Master of Dragons

Chapter Fifteen

The meeting broke up in the evening, just as the shadows began to lengthen. Caradryel had watched it all with interest, hanging back in the margins and taking care not to become conspicuous.

It was good to be back among the civilised; the stench of the dawi had become wearisome. The food they had given him had been all but inedible — heavy sourdough breads slathered in some form of meat dripping washed down with the bitterest, darkest, foamiest liquid he had ever imbibed. He’d struggled to keep it in his stomach, though he couldn’t deny it had given him endurance to keep marching.

Imladrik had been appreciative of his efforts in bringing Morgrim to the table, though there had been little time for the two of them to confer since his return. Caradryel had not been able to pass on properly his worries over division within the dwarf ranks, though Imladrik would surely have guessed much of it. Most of the dawi army was thirsting for blood still; it would take only the merest hint of a spark to light the fire again.

‘Worry about our own people,’ Imladrik had told him. ‘That is your task now.’

Since then Caradryel’s eyes had been firmly fixed on the asur delegation. He’d watched Gelthar try his best to hide his uneasiness, Caerwal his impotent hostility, Aelis her frustration at being sidelined. They were all of them chafing for one reason or another, though their noble-born discipline worked hard against rebellion.

As he had been from the start, Salendor remained the worry. The warrior-mage had scowled and frowned his way through the proceedings, interjecting unhelpfully and coming perilously close to overriding Imladrik twice. The dwarfs must have noticed, though of course they gave no sign of it.

Now, as the various contingents left the main tent and made their way warily back to their respective camps, the fragile air of amity withered again. Asur guards looked on stonily as the dawi trudged out of the marquee and back to their increasingly settled battle-lines.

Morgrim was the last to go.

‘Until tomorrow,’ Imladrik told him, bowing.

‘Until then,’ Morgrim replied, nodding brusquely.

After that the tent remained occupied only by asur council members. Servants milled around them, removing the linen drapes and the pitchers and salvers that had been served during the day. Caerwal talked animatedly with Aelis — something about reparations for Athel Numiel — Gelthar with Imladrik. Only Salendor was missing.

Caradryel withdrew from the tent and made his way across the rutted plain towards the city. In the failing light Tor Alessi looked even more massive and unlovely than it had when he’d left it. He reached the gates, showed his medallion of office to the guards and passed under the archway.

Inside the walls Tor Alessi hummed with activity. Its streets were crowded, just as always, swollen with soldiers hurrying to their stations or back to barracks. Caradryel pushed his way through the jostling throngs. No one paid him any attention — he was just one more official on just one more errand.

Salendor’s mansion close to the quayside was well-guarded and not easy to observe unseen. By the time Caradryel reached it — an extensive, many-towered edifice near the waterfront, encircled by high walls — torches were being lit against the gathering dark. He could see the masts of ships in the harbour, black against deep blue.

Caradryel pulled back, letting the shadows of the nearside wall envelop him. The roads were still busy, dense with movement just like every street and alleyway in the entire fortress. He watched the gates of Salendor’s mansion for a few moments. No one came in or out. A soft glow of lanterns spilled from the upper windows, but no figures were silhouetted against the glass.

He withdrew, walking back the way he had come until he reached a nondescript-looking building set back from the quayside road, three storeys tall, square and heavily built. The smell of grain emanated from it and piles of empty sacking slumped against the stone. Like so many of the harbourside buildings it had long since been commandeered for supply storage, which made it ideal for the purposes Caradryel had put it to.

He slipped a key into the lock and went inside, climbing up a steep stairwell past stacked grainsacks and wine barrels. The third floor was largely empty. As he entered, a figure at the window turned hurriedly to look at him.

‘It’s me,’ said Caradryel, joining him. ‘Anything to report?’

Geleth, one of his many agents in the city, relaxed. ‘He’s had visitors.’

‘From Athel Maraya?’

