Master of Dragons

Chapter Seventeen

The pain was astonishing. It wasn’t physical, though her body had been battered badly on the way down. It was spiritual torture, as exquisite as any devised by the debased courts of Naggaroth. Liandra wanted to scream out loud, to rage against the fortune that had brought her such agony, but somehow managed to bite her tongue.

Tell me you can restore yourself, Liandra sang.

Vranesh could barely summon the strength to open her eye. It stared at Liandra from just a few feet away, immense and glossy like a golden pearl.

Do not be foolish, the dragon replied. My fire is gone.

Liandra caressed the dragon’s long neck. It felt like her heart was being torn out. She could feel Vranesh’s mortal pain, burning in her own body like an echo.

I would go there with you, Liandra sang.

You cannot.

I would be the first.

Vranesh attempted a laugh. A rolling pall of greyish smoke spilled from her open jawline, sinking into the dry earth and drifting away.

She was right — the fire had gone.

What it is like? asked Liandra, desperate to keep speaking, as if that alone could somehow postpone the moment.

We are there as we were before you entered the world, sang Vranesh. Before the shaan-tar came to tutor you, before strife came from the outer dark. The eldest of us remember. I will see them again, the names of legend.

Liandra inhaled deeply, breathing in the remnants of Vranesh’s scent. The ember-charred musk was weaker, tinged with the hot stink of blood. The dragon was covered in it, its scales sticky and matt with clogged dust.

The land they had crashed into was a desolate one: sun-hardened plains of baked earth and sparse-brush hills. The heat was oppressive, as if sunk into the air like dye in cloth.

Liandra had little idea where they were. For the long hours of pursuit all that had mattered was vengeance — running down the druchii witch. At least that had been achieved.

Vranesh’s voice entered her mind again then, reading her thoughts.

She is not dead.

I saw her hit the water.

The abomination, yes, sang Vranesh. Not the rider.

You are sure?

I can hear her still. Vranesh’s long mouth twisted at the corners in a reptilian grimace. She is fearful and alone, but alive.

Liandra almost stood up then. She almost walked straight out into the heat-shimmer plain, once more driven with that thirst for revenge that had dogged her since first taking the drake-saddle.

But she didn’t. She remained where she was, cradled in the massive claws of her mount like a child in the arms of her mother. Her cloak lay about her in singed tatters.

We will hunt her, then. When you are ready.

Vranesh did not smile that time. The dragon let out a long, long sigh, as sibilant as steel sliding across steel. You do not listen. You have never listened.

I do not-

Silence! Vranesh snapped. No time remains. The dragon tried to lift her head and failed. More blood bubbled in the corners of its mouth, popping like tar. Kill the witch if you must, but remember where the real battle lies. All that matters is the song sung between our peoples. If the kalamn-talaen falls then the bond will be broken.

Liandra did not want to hear the words. Imladrik, for so long an obsession with her, had become an unwelcome reminder of the past, something to be put away and forgotten.

He will not-

Listen! He is the last. Though maybe you can learn. Vranesh blinked — a slippery movement with a leathery inner eyelid — and fixed her obsidian pupil on Liandra. Do not waste yourself out here. You will be needed. Preserve yourself.

Liandra felt the words stab at her. I would follow you, she said again, tears of anger spiking in her eyes.

Perhaps you might. Perhaps you, out of all of them, might.

Then more grey smoke poured out of Vranesh’s blackened nostrils, flecked with black motes. The huge eye lost its glossiness, and a sigh like winter wind escaped from bloodstained jaws.

I loved you, fire-child, Vranesh sang.

Then she was gone. The mind-presence disappeared from Liandra’s thoughts, snuffed out in an instant. Although the pain went with it, the hollowness that came in its place was almost unbearable.

Liandra rocked to and fro, balling her fists. For a moment it felt as if she were going mad, or maybe sinking into the same death-trance as her mount.

The tears would not come. She had never been able to cry from grief, only from anger or frustration. Now, alone, stranded on the edge of the world, her companion sundered from her at last, she just rocked steadily, eyes staring, consumed by horror.

Only much later did the first howl come — a rending wail that burst raw from her throat. Then more cries, each shaking with loss, each sent up into the uncaring, empty skies above.

She lost track of herself, consumed by a grief so total if felt as if the world were swallowing her into its heart. It might have been hours before she returned to her senses.

When she finally did so the heat was still there with the harsh sunlight, and the yellow earth that was as dull and lifeless as the corpse of the dragon beside her.

Liandra rose unsteadily to her feet. She stared at Vranesh. The dragon’s crimson wings were ripped and limp; the mighty chest deflated.

There were rites for such occasions, ways of preparing the body for the afterlife, but they required time, strength and the use of a magestaff, none of which she still possessed. In their absence Vranesh’s mortal shell was ripe for carrion or plunder.

Liandra collected herself, stilling the shuddering that made her breaths short. She extricated herself from the dragon’s clutches, working quickly now that she had some purpose, moving her hands in old patterns, murmuring words she had not used for decades. Even so, they came back quickly to her, just as if they had always been waiting.

