Chapter Twenty-Six

Imladrik spied the smoke from a long way out and immediately knew what it meant.

Dawi, growled Draukhain, picking up speed.

So fast, murmured Imladrik. He had expected it to take far longer for them to regroup after Tor Alessi, but perhaps that had been a foolish hope. It was not in their nature to retreat.

The dragon powered through the air, faster and faster, picking up truly furious momentum. As he surged towards the burning city, Imladrik could see the extent of the dwarf army that surrounded it.

It was huge. The desert floor was covered in a thick, dark layer of bodies, all converging on the embattled spires at their midst. The rolling sound of war-drums made the air thrum.

Draukhain plunged into the heart of it, his wings driving powerful downbeats like hammers, his jaws already kindling with heart-fire.

Imladrik watched the walls race towards him. They were broken in a dozen places, crushed into wreckage and clogged with the bodies of the slain. He couldn’t see any asur defenders still on the walls. Here and there banners of Ulthuan and Caledor flew from tower-tops, but it was clear that the city was lost.

We are too late, he sang, his mind-voice filled with horror.

Not yet, snarled Draukhain, angling down towards the battle. He raced towards the dwarf rearguard still out on the plain, swooping into a low glide.

This time, though, the dwarfs were prepared. A barrage of quarrels flew up from the rank of bolt throwers lined up along the approaches to the city. Brynnoth had taken Morgrim’s counsel and saved every one of them.

Draukhain banked hard as the darts whistled past him. They were poorly aimed, but there were many of them. A second wave surged up from the earth, making the air thick with barbs. The dragon narrowly missed colliding with a six-foot-long spiked bolt, checking his surging flight and losing precious speed.

No time, urged Imladrik. To the city.

Draukhain obeyed instantly, sweeping across the rows of bolt throwers and powering towards the walls. As he went he carpeted the ground before him in a rolling wave of fire. Several of the war engines burst into flame, exploding as their tinder-dry frames ignited. Others kept up the attack, pursuing the dragon as he sped past, aiming to puncture a wing or sever a tendon.

Imladrik barely noticed the rain of darts. His eyes fixed on the burning spires ahead, desperately searching for some sign of defiance. He thought he caught a flash of magefire and his heart leapt — only for it to be sunlight glaring from dawi armour plates.

The centre, he sang, and Draukhain shot over the walls and thrust towards the tallest towers. Bolts, quarrels and arrows followed them, none biting but several coming close.

A cluster of spires loomed up at them, hazy in the kicked-up dust and smoke. Draukhain weaved through them, loosing tight gouts of flame at any dawi exposed on the surface. He spied a whole phalanx of warriors making their way across a high bridge suspended between tower-tops and pounced after them, climbing steeply and vomiting a column of immolation. They scattered, desperately trying to escape the inundation.

At the last minute Draukhain pulled up. His long tail crashed into the slender span as he soared past, slicing straight through it. The bridge collapsed, dissolving into a cataract of powdered stone and sending the surviving dwarfs plummeting to the earth below.

Imladrik scoured the cityscape. At last, he made out some defenders — asur knights engaged in a fighting retreat towards the huge Temple of Asuryan, just a few hundred of them surrounded by a far larger force of dwarfs.

Down there, he commanded.

Draukhain plunged, tipping left to evade the nearest spire and diving hard. By the time he reached ground-level he was travelling very, very fast. He crashed into the dwarfs, scraping his claws along the ground and dragging dozens up with him, then shooting clear and hurling away those he had skewered. Their broken bodies tumbled headlong before slamming into the walls of the buildings they had ruined.

Draukhain immediately banked hard for another pass, narrowly missing the turret of another tower. The confined spaces of Oeragor’s fortress heart were hard to manoeuvre in — with every wingbeat Draukhain risked crashing into a solid wall of stone. Whenever he rose above the line of the tower-tops the bolt throwers would open up again, sending a cloud of darts screaming towards them.