‘Hard to tell.’

Caradryel peered out of the window, keeping his head low against the sill. Salendor’s mansion was quiet, enclosed within its high walls and insulated from the bustle outside.

‘How long has he been back?’

‘He arrived just ahead of you.’

Caradryel nodded. There was nothing, nothing at all, suspicious about Salendor’s movements — every member of the Council had supplicants and counsellors calling in a steady stream, even more so since the preparations for battle had been stepped up. Unusual, though, to receive them here, rather than his formal lodgings near the Tower of Winds.

Caradryel scanned the mansion frontage. It was an old design, less functional than the buildings on either side of it, with something of the old flamboyance of Athinol. It looked like the two wings ran back a long way from the frontage, part-hidden by the walls of the mansion’s neighbours. He could just make out lantern-glows from a long way back, though the windows themselves were almost totally obscured.

‘How many guests entered by the main gates?’ Caradryel asked.

‘A dozen or so.’

‘And left?’

‘Half that.’

Caradryel nodded. ‘So they’re being put up, or there’s another way out.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Keep watching the gates. Try to spy an insignia if you can.’

He walked back down to street level, wondering where best to start in the maze of alleyways and narrow streets that zigzagged around the mansion. He matched the unconcerned gait of those around him, letting his eyes wander over the buildings that loomed up into the early evening sky.

It would have been pleasant to linger, had circumstances been different. The soft light on the stone, the chatter of the crowds, the smell of cooking from a dozen different windows, it was all agreeable enough.

Following a hunch, Caradryel ambled into a very narrow alleyway that ran at an angle away from the main street. Just as he had expected, after a while it doubled back, enclosed on either side by tall stone walls with few overlooking windows. He smelled the dank, briny smell of seawater puddles and felt layers of moist dust under his boots. Soon he was in a labyrinth of capillary footways, all of them hemmed in by a close press of tenements. The hubbub of the main thorough-

fares fell away into a low, distant hum.

Then, fifty yards ahead, he saw a shadow flit from a side door, a door that might very well have led out from one of the mansion’s rear wings. Caradryel lengthened his stride. The shadow went ahead of him, neither hurrying nor tarrying. It wore a cloak with a red lining.

Caradryel began to catch up, and checked his pace — he needed to see where Salendor’s guests were coming from before he challenged them. He slipped around a sharp corner only to stare down an empty path. Too late, he realised he’d missed a narrow opening twenty paces back, and retraced his steps just in time to see his quarry reach the end of another meandering alleyway.

Caradryel broke into a jog, cursing himself for carelessness. The end of the alleyway opened out on to the main quayside thoroughfare, as busy as all the others. Caradryel emerged breathlessly from the shadows, peering back and forth.

Crowds milled close by, a mix of soldiers in full armour and harbour workers in loose woollen tunics. Caradryel pushed his way through them, trying to catch sight of the figure he’d been chasing.

Sure enough, a way ahead and separated by a throng of unconcerned passers-by, he caught half a glimpse of scarlet fabric, quickly lost in the press. He pushed towards it, shoving his way past those in his path, but it soon became hopeless — the volume of bodies around him reduced his progress to a crawl.

Mouthing a curse under his breath, Caradryel elbowed his way over to the waterfront where the mass of bodies was thinner, trying to decide if he’d learned anything of importance.

He concluded that he probably hadn’t, not enough to report back to Imladrik with at any rate. Something was going on. He resolved to make enquiries on his return as to the whereabouts of the dragon rider Liandra. If she was still missing by the morning and messengers were colluding with Salendor, wearing what might or might not be the livery of Kor Vanaeth… well, that would be of some interest.

It would not be worth divulging to anyone else, at least not in the absence of anything like proof, but it was the start of something, something that might grow.

His face fixed in a frown of concentration, Caradryel started walking again. He had much to think on before the dawn.

