Master of Dragons

Chapter Fourteen

Liandra drove Vranesh hard, pushing her towards the far-off peaks of the Arluii. Her steed was happy to comply. As ever, their moods were intertwined, amplified and echoed in one another’s minds with every movement and gesture.

She knew she should turn back. Her foray out over Loren Lacoi had given her a hawk’s eye view of dawi columns moving close to Tor Alessi’s hinterland — the vanguard of the main force would not be far behind it. On another day, she might have ordered Vranesh down, raking the slow-moving formations with a burst of dragonfire. She would have enjoyed that — it would have been a release after so long holding back.

Imladrik, of course, wouldn’t have allowed it. His restraint was maddening. Liandra knew what he was capable of if he chose to unlock the power coiled tight within that proud, buttoned-up exterior. She had seen it for herself, and the memory still burned within her.

But she had made herself weary now telling others of his potential, even Salendor had stopped believing her.

‘It doesn’t matter how much you tell me this,’ he’d complained, smarting after her rejection of him. ‘Weak elves tell good stories.’

Salendor was within his rights to be sceptical — very few had ever seen dragon riders in action. The drakes were rare and majestic beasts, kept away from the battlefield by their riders unless the need was great. Salendor could have no idea what would happen when they were let loose. He could have no idea how contemptuously Draukhain or Vranesh could carve through the mightiest of defences, leaving nothing but molten armour fragments in their wake.

The dawi did not understand it either. It was centuries since dragons had gone to war in Elthin Arvan — no dwarfs now lived who would have witnessed them unleashed to the full. They had only ever hunted miserable cave-dwelling wyrms of the eastern mountains — the colossally powerful Star Dragons of the Annulii were another proposition entirely.

It was all so frustrating.

He is a fool, sang Vranesh in sympathy.

Liandra laughed bitterly. You’ve changed your tune.

Who but a fool would spurn the chance to mate with you?

It is not about mating, she sang back, affronted. Gods, you can be crude sometimes.

Then what is it? Vranesh sounded genuinely interested.

I see the things we could accomplish together. It was hard to conceal emotions from the dragons — they sniffed them out like prey. He sees it too, but holds back.

Because he is promised to another?

That is not all. Liandra’s mind-voice was hesitant; she didn’t like thinking of Imladrik’s motivations. He has his father’s example to think of.

Imrik, sang Vranesh with approval.

Indeed. Think on the lesson of Imrik, and you will understand both his sons.

Vranesh dipped a little lower, pulling clear of a long grey cloudbank. Ahead of them, still many leagues distant, the grey profile of the Arluii pocked the southern horizon.

His father refused to draw the Sword of Khaine, even though it would have ended the war, sang Liandra. Caledor believes this was weak, and has spent his life trying to erase the shame of it. He would go to war with his own shadow if it offended him.

And kalamn-talaen?

He thinks otherwise. Liandra looked out at the vast spread of Elthin Arvan, regarding it with the mix of hatred and devotion that she had always felt. He thinks we carry the seeds of our destruction within us. He yearns for nothing more than to give free rein to the dragon, but dreads what it will do to him. He does not want to become another Aenarion.

Liandra gripped her staff tightly. I am his Sword of Khaine, she sang. That is the problem.

Vranesh snorted her contempt. Foolish.

Liandra nodded slowly. It is. We are a foolish race.

Vranesh angled steeply, pulling closer to the land below. Liandra peered over the creature’s shoulder, scouring the unbroken forest for signs of movement.

When will you order me back to the city? sang Vranesh. Not that I am in a hurry — I enjoy the chance to stretch my pinions.

Liandra was about to reply, to begin the long journey back, when something suddenly struck at her soul: a sharp pain, like a dagger-thrust. She winced, tensing in the saddle.

‘What is that?’ she asked aloud, voice tight with pain.

Vranesh had felt it too — the dragon instantly gained altitude, powering aloft with an urgency she hadn’t employed for a long time.

East, Vranesh sang.

Liandra twisted around, feeling the pain intensify. Only slowly did she recognise the cause: echoes of agony in the aethyr, souls shrieking in pain, all wrapped in the poisonous embrace of Dhar magic.

‘Kor Vanaeth,’ she breathed, her heart suddenly chilling. ‘Blood of Isha — my people.’

By then Vranesh was already flying hard, thrusting east, picking up speed with every powerful wingbeat.

Liandra reeled, clutching her breast as more waves of misery impacted.

She had always had a sympathetic link with her adopted home, but this was different. The pain was being shouted out across the aethyr like a beacon in the night. Someone wanted her to feel it.

Abomination, snarled Vranesh. The dragon’s voice was twisted in fury. I sense it.

Find it, gasped Liandra, trying to shake off the sickening pain and summon up her own anger. Find it, run it down. By Isha’s tears, you shall have the bloodshed you seek.