This wasn’t Tor Alessi; the dwarfs were not facing battalions of mages and spearmen, nor were there other dragons to rake the bolt throwers while Draukhain slaughtered the infantry. They were alone, a sole dragon and his rider against an entire army, grappling over a fortress that had already been lost.

Imladrik felt like screaming. The hot rush of killing hammered in his temples again, the familiar surge of fury that always came when the dragon was unleashed. This time, though, it was tainted by other things: guilt, frustration. He was too late. He had tarried at the coast for too long, tied up with the business of the war there, dragged down by the complaints and concerns of others.

Liandra. Is she here?

Draukhain thundered down a narrow gap between buildings, his wings brushing at the edges of the stone canyon, covering the cowering dwarfs below in vengeful flames. Then he leapt steeply upwards, swerving away from a looming watchtower before hauling his immense body into the clear.

The bolt seemed to come out of nowhere. As if guided by fate, it scythed through the maze of spires and speared clean through Draukhain’s right wing. Its steel tip pierced the hard membranous flesh and lodged fast.

The dragon immediately tilted, righting himself a fraction of a second later. The pain of the blow radiated through Imladrik’s mind, a sharp echo that felt as if his own right arm had been impaled.

Down lower! he sang urgently.

More quarrels spiralled through the air, a constant barrage, hurled over the towers by the ranks upon ranks of bolt throwers brought up to the city. They shot above and around them, mere yards away.

Imladrik looked about him, despair mounting. He almost gave the order to pull away then, to power clear of the city’s edge and seek respite. There was precious little to save in any case — he needed to think.

It was Draukhain that prevented him. The wound seemed to enrage him, as if the sheer impertinence of it somehow pricked his immense sense of superiority. The dragon flew harder, barrelling into the sides of buildings around him and crushing them into rubble. His flames surged out, cascading like breakers against whole rooftops and street-fronts. He roared and bellowed, his tail thrashed, his jaws gaped.

He would take on the whole army, Imladrik knew. He would fly into it, again and again, until one of them lay broken in the dust.

Imladrik looked down then, through the murk and the dirt, trying to make some sense of the milling confusion at ground level. Dwarfs were everywhere, gazing up in either fury or wonder, some running for cover, others angling crossbows in their direction.

Draukhain broke out of the narrow spaces and swung round into a wide courtyard, pursuing a whole company of fleeing infantry into the open. Hundreds more waited for them there, all heavily armoured in iron plates and carrying huge, ornate warhammers. As soon as he saw them Imladrik realised this was the heart of the dwarf army, the thanes and their elite troops at the forefront of the fighting. Dozens of quarrellers crowded the space, jostling to get the first shot away. Bolt throwers had been erected around the courtyard’s edge, each one strung tight and loaded.

Pull away, warned Imladrik, seeing the danger. They couldn’t miss. Even a blind bowman with a single arrow couldn’t miss in that space. Pull away!

Draukhain paid no heed. He fell into attack posture — wings splayed, claws out, jaws open. He flew at them in a blaze of fire and loathing, ripping through their ranks like a wolf loosed amid cattle. Imladrik bucked as the impact came, nearly losing his seat. He saw the walls race around in a blur, broken by scattered dwarf corpses, many on fire, others torn into tatters of bloody flesh.

Draukhain thrust upwards, nearing the far side of the courtyard and needing to climb again. Imladrik felt bolts slice into the dragon’s side — two of them, each punching deep within Draukhain’s armoured hide.

Draukhain twisted in agony, almost crashing straight into the oncoming wall, hampered by his impaled wing. Flames flared out from his outstretched jaws, bursting across one of the bolt throwers and blasting it into ash.

The dragon tried to gain loft, but a fresh flurry of crossbow bolts slammed into his outstretched wings. They pierced the flesh, sending hot, black blood spotting in the air.

Away! ordered Imladrik, glancing up at the sky above. They were hemmed in, overlooked by walls on all sides. This was no place to get bogged down.