Fatigue had no hold on Liandra, nor on Vranesh. The dragon tore through the night sky as fast as she had ever flown, eating up the leagues in an attempt to run down the abomination before them. There was no complaint nor query from her mind-voice, just a blank, animal hatred that crowded out all else.

It is ruined! Vranesh cried out, her song discordant with pain. What have they done to it?

The horror in Vranesh’s mind polluted Liandra’s own, making her hands shake with rage.

I know not, great one, she sang back, holding back tears of empathetic anger. Believe me, we shall end it.

Kor Vanaeth’s desolation still hung in her mind’s eye, inescapable and damning. She had hardly paused over the ruins, unwilling to lose the abomination’s trail. The city was gone now, destroyed for a second time, and from this there would be no rebirth. The walls might have survived an attack by the dawi, but a dragon was another matter. The wreckage of the assault spread for miles into the forest — there had even been signs of a slaughtered dwarf warband amid the trees. The fact that the creature’s rampage had been indiscriminate gave no comfort.

The stink of Dhar hung over the dragon’s trail, tainting the air with a residue of putrid over-sweetness. The aroma was horribly familiar to Liandra, instantly bringing back memories of a hunt she had ended a long time ago. Like a nightmare dragged back into the world of wakefulness the same stink of sorcery had re-emerged, more spiteful than before and now borne on tattered, tortured wings.

Death will be a mercy for it, Vranesh sang, still enraged.

Mercy for the beast, replied Liandra grimly. For her, nothing.

The abomination was still fast. It must have once been a truly magnificent creature, a rare scion of the Dragonspine with few peers, for the black arts of the Witch King had not robbed it of its native speed. Even Vranesh, counted among the swiftest of the drakes, closed on it only slowly.

The hours passed in a bleak procession, marked only by twin flames in the night, the two of them tearing across the sleeping world like burning stars. When the clouds rolled over them at last, cutting out the light of the moons and dousing them in perfect darkness, it felt as if the earth and sky had been swept away, leaving them alone in a void of pure hatred, pursuer and pursued, hunter and prey.

Only with the dawn did the gap close. The black dragon seemed to tire as the sky in the east lightened, finally slowing as the mist-pooled mountains below were picked out by the shafts of gold. The two drakes came together, poised over the high peaks, wings splayed and claws unfurled.

Now we have them, Vranesh sang, her mind-voice little more than a growl.

Liandra leaned forward in her seat, sending flickers of aethyr-fire snaking along her staff.

Fight well, beloved, she sang.

Fight well, feleth-amina, came the reply.

Imladrik slept little, troubled by dreams in which both Yethanial and Thoriol had appeared before him accusing him of things he had done and things he had not. Waking from them to find himself in a besieged city on the edge of eternal war was almost a relief.

Dawn brought a sobering vision to the east of his tower. Morgrim’s host had continued to grow, digging in across several miles of open countryside. Massive engines of war had been dragged up out of the trees — ballistae, trebuchets, siege towers, as well as other huge constructions he had never seen before. Whole regiments of infantry engaged in exhaustive dawn-drills before his eyes, swinging hammers and axes in unison across ranks a hundred wide. Every so often booming war-horns would sound, prompting a massed Khazuk! response which made the earth shake.

Imladrik watched them for a long time, scouring for signs of weakness, marvelling at the vast swell of bodies, all encased in thick armour or draped in coats of close-fitting mail. They went with a swagger, fully aware of their destructive potential. Self-doubt did not come easily to a dwarf — they knew just how deadly they were when gathered together in numbers.

After that he dressed and prepared for the day. He made his way down to the plain in the company of his ceremonial guard. Caradryel was waiting for him at the gatehouse, and the two of them walked out to the great tent together.

‘Any news from Liandra?’ Caradryel asked.

‘Not yet. I am choosing to be generous, and assume she does not know that the dawi are here.’

Caradryel looked sceptical. ‘It is still a desertion, is it not?’

