotten wood.

Consumed by it, he missed Liandra’s approach, coming out of the sun-glare some hundred feet above him, riding the high airs with her habitual carefree abandon. He only sensed her at the last minute, just as she swung alongside him, her red steed trailing a long line of hot smoke behind her.

‘My lord!’ cried Liandra, saluting him. Her copper hair buffeted out behind her, her robes tugging at her body in the wind.

He saw her then just as he remembered her — a creature of fire, a spirit of the raw heavens, unbound and vivacious. It was as if the past had suddenly come alive before him, his memories crystallising out of empty skies.

‘My lady,’ he responded, immediately wincing as he remembered how he and Yethanial played at such exchanges. ‘I did not know you were aloft.’

Liandra laughed. She was close enough now for him to see her face light up in amusement — the narrowing of her eyes, the wrinkling of her freckled skin.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘I don’t suppose you did. You’ve been busy since you got here, lord. Too busy to speak to me, it seems, or to know very much of what I am doing — no doubt you’ve had weightier matters on your mind.’

The familiar insolence — he’d missed it.

‘I have been busy,’ he admitted, giving Draukhain his head and speeding further up the coastline. Vranesh struggled to match the pace and was soon spitting sparks of effort from her flame-red maw. ‘As you should have been too.’

‘Oh, my duties have been many. I have thousands of spears under my command, all waiting for orders to march. They have been waiting a long time.’

‘I know,’ said Imladrik. He was not blind to their frustration. ‘And if I have my way they will be waiting longer still.’

Do you really think you can halt it? Liandra sang, her voice appearing in his mind as suddenly and as clearly as Draukhain’s did.

That stung him. It was an intrusion, an unwelcome reminder of how they’d once conversed.

‘You always wanted to fight them, Liandra,’ he responded aloud, pushing Draukhain harder. The wind raced against him, making his crimson cloak ripple. ‘You wanted it even before Kor Vanaeth.’

‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head vigorously. ‘I did not. I came with you to the mountains and tried to understand them. Remember this — they started the killing.’

Imladrik let slip a weary laugh. ‘Oh, they started it. Then that makes everything clear.’

You make it sound as if our races are equals, she sang. You make it sound as if they could actually hurt us, if we had a mind to prevent it.

Draukhain swung round again, enjoying the speed and exchange. He seemed to be goading his younger counterpart a little, daring her to match his mastery of the air. Imladrik let him.

‘You are all the same,’ said Imladrik wearily. ‘You, Salendor, my brother: you think we are bound to destroy them. You are all wrong.’

Are we? Or is it you, my lord, who is afraid?

Imladrik spun around, hauling Draukhain back on himself in mid-air, rearing up in the sky like a charger on the battlefield.

‘Afraid?’ he asked, incredulous.

Liandra laughed again. ‘Of battle? You know I do not mean that.’ She was struggling to keep Vranesh on a counter-trajectory to match Draukhain’s dazzling change of angles. You are fearful of what would happen if you unleashed yourself, if you allowed yourself — for one moment — to let slip the shackles she has placed on you and became what you know you should be.

Only then did Draukhain’s flight dip from perfection. Imladrik’s mind flickered, momentarily, out of focus.

What do you mean? he sang, inflecting the harmony with warning.

That you are a dragon rider, lord. You always have been. You have fire in your blood but you will not light the kindling. As Liandra spoke her eyes glittered, as if she was both thrilled and appalled by what she was saying. You think you love her — you have persuaded yourself you do — but you are wrong. She has tamed you.

Imladrik rose in the saddle, angling his staff towards her, feeling a hot wash of anger building behind his eyes.

‘Foreswear those words!’ he cried, feeling Draukhain respond instantly. The dragon’s vast wings fanned the air into a whirl of ashes and flame-flickers. Raw aethyr-fire rippled along his staff-length, crackling angrily.

Liandra glared back at him, her face twisted in both delight and fear.

‘I take back nothing, lord!’ she shouted across the gap between steeds. ‘The truth needs to be told!’

Imladrik spurred Draukhain towards Vranesh, and for a moment, just a moment, he teetered on the edge of attack. He could already see the outcome — the tangled clash of talons, laced with the quick burn of actinic magic. He had a splintered image of himself, wreathed in anger and lightning-crowned majesty, cleaving the air apart and casting the Sun Dragon down and into the sea.