The tent’s canvas walls swayed in the wind, buffeted by gusts that came off the western ocean and straight across the plain. It was an elaborate construction, a storeyed collection of fabric-walled chambers erected around a scaffold of thick wooden poles and taut hemp ropes. Imladrik had had it prepared weeks ago, hoping that it would be used for such a purpose; erecting it had taken just a few hours.

The site was equidistant between the dwarf camp and the city walls. No more than a hundred delegates were permitted within half a mile of it, fifty from each opposing force. Despite the precautions, the atmosphere of tense antagonism was palpable. Dwarfs glowered at their elgi counterparts; the asur glared back at them with equal suspicion.

Imladrik didn’t like to see it, but he wasn’t surprised.

So are the dreams of our fathers diminished.

He sat at the centre of a long table covered in white linen. He had come in his ceremonial robes rather than armour as a gesture of trust. Aelis, Gelthar, Caerwal and Salendor sat on either side of him, all similarly garbed.

There was still no sign of Liandra. He had sent messages to her quarters. She might, of course, have been unaware that the dawi had finally arrived, but he doubted it. Whatever her feelings about remaining in his presence, she should not have stayed away.

Perhaps that vindicated everything he had done. He wished he could feel surer.

Opposite them, sitting at a similar table, were the dwarfs. Three lords, in addition to the runesmith, sat with Morgrim. Imladrik didn’t know them or recognise their livery; they had been introduced as Frei of Karak Drazh, Grondil of Zhufbar and Eldig of Karak Varn. They were neither princes nor kings, but thanes, advisers to their hold-master. Each looked ancient, as knotted and weathered as oak-stumps.

For all of their grandeur, there could be no doubt who dominated the chamber. Morgrim brooded in the midst of them, his countenance hanging like a funeral pall over the proceedings. He still wore his fabulously ornate battle plate with its swirling curves of knotwork decoration and bronze-limned detail, looking ready to unclasp his axe at any moment.

Still, he was there. That was something.

‘So,’ Imladrik said, inclining his head toward Morgrim, who made no move in return. ‘Three sieges have taken place here. It is my hope we may avoid a fourth.’

Grondil grunted, Eldig looked bored, but none of them spoke. From either side of him Imladrik could sense the wariness of his own side: Salendor disdainful, Gelthar wary, Caerwal silently hostile.

‘We came here for vengeance,’ replied Morgrim. ‘It will not be halted by words we have heard before.’

‘Things have changed,’ said Imladrik. ‘I suspect much.’

‘Suspect?’ Morgrim’s tone was dismissive.

‘More than suspect.’ Imladrik motioned to one of the servants standing in the margins of the chamber, who unfurled a long sheet of parchment and held it aloft.

‘This is a map of our homeland,’ said Imladrik. ‘I had it drawn with every detail. You can see the extent of Ulthuan here. Note the scarcity of land between the mountains and the sea. So it was that the asur first came to Elthin Arvan, to escape the boundaries that fate had enclosed us in.’

Morgrim’s eyes flickered over the parchment, taking in the detail quickly.

‘Observe the land to the north-west,’ Imladrik went on. ‘The race who live there we name the druchii, the dark ones. They are driven by a pleasure creed which turns their minds, blighting them with sadism. For seven centuries we have warred with them. For more than a generation we have kept this war secret, shamed by it even as we strive to end it. Over the years it has changed us: we have become a harder people. We remember our fight against the daemons with pride, but this secret war has caused us nothing but shame.’

Morgrim looked back at him doubtfully. ‘What is shameful about war?’

‘Because the druchii were once one with us,’ said Imladrik. Admitting it, even after so long, was still painful. ‘Their master was our greatest captain. He will be known to you in your annals. His name is Malekith.’

The runesmith Morek grunted in recognition. ‘We do remember. He was a friend of the dawi.’

‘He was once,’ said Imladrik. ‘He was many things, once.’

Morgrim placed his gauntlets on the table before him with a soft clunk. ‘This is your business, elgi. We have no concern what battles you make for yourselves.’

‘So it would be, had the war not spread to Elthin Arvan. We have always tried to prevent it. Even in times of peace we maintained a watch on the seas, knowing that the Witch King would covet our cities here just as he covets those in Ulthuan. Athel Toralien was his once, and he is jealous over what he believes has been taken from him.’

As he spoke, Imladrik kept a wary eye on the dwarfs before him. They made very few gestures and gave away almost nothing, though they were still listening, which was good.

‘Druchii can pass as asur with some ease; even my own kind cannot always tell them apart. I tried to warn Gotrek of it, but by then he was in no mood to listen. They have certainly been here, perhaps in small numbers, but enough for what they were sent for.’