The air around Vranesh’s corpse seemed to thicken, to fill up, to clog. The raw blood-colour faded, replaced by a dun-yellow miasma. The serrated curve of the creature’s spine sank, fading into the profile of the sandy dune beyond. The claws, talons and eyes disappeared, replaced by the shadow of rocks or the straggle of desiccated vegetation.

By the time she was finished all that remained was a vague hump in the landscape, bulbous in places but otherwise one with the stark earth around it.

The deception was a minor cantrip — no determined traveller would be fooled by it, and it would dissolve at the first hint of a counter-spell. Liandra guessed that few travellers passed through such a place, though, let alone mages. By the time her illusion wore off, only heat-bleached bones would remain, themselves already sinking into the sand.

She brushed her hands on her robes. Her blood pumped a little less strongly now, anguish replaced by a sense of exhaustion. Her mind still felt empty, bereft of the voice that had once shared it. Her intense grief, for all it might have been weak, had also been cathartic.

She looked around her. To the south lay the long firth where the abomination had gone down. To the north and east lay a wasteland, as vile as it was hot.

She would need to find drinking water, some shade, possibly food. Her arts would help her a little, but not much — she would need to work hard to stay alive.

Liandra started to walk, heading towards the nearby reed-beds. She guessed it was an inlet of seawater, but it was a start. As she went, she struggled to turn her thoughts away from Vranesh and on to the task at hand.

It wasn’t easy, but it was possible.

‘First, to survive,’ she breathed out loud, picking up her pace and leaving the dragon-corpse behind. ‘Recover strength. Learn what manner of place this is.’

Her eyes glittered darkly, remembering the witch.

‘Then vengeance.’

The summit chamber of the Tower of Winds was full. Armed guards posted themselves wherever there was room; mages shuffled about, preparing spells that would not be ready for hours. A few loremasters tried to stay out of everyone else’s way, apologetically shuffling parchment maps and requisition ledgers.

None of them dared to take a step within the inner circle of thrones. Four figures stood there, ignoring the seats, seemingly oblivious to the hubbub around them.

Both Aelis and Gelthar seemed subdued. Imladrik couldn’t have cared less about the wretched Caerwal, whose plans would have been uncovered by Caradryel if they hadn’t been by Salendor. The only consolation he took from the whole sorry affair was that his most potent general had remained loyal and still stood at his side. As things had turned out, that might prove the most important point of all.

But Liandra — where was Liandra? Her disappearance had gone from being regrettable, to curious, to worrying. She had always been impulsive, but Imladrik couldn’t believe she would have actually deserted, not when things were so poised.

It was too late to do anything about that now.

‘Are they marching yet?’ demanded Salendor, his blunt expression hard to read.

‘They will be soon,’ said Aelis.

‘What changed?’ asked Gelthar, obviously still shocked. ‘We were talking. I thought we might be getting somewhere.’

Imladrik shook his head. It felt as if events were running away from him. ‘We were.’ He slammed his fist into his gauntlet, a gesture born of pure frustration. ‘This was not Caerwal’s work — something else has riled them.’

‘We can find out,’ said Salendor.

Imladrik turned on him. ‘How?’

‘A sending. It may do no good, mind.’

Imladrik felt like laughing. It could hardly make things worse.

‘Make it,’ he ordered. ‘I must speak with him, just one more time.’

Salendor placed his staff before him, holding it two-handed and resting the heel against the marble floor. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the tip. A greenish bloom rode up from the centre of the marble, coiling like oily smoke. Strange noises echoed from it — the clash of metal against metal, shouting in a strange tongue, the rush of wind from another place.

Imladrik watched distastefully. A sending was a crude thing, a simulacrum and a sham, but it was the only course left to him. The plain beyond the walls now seethed with dwarfen warriors and the great tent had been abandoned. With the gates having been sealed, no elf now walked outside the walls.

Perhaps, he thought, they should have stood firmer — made some kind of principled stand at the site of the talks. But Imladrik had seen the looks in the eyes of the dawi once the war-horns had started blowing, a look he recognised from a long time ago. There had been no time, no means of responding. The only sensible thing to do had been to withdraw to the city until it was clear what had changed.

Sensible, but hardly heroic.

Salendor’s spell took firmer shape. The green cloud reached chest height and spread out across the floor. Within the swirling centre images began to clarify. Like an eye sweeping across a confused panorama, fleeting glimpses of dour faces flickered in and out of focus. The harsh tones of Khazalid rose and fell, fading as the roving search cast about for its target.

Salendor began to sweat. ‘They are aware of me,’ he said, his eyes still closed. ‘That damned runesmith…’

‘Do not lose it,’ warned Imladrik.

The cloud’s restless movement paused and the images within its centre sharpened. Imladrik saw faces looming up out of the gloom, like weeds slowly rising to the surface of a lake.

One swam to the forefront.

‘Master Runelord,’ said Imladrik, recognising Morek’s grim visage.

The dwarf glared back at him, eyes out of focus, as if struggling to see through the sending’s magical depths. He raised his runestaff and the anvil-head sparked with energy.