‘As I say, I am choosing to be generous.’

‘Have you asked Salendor about her?’

Imladrik gave him a hard look. ‘Why would I do that?’

‘Perhaps you should. Just gently.’ Caradryel looked ahead to where the cluster of tents shivered in the early morning wind, and grimaced. ‘Another day of this. Blood of Khaine, I wonder if I’d prefer the fighting.’

‘What of Salendor?’

‘He’s been busy, talking to all sorts of people.’ He gave Imladrik a wary look. ‘I think he’s close to the edge.’

‘Then keep an eye on him. I can handle the others, but I still need your eyes and ears. Do you need more money?’

Caradryel looked mildly insulted. ‘I’ll come to you if I do.’

They reached the tent, its canvas walls glossy with dew. Two guards in the livery of Silver Helms stood to attention, clasping their fists against their chests in homage.

‘Does it ever get wearing?’ asked Caradryel as they passed within. ‘Being saluted by everyone?’

‘I live for it,’ said Imladrik, not really in the mood for Caradryel’s flippancy.

The dwarfs were waiting for them in the central chamber, sat as they had been the day before, looking just as mutely murderous. Aelis, Salendor, Gelthar and Caerwal were there likewise, waiting for Imladrik to take his place.

‘My lords,’ he acknowledged as the elves rose to greet him. He bowed to Morgrim and the dwarfs, then took his seat. Caradryel took his place on the margins, sliding effortlessly into his habitual state of near-invisibility.

Imladrik reached for a pewter goblet filled with watered-down wine and took a sip. Then he clasped his hands before him and drew in a long, quiet breath.

‘So,’ he said, already feeling weary. ‘Let us begin again.’

The black dragon coiled in the air ahead of them, no longer trying to escape and adopting a defensive posture. Its long ebony body snaked in an S-curve before hunching over, claws raised and jaws open.

Vranesh gave it no time to prepare — she hurtled straight at it, preceding her attack with a wall of crimson flame. The dragons collided in a blaze of mingled energy, lighting up the peaks in vivid, crimson-edged relief.

Vranesh powered through the inferno, raking out with her foreclaws, but the other dragon twisted away, doubling back on itself to escape the rush of talons. Liandra caught a fleeting glimpse of her opponent — an ivory-skinned druchii in torn robes. The sorceress looked emaciated, her staring eyes hollow with fatigue and deprivation.

They tumbled apart, each creature already coiling for the return. Vranesh was quicker, and managed to loose another gout of magma-hot flame before the abomination could bring its jaws around.

The blast hurt it — Liandra heard its screaming even over Vranesh’s frenzied roars — but the black dragon somehow pushed through the intense heat and loosed a barrage of its own. Vranesh plummeted, letting dragonfire shoot over her arching spine before thrusting back up for a bite at the enemy’s trailing tail. By then the abomination had powered away again, swinging about in mid-air and drawing in breath for a third fire-blast.

The speed of it, the intensity of it, the noise of it — was incredible. At first Liandra could do little more than hang on as Vranesh wheeled, bellowed and dived. Her counterpart seemed even more unsteady. Perhaps she was still new to the dragon; if so, that gave Liandra an edge.

In close, great one, she urged, regaining her balance and angling her staff for attack. The rider is the weakness.

Vranesh hardly needed telling. The dragon shot forwards, tail flicking out and her wings slamming back. As the enemy raced in close, Liandra unleashed her art.

‘Malamayna elitha terayas!’ she cried, feeling her staff shudder as lightning crackled out from its tip.

Golden aethyr-fire shattered across the abomination’s mottled hide, showering both creatures in clouds of stinking black blood. The beast screamed again, this time with genuine excruciation, and launched itself directly at Liandra, evading Vranesh’s jaws and aiming to pluck her clean from her mount.

Vranesh was equal to the move, plunging down again and rolling away, but only just — Liandra had to throw herself to one side to evade the talons before Vranesh pulled them both out of danger.