At the last moment he pulled away. Draukhain turned, pulling out of the encounter and swinging back out seawards, and he caught a glimpse of Liandra’s defiant, terrified face staring right at him.

The dragons spun apart, wings beating and tails writhing. Draukhain quickly took up the dominant position, his shadow falling over the smaller Vranesh and turning her vivid red scales into a dull, dried-blood colour.

Is this what you intended? Imladrik sang, controlling his mighty steed with some difficulty. To make me angry? You would risk that, knowing what it means?

Liandra’s resolve dissolved then — she was like a child who’d pulled at the tail of a cat and now had to contend with the claws.

‘Something had to stir you!’ she cried aloud. ‘You are dead! You treat me with contempt, like some lordly conquest which now means nothing to you — a toy, thrown aside now that you have taken up loftier things.’

‘I never dishonoured you,’ said Imladrik.

Then Liandra laughed for a third time, and the sound was bitter. ‘No, you did not. I do not believe a day has passed when you have not kept your honour, my lord.’

Imladrik said nothing. The words cut him deeply, especially coming from her. He knew what they all wanted of him, and he also knew what she wanted of him — the two things were much the same. Just as he had done years ago, he felt the tug of desire, the pull towards oblivion. The dragon responded to it, growling like a blast furnace lighting up.

It would be so easy. He could give in this time, forgetting about windswept Tor Vael, forgetting about Ulthuan and its survival. The two of them could do what they had resisted before and take the fight to the enemy together. They could sweep east at the head of Caledor’s armies, burning a furrow through the forest until the flames licked the very ramparts of Karaz-a-Karak.

He saw Draukhain and Vranesh flying in dreadful unison, the Master and Mistress of Dragons searing through the air like vengeful gods, cracking open the halls of the dwarfs and exposing the deeps within. He could cut loose at last, unlocking the cage that kept his true nature sealed behind layers of control. He could unfurl, giving into the second soul that whispered within him and finally, just for once, forget duty and embrace pleasure.

He felt the words form in his mind, ready for the song that would seal things.

I long for it. I long to bring ruin on them, with you by my side. I would wage war until the end of the world with you, caring for nothing but death and splendour.

In the end, though, it was Liandra that turned away, as if suddenly afraid of what she might goad him into doing. Vranesh’s head dipped, and the two of them started to circle back down, gliding through the twisting air currents.

‘But you are right, of course,’ she said bleakly. ‘You are always right.’

Imladrik followed her. The fury ebbed from him, but only slowly.

You deserved better than silence, he sang.

That halted her. Vranesh slid round, angling so that Liandra could look back up at him. She gave him a proud look.

‘I did.’

‘And do not think, even for a moment, that I had forgotten.’ Imladrik came down to her level, easing Draukhain’s bulk alongside the slender Vranesh. ‘We are all the children of Aenarion, Liandra. That is our downfall. We have only ever been defeated by ourselves.’

Tor Alessi was by then barely visible, a speck of white stonework on the long shore. They could have been alone, the two of them, lost in an edgeless sky.

‘Do you not think it would be easier for me to give Salendor what he wishes?’ Imladrik asked softly. ‘I know what it would bring — victories, to begin with. For a time we would hurt them. Our thirst for vengeance would be slaked, and we would revel in it.’

Draukhain was circling Vranesh now, turning in a wide falconer’s arc as Imladrik kept speaking.

‘But then the long grind would begin. Athel Maraya would burn. Athel Toralien, Sith Rionnasc, Oeragor — they would all burn. We would throw our finest into those flames and they would wither. Even the dragons would grow sick of it as the years wore on; they would no longer heed our songs, leaving us alone against an empire of mindless fury.’

Liandra listened warily, as if he was spinning some deception around her.

‘And who would gain from this?’ asked Imladrik. ‘You know whose hand was behind the war — the same that grasps the sceptre in Naggaroth. I will not see that happen. I will not let our desire for vengeance give him what he desires.’

She never looked away. Her expression never changed: sceptical, bruised, disappointed.

‘You sell us short,’ she said.

‘That is your judgement,’ said Imladrik.

‘Then I must warn you, lord,’ said Liandra, nudging Vranesh closer. ‘You are wrong. This course leads to ruin. We must strike now before they gather more strength.’