Morgrim leaned forward. ‘And what is that? Enough hints — tell us what you suspect.’

‘Agrin Fireheart,’ said Imladrik. ‘The spark that started this. They killed him, not us. The trade caravans, the first attacks; we were not responsible.

That brought a change: Grondil shook his head angrily, Frei rolled his eyes. Morek leaned over to Morgrim and whispered something in his ear.

‘You’re telling me that these… druchii were to blame?’ Morgrim asked, pushing the runelord away. He pronounced the word awkwardly.

‘In the beginning, yes.’

‘There were a hundred skirmishes,’ said Morgrim sceptically. ‘Dozens of attacks in the first years. We know they came from your colonies.’

‘That did happen. Tempers flared, some lords were foolish.’

‘Foolish!’ snorted Grondil.

‘And we also were attacked by dwarfs,’ said Salendor, his eyes flat with hostility.

‘All suffered,’ admitted Imladrik, giving the Lord of Athel Maraya a sharp look. ‘All of us did.’ He turned to address Morgrim directly. ‘You remember how much your High King tried to restrain your warriors, how much I attempted to keep my own back, and how we both failed — could that have happened if other forces were not at work? Think back: were there no voices in the holds whispering from the start? Strangers, perhaps, who somehow gained the ears of the already-willing?’

He might have imagined it, but Imladrik thought he caught a flicker of recognition from Morek then — the briefest of sidelong glances.

‘I will not try to convince you we were not to blame,’ said Imladrik. ‘Believe me, I regret plenty, including things that happened before I went to Ulthuan. All I will say is this: other powers were active, powers that have wished to see us brought low ever since the Sundering. And if that is the case, should we not stand back, just for a moment, and consider what that means?’

His eyes remained fixed on Morgrim’s.

‘Warriors have died,’ Imladrik said. ‘Some fights have been without honour, and I understand the need for grudgement, but the Dammaz Kron makes provision for deception, does it not? This is my case, lords. Deception has taken place, poisoning the way between us. We can restore it, if we choose — it requires patient work, a little more understanding.’

Imladrik sat back, waiting for the response. He hardly dared to breathe. It would have been in character for the dawi to flatly refuse any further discussion — the information was new to them and they did not like tidings they could not personally verify.

The runesmith leaned over to Morgrim and they conferred for a few moments in whispers. They needn’t have lowered their voices — even Imladrik could not understand much of the Khazalid they used. After that, Morgrim took views from the three other thanes. They took their time, grumbling and muttering in their guttural tongue with stabbing gestures from armoured fingers.

Imladrik watched all the while. None of his companions said anything; they sat erect in their seats, their faces calm. Of all of them, Caerwal looked the most uneasy, which surprised him. Salendor’s hostility, for the moment, had been replaced by curiosity.

Eventually Morgrim leaned forward again. His expression, as much of it as could be read under the ironwork of his helm, had not changed.

‘We are not stupid,’ he said. ‘Nor are we blind. We know that you have your divisions. Perhaps we did not appreciate how deep they ran.’

Morgrim didn’t bother looking at or addressing the others; he spoke to Imladrik alone.

‘But you cannot think this is enough. Halfhand was slain by your own Phoenix King. The blood has been bad for too long to wave away with half-truths.’

Imladrik bristled. ‘They are not half-truths.’

‘Then prove them.’

Imladrik was about to ask, wearily, what would satisfy him when Morgrim shot him a rare look, one almost reminiscent of the way he used to be before, free of the patina of bitterness that now clouded his every move.

‘But neither let it be said that the dawi do not know their own laws,’ he said. ‘You are right about the Dammaz Kron.’

He still didn’t smile, though. Perhaps he was no longer capable of it.

‘So tell us more about the druchii.’

Drutheira brought Bloodfang around for another pass, thundering towards the devastation that had once been Kor Vanaeth. The dragon had exceeded her expectations — once given a channel for its misery it had poured the full measure of woe on to its target, ravaging the asur settlement as if the place were somehow responsible for its life of torment.

The defenders had done their best. Some had even managed to loose a few bolts from eagle-shaped launchers atop the citadel’s central tower. One had sheered close, nearly punching a fresh hole in Bloodfang’s already ragged wings, but that was the best they had managed before the dragon had razed the rooftops, sweeping the whole rabble of artillery pieces from their places in a single, scything run.

After that the battle was ludicrously one-sided, something Drutheira took an exquisite pleasure in. The dragon’s columns of flame ripped roofs clean from walls; its raking claws tore deep into towers and bulwarks, collapsing masonry into clouds of spiralling rubble. Arrows clattered uselessly from its armoured hide, igniting as they shot through the waves of flame that swathed the beast.