Again, Liandra commanded, pushing singed hair from her face and righting herself for a second pass. Her heart was thumping, her eyes shining. The mountains wheeled and swung below them, lit by the angry glow of the dawn sun. Vranesh swooped, angling her attack to scrape across the abomination’s wings.

Then Liandra felt it: a sudden plunge of pain in her spine, as if a metal bolt had been hammered in. Vranesh sensed it and tried to pull out at the last moment, but it was too late. As if forewarned, the black dragon pounced, ripping its foreclaws across Vranesh’s extended neck.

Liandra reeled, feeling herself go dizzy. The abomination made the most of the confusion, tearing and clawing, trying to bring its ragged maw to bear.

Her vision swimming, it was all Liandra could do to summon a fresh brace of lightning-bolts and hurl them into the monster’s face. That knocked it back, giving Vranesh the chance to pull out of the attack.

The witch, sang the dragon.

No, gasped Liandra, tottering in her seat and peering down at the mountains below. From the earth.

Vranesh immediately plunged towards the horizon, blood trailing behind her in a long stream. Liandra could feel the depth of the wound in the dragon’s neck as clearly as she felt the pain in her own body.

Forcing herself to concentrate, she scoured the landscape below. Rocky crags sped by beneath them, snow-crowned and empty. She could hear the wheezing breath of the dragon racing after them and ignored it.

She is not alone, Liandra sang, gaspingly. She drew us here.

We must withdraw.

No! The vehemence of her denial surprised even her. This is the chance — I will not lose it.

Even as she sang the words she saw them — two robed figures standing on the very lip of a high crag below them, each one chanting, their staffs running with black-purple illumination.

Vranesh thrust towards them immediately, corkscrewing and undulating to avoid the abomination’s pursuing fire. Liandra felt fresh stabs of pure pain explode within her and fought to maintain consciousness. Her staff felt impossibly heavy in her hand, and an almost overwhelming urge came over her to let it fall away.

Fight it! sang Vranesh, bucking hard to her left to evade a spitting column of dragonfire.

Liandra gritted her teeth, feeling sweat sluice down the nape of her neck. Her hands shook as she summoned aethyr-fire back to her.

You are a daughter of Isha, she recited to herself as the edge of the crag raced towards her. You are a daughter of Isha.

She could see their faces now — two druchii sorcerers, one male, one female, each bedecked in tongues of dark fire. At the last minute, faced with the crimson hurricane of fire and flesh barrelling towards them, they broke, sprinting back along the crag-top and seeking shelter.

The sudden cessation of their pain-magic revived Liandra. Her staff sprang back to life, shimmering with pent-up golden fire.

‘Asuryan!’ she cried aloud, swinging her staff around her head before hurling its tip in the direction of the fleeing sorcerers.

The air shook as the fire blazed free, streaking after the druchii and detonating around them in a hard crack. The entire crag-top exploded in a roar of shattering stone.

Vranesh pulled up at the last moment, claws scrabbling through the breaking summit. With an echoing boom the crag began to collapse, dragging whole chunks of slush and granite down the far side. Liandra swayed in her seat as Vranesh’s momentum carried them both over. The pain had gone, but the abomination was still hurtling after them, snarling close on Vranesh’s tail.

Did we get them? she asked, twisting her head to catch sight of the sorceress — she could smell and hear the dragon but no longer see it.

Vranesh didn’t reply. Her huge breaths were strained. A hot aroma of burned copper rose from her torn neck-scales as she thrust up skywards, more laboured than before.

Then Liandra caught sight of the enemy, still close but hovering forty feet clear, strangely indecisive, as if the loss of the sorcerers had given its rider doubtful pause.

Liandra’s eyes narrowed. She crouched low across Vranesh’s straining shoulders, her staff still rippling with power.

Now we take her, she snarled.