Imladrik nodded. ‘I know your view, though it changes nothing.’

‘So what, then, of us?’

Imladrik felt his stomach twist. The burn of desire was still there — for another life, one that he had only glimpsed in brief intense snatches. Above it all, though, hovered Yethanial’s calm presence, the one who had sustained him, the one his true soul cleaved to when away from the heady madness of the dragon.

‘That moment has gone, feleth-amina,’ he said, forcing the words out. ‘We have both taken vows.’

Liandra looked at him for a little longer, her face flushed. He couldn’t decipher her expression — it could have been anger, or maybe humiliation, or simply disbelief. They hung there for a while longer, their steeds’ wings making the air thrum, before her expression finally hardened again.

‘You may have done, my lord,’ she said. ‘For myself, I vow nothing.’

Then Vranesh arched, twisted, and shot down towards the sea. She went quickly, like a falling stone, plunging down towards the sparkling waters.

Imladrik watched her go, motionless in the air, letting Draukhain hold position and giving him no orders.

For a long time he said nothing at all. The wind pulled at his hair. He felt wretched, more wretched than he could remember being — even the brisk push of the salty air felt stale and old.

I like her, sang Draukhain eventually. I always did — she has a heart after our own. Are you sure you are right in this, kalamn-talaen?

Imladrik’s eyes remained locked on the diminishing figure of the flame-red dragon as she spiralled out over the ocean.

No, great one, he sang bleakly. I am not sure about anything.

‘Draw!’

Thoriol bent into the pull, using his whole body to lever the arrow on to the string. Alongside him on the battlements his company did likewise; alongside them a hundred other companies the same. With a ripple of steel points, the battalions of an entire wall-section pulled their bowstrings tight, angling the heavy yew shafts and holding position.

Thoriol felt his muscles tremble as the tension bit. He’d become far more proficient than he had been, but the effort of using the longbow was considerable and he was less comfortable with it than his companions. They could work a longbow for an hour and register little fatigue, whereas he was struggling after several flights.

He gritted his teeth, desperate not to lose face. Loeth stood beside him, calm as ever.

‘Release!’

The order was a relief — Thoriol loosed his arrow with the others, watching as the dense hail of darts soared up into the sky and arced down to the plain beyond.

The sight was a stirring one. Their wall-section was nearly fifty feet above the level of the plain, facing due east. The arrows clustered together in a thick cloud, whistling through the air before jabbing down into the sodden earth far below. The range was impressive — over a hundred and fifty yards, with each dart falling within a wide band. Thousands of arrows already stood at angles in the mud, the results of many previous volleys.

‘Draw!’

If Thoriol had counted correctly, this should be the last one. He’d already reached for his arrow in the rack before him and had it ready. He grasped the string with three fingers, feeling the single-feather fletch brush against his knuckle. The nock slid up against the silken string, and he pulled it tight using his bodyweight as a counterbalance.

At such ranges the aim was not as important as the timing. The task was to fill the air with a thick cloud of arrows, all hammering earthwards in a single block. The defenders of Tor Alessi knew from experience that dwarf armour was extremely tough and so single shots were rarely effective. The only thing that troubled units clad in steel plate was a veritable flood of darts, clogging the air and rattling down against them in a dense cloud. At such concentrations there was every chance of hitting an exposed joint or sliding through a narrow eye-slit, and, even if the majority of arrows wouldn’t register a kill, the flight as a whole would badly hamper any advancing formation.

‘Release!’

Thoriol let fly, watching with satisfaction as his arrow soared upwards with the others. The air thickened with shafts again before they swooped down in unison, tracing a steep arch towards the plain below.

It was a sight to gladden the heart of any true son of Ulthuan. When the final assault came it would be even grander — thousands of archers arranged across the entire stretch of parapets, raining steel-tipped ruin on the advancing host. To that would be added the shuddering flights of ballista bolts and the arcane snarl of magecraft.

Thoriol smiled. For the attackers, it would be like walking into a hurricane. He found himself almost desperate for them to arrive, just so he could witness it.

‘Stand down!’

The order rang out from the tower at the far end of the parapet. All along the battlements archer companies leaned heavily against the stone, shaking down aching arms and counting their remaining arrows. A trumpet sounded as dozens of basket-carrying menials hurried out of the gates below, ready for the laborious process of retrieving the arrows and carting them back up to the armoury for re-use.