Drutheira hung on tight throughout, clutching the bone-spur before her one-handed and enjoying the violent swerve of the plunging attack. Her other hand brandished her staff, but aside from adding a few aesthetic touches she left the destruction to the dragon.

Magnificent, she thought, lurching to one side as Bloodfang shouldered aside another watchtower, crushing it into clouds of flaming dust. Truly magnificent.

By then little remained of Kor Vanaeth aside from its crudely fashioned central citadel. Shattered walls and dwellings lay smouldering and stinking. Whole streets had been demolished in the rush of claws and fire, their inhabitants roasted as they scampered for sanctuary. A porcine smell of cooked flesh hung over the sorry remnants, sweet and cloying and utterly delicious.

‘The fastness,’ Drutheira snarled, cracking her staff over Bloodfang’s writhing neck.

The dragon roared its hatred, twisting its long jaws around and snapping at her, but the defiance was all for show — Drutheira dominated the creature entirely now, like a kicked cur goaded into the hunt. Bloodfang rolled awkwardly in the air, twisting its sinuous body and powering towards the citadel.

The survivors of the first attacks had barricaded themselves in there, trusting in its thick walls and heavy-beamed roof. Retreat had been the only strategy open to them, but it hemmed them in and sealed their doom. Bloodfang threw itself at the citadel’s smoke-darkened flanks, hurling cascades of fire across the stonework. Narrow windows exploded as raw dragonflame washed across them, showering the ruins below with blood-coloured glass. The dragon reared up and slammed directly into the walls, latching on with all four claws and grinding into the stone.

Drutheira was nearly thrown from her seat by the impact and had to scrabble to hold her place. ‘Not so clumsy!’ she cried.

By then, though, there was no stopping it. Perched halfway up the steep citadel walls, the dragon started to tear its way towards the soft interior, ripping the thick shell open and sending stone blocks thudding to earth.

A buttress collapsed, sending cracks racing across the reeling fortifications. A huge sandstone lintel dissolved into debris as Bloodfang’s tail slammed into it, further weakening the structure. Drutheira heard muffled screams from within.

They would be cowering now, huddled in the deepest recesses and praying for deliverance. That was fine — it was what she wanted them to do. To turn those screams into aethyr-born echoes was the most trivial exercise of her art. The preparations had already been made, the blood-sacrifices performed. The death of Kor Vanaeth would echo in the hearts of any who cared for it.

Bloodfang grabbed a mighty block of wall-section in its jaws, ripped it free and flung it to one side. The heavy chunk of stonework sailed through the air before thumping down amid the destruction, rolling twice and toppling into the skeletal frame of some burned-out dwelling.

That left a gaping wound in the citadel’s outer fortifications. Drutheira could make out torchlit movement within — a score of desperate defenders with what looked like long pikes, backing up in the face of Bloodfang’s bludgeoning entry.

Drutheira couldn’t help but laugh. It was like watching ants rush to staunch the breaches in their nest. She ran her fingers along her staff, pondering about adding some agony of her own to Bloodfang’s relentless assault — perhaps they would be more amusing to watch with their skins pulled inside out.

‘Burn them,’ she ordered, her eyes going flat with delight.

But Bloodfang did not obey. The dragon pounced clear, dragging half the wall-section with it. The sudden movement caught Drutheira off-guard, and she rocked in her seat, nearly slipping for a second time.

‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked, snatching her staff up to strike the creature’s flesh.

Bloodfang climbed fast, pulling away from the burning wreckage, its huge lungs wheezing from the sudden effort. Drutheira felt a shudder pass through its body, like a ship turning too rashly in a hard swell. She twisted around, scanning the rapidly tipping horizon for what had got the creature spooked.

It didn’t take long. She wondered how she hadn’t sensed it earlier.

‘There she is,’ she hissed, projecting witch-sight into the north-west.

Still far off, half-lost in the gloom of the dusk, a scarlet dragon was tearing towards them, burning up the air around it in its haste and fury. The creature came on fast. Terrifyingly fast.

Drutheira felt a sharp thrill of excitement shudder through her. A real dragon, not the ruined, sorcery-spoiled monster she had charge of. This should be interesting.

‘Away,’ she ordered, seizing control again, swinging around and into the south-east. Bloodfang responded, weeping fire and anguish, its silver eyes rolling with battle-madness. Together they raced from the ruins, out over the forest and towards the Arluii.

Drutheira looked over her shoulder. She no longer needed witch-sight to see the blazing dragon on her tail — it devoured the air between them, racing along hungrily, its wings a smoke-clouded blur.

Come to me, then, thought Drutheira greedily, watching the dragon rider’s vengeful progress. The last time you pursued me I was alone, but now I have such delightful toys.

She struck Bloodfang hard, goading it onwards.

To the mountains, you and I. For the reckoning.