Then Morek’s face was gone, replaced by a blurry image of Morgrim. The dwarf lord glowered at Imladrik, squinting hard.

‘Sorcery,’ he spat. ‘This will not be forgotten.’

‘What is happening, Morgrim?’ asked Imladrik. ‘Your war-horns are sounding. Your warriors are moving.’

Coarse laughter sounded from somewhere behind Morgrim; perhaps Morek’s.

‘I believed you,’ Morgrim said. ‘For the sake of the past, I believed you. Grimnir’s beard, I should have known better.’

Imladrik drew closer, peering with difficulty through the miasma. ‘I don’t understand. What has changed?’

Morgrim didn’t reply immediately. He gazed back at Imladrik, scrutinising him as if for a sign of deception. Then, finally, he spat on the ground and shook his head.

‘Maybe you do not know,’ he growled. ‘Warriors from Karak Varn, attacked as they marched to the muster, their bodies still lying unburied in the great forest.’

They were the words Imladrik had dreaded hearing.

‘This was not our doing,’ he said, though he knew it would sound empty.

‘No, nothing in this war seems to be,’ said Morgrim dryly.

Imladrik could hear hurried mutterings all around him as his loremasters tried to ascertain the truth of what Morgrim was saying. It was a futile quest — no reports of a break in the truce had come in, not even rumours.

‘Tell me where,’ said Imladrik. ‘I will investigate, you have my word. If there has been-’

‘North of Kor Vanaeth,’ said Morgrim. ‘A woman — a sorcerer — on a dragon. She came on our warriors with no warning.’ Morgrim jabbed a stumpy finger in accusation. ‘Who but the asur ride dragons? Who among you commands them?’ He was getting angrier with every word. ‘This is the greatest insult — I believed you. For just a moment, you made me trust again.’

Imladrik felt light-headed.

Liandra.

‘I did not order this,’ he protested. ‘Why would I?’

‘You know what?’ said Morgrim, his voice as bitter as wormwood. ‘I no longer care. I listened to your excuses for two days. I told my thanes to keep their blades in their sheaths. I told them that you were in control of your forces, that you alone were worthy of respect among your faithless people. I told them to listen while you spun stories of druchii, even as others warned me that it was lies and fakery designed to buy time to land more legions.’

Morgrim was getting worked up, his eyes burning and his movements agitated. He had been made to look a fool in front of his thanes, something Imladrik knew he could never forgive.

‘If you can’t control your beasts, then you are to blame,’ Morgrim went on. ‘I sacrificed much for you, but no longer. Enough talk. We are coming for you with axe and hammer now. We are doing what we came to do: raze your walls and destroy your city.’

Imladrik saw the mania in his eyes even through the distortions of the sending. Morgrim was in his full battle-rage now, fuelled by the burning sense of injustice his race took so much trouble to cultivate.

‘It was one dragon rider, Morgrim,’ said Imladrik quietly, though he knew it was almost certainly futile. ‘Just one. Can you vouch for all the warriors under your command?’

Morgrim nodded angrily. ‘I can. They are already marching, elgi. A blood-debt of a thousand gold ingots hangs around your neck. I plan to claim it myself: for Snorri, who was right about you from the start.’

Even as he finished speaking, the sending began to dissolve. Imladrik heard chanting from somewhere — the runelord, now working to banish the hated elgi magic from his presence.

‘This is the end, Morgrim!’ Imladrik cried. ‘You give Malekith what he wants!’

‘No, govandrakken,’ snarled Morgrim, his face fracturing into flame-like slivers as Salendor’s magic finally gave out. ‘It is what I want.’

Then the images gusted away, snuffed into curls of emerald smoke by Morek’s command of the runes.

After that, no one spoke. Salendor recovered his poise, breathing heavily. All in the chamber had heard the words. They stood still, waiting for Imladrik’s response.

Imladrik stared at the floor. Nothing but despair came to him. The hard truth, the one he had tried so hard to resist, had asserted itself once more.

This was the moment. This was when it all turned. No fellowship would exist between the two races again, not after this. He would be the last of his kind to gaze on the giant, rune-engraved images of Grimnir and Grungni, to peer into the gromril shafts and see the glittering metal hacked from the very base of the earth, to witness the ancient iron-bound tomes in the libraries of the runelords.

The world would be poorer for it. It would be colder, darker and less glorious. Even as he contemplated it, reflecting on a future bereft of harmony and riven with suspicion, he could feel the cold vice of hopelessness around his heart.

Imladrik lifted his head, looking first at Salendor.

‘We tried,’ he said, quietly. ‘When I stand before Asuryan I can at least say that.’

Salendor nodded perfunctorily, but it was clear his counsel had not changed. ‘And now, lord?’

‘The path is clear,’ Imladrik replied, his voice heavy. ‘Look to the walls. Ensure the bolt throwers are trained. Let us hope they withdraw when our strength becomes obvious.’

‘And if they do not?’

‘Then they will die, Salendor,’ said Imladrik coldly. ‘If they force me, to the last warrior I will kill them all.’