Loeth smiled at him amiably. ‘You’re keeping up, Silent.’

Thoriol nodded. ‘Seems that way.’

Baelian pushed his way towards them, moving carefully along the crowded parapet.

‘It’ll be harder when we’re doing it for real,’ he warned, looking with guarded approval at Thoriol and the others. ‘Think your arms are aching now? They’ll be shredded by the end, and that’s before you see what the bastards will be hurling up at us the whole time.’

Rovil laughed. ‘From fifty feet down?’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ snapped Baelian. ‘Last time they breached the walls in nine places before we drove them out.’ He swept his scarred gaze across them, wagging a calloused finger in their direction like an old loremaster with his pupils. ‘Be careful. Remember your training. If they break through anywhere close to you, reach for your knives and fall back in good order. It’s not your task to stop them up close — that’s what the knights are there for.’

Thoriol looked away then, his mind already wandering — Baelian had given them the same speech many times.

As he did so, he caught a familiar whiff on the air, like burning embers. He craned his head, shading his eyes with one hand against the glare of the sun. He’d known ever since arriving that dragon riders were among Tor Alessi’s defenders but he’d made no effort to find out anything about them — the memory of the Dragonspine was still too raw for that and he’d had plenty to occupy him with the archery work.

But as he looked up then, though, he saw it — the massive sapphire drake, the one he’d seen over Tor Vael and Tor Caled a hundred times. It was dropping fast, descending into the forest of spires behind them with an echoing clap of huge wings. A moment later and it was gone, lost in the vastness of the upper city.

He felt his stomach twist.

‘That is Imladrik’s dragon,’ he said, blurting it out even as Baelian was still speaking.

‘So it is,’ smiled Loeth. ‘What did you expect? I’ve seen him aloft twice since we dropped anchor.’

Florean nodded enthusiastically. ‘A monster. A true monster.’

Thoriol turned to Baelian. ‘Then… he’s here?’

‘Of course he is.’ Baelian looked at him steadily. ‘He commands the army.’

Thoriol almost felt like laughing, but not from mirth. Even the simple task of escaping his father seemed to be beyond him. A familiar sinking sensation fell over him: the embrace of failure.

He started to say something, but Baelian’s look silenced him. The archery captain shot him a glare, the meaning of which was obvious.

No one needs to know but you and me.

Thoriol clammed up.

‘Are you all right, Silent?’ asked Florean. ‘You’ve gone pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ replied Thoriol. ‘Gods, but my arms are sore.’

They could believe that, and so the moment passed. The archers gathered up their arrows into quivers and checked their strings for damage. Loeth reached for a pot of beeswax and began to rub at a splintered section of his longbow — it would need to be replaced, but the bowyers were already working flat out and spares were hard to come by.

As the company fell into its familiar routines Baelian drew Thoriol to one side.

‘You’ve made a place for yourself here, lad,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’

Thoriol didn’t know how to reply. Thoughts of escape had faded days ago, replaced by the enjoyment of — for the first time — actually doing something worthwhile well. The fact that his father was in the city, no doubt preoccupied with the enormous task of organising its defences, shouldn’t have made a difference to anything.

But it did, of course. It tarnished the whole exercise, putting into relief just how incongruous it was that he, the son of the King’s brother, had ended up serving in the rank and file of his armies.

He was about to mumble something inconsequential when his attention was broken for a second time. Clarions, whole groups of them, began to sound from the tops of the highest towers. A rustle of movement followed, then the rising clamour of voices raised all along the battlements.

Thoriol looked out across the plain just in time to see the collectors hurrying back to the gates, escorted by spear-carrying riders who hadn’t been there a moment ago. The clarions continued to sound, joined soon afterwards by ringing blasts from the city’s huge central keep.

His gaze snapped up to the edge of the forest, only a few miles distant but hazy in the strong sun. He saw nothing moving there, but the sight nevertheless filled him with foreboding.

‘So they’ve been sighted,’ Thoriol said quietly.

Baelian stared out in the same direction, eyes fixed on the horizon.

‘Sounds like it,’ he agreed. ‘Better get those arms limber again, lad. Looks like you’ll be using them soon.’