Draukhain’s claws brushed against the ground. He pounced back at the dwarfs, almost running, his wings rent and bloody. A ferocious swathe of fire burst from his maw, clearing the ground before him. Dwarfs caught in the blaze staggered away, clawing at their eyes or trying to roll the flames out.

The carnage was terrible — Imladrik saw scores dead, face-down in the dust and blood, their armour charred black — but Draukhain couldn’t kill them quickly enough.

More quarrels screamed across at them from the far side of the courtyard. Two more found their mark, biting deep in Draukhain’s thrashing neck. Imladrik felt the pain of it again, blinding in intensity.

Caught by the impact, Draukhain skidded to one side, tilting over wildly. His shoulder crashed to the earth, digging deep into the stone flags and tipping them up. Imladrik was thrown clear, leaping at the last moment before his mount careered into the side of a terrace. The impact was huge — a crack of breaking stone, a shower of masonry over the prone body of the huge beast. Rocks the size of a dawi’s chest thudded into Draukhain’s flanks, denting the armoured scales.

Imladrik leapt to his feet and spun around, his sword in hand. He twisted his head to see where Draukhain had landed, and saw with horror the half-buried outline of dragon flesh amid a landslide of rubble.

Ahead of him, their formation steadily recovering in the wake of the dragon’s ruinous descent, stood the dwarfs. They shook themselves down. They gazed up at the beast, now crippled and in their midst. They saw the lone elf standing before him.

They drew their blades.

Draukhain barely moved — perhaps stunned, maybe mortally wounded. His presence in Imladrik’s mind was almost imperceptible. Being without it was terrible, even amid all else, like having his memories excised.

He turned to face the enemy. More than a hundred limped towards him, and others were entering the courtyard. Recovering their poise, they spread out, hemming him in. Some of them started to murmur words in Khazalid — battle-curses, old grudges.

Imladrik gripped his sword tight. Ifulvin was ancient, encrusted with runes of power and forged in the age of legend before the coming of the daemons. The ithilmar felt heavy in his gauntlets; he would have to find a way to make it dance.

‘Do not approach him,’ came a thick, battle-weary voice from the midst of the advancing dwarfs.

They instantly fell back. The speaker emerged from among them, alone. Imladrik recognised him at once — the heavy-set arms, the embellished armour, the dour air of sullen hatred. He carried his huge axe two-handed, and runes showed darkly on the metal.

The two of them faced one another, just yards apart. The remaining dwarfs fanned out, forming a wide semicircle of closed steel around them. Imladrik could hear Draukhain’s broken breathing behind him, moist with congealed blood.

‘You,’ said Imladrik, gazing at Morgrim and wondering if he was some kind of horrific mirage. ‘How are you here?’

‘Do not worry about that,’ Morgrim replied, swinging his axe around him and striding forwards. ‘Worry about this.’

The dragon changed everything. Liandra sensed it coming just before she saw it, magnificent and beautiful, tearing in from the west. For a moment she dared to hope that the others were with him — six dragons would have turned the tide, shattering the dwarf advance and giving them a chance. Even one, though — just one — toppled everything on its head.

Then it disappeared, plunging into the mass of spires at the city’s heart.

‘We have to reach it,’ she said, turning from the tower’s window and heading for the door. She felt invigorated.

The swordsmen around her stared back in almost comical surprise.

‘Lady, do you mean-’

‘Do not protest.’ She glared at them all, daring one to voice an objection. Only a few dozen remained, plus the archers on the lower levels. They would be lucky to make it half way before being overwhelmed, but that changed nothing. ‘Stay with me — I will do what I can to protect you.’

Her staff was already humming with energy. The short respite, combined with Imladrik’s presence in Oeragor, gave her fresh hope.

It could be done. They could resist, if only their scattered forces could be given fresh impetus. It wasn’t over.

She pushed the door back and jogged down the stairs. The swordsmen came behind her, hastily adjusting their helms. As she descended, Liandra heard the hammering on the outer doors rise in volume. She smelled the musty stink of the dawi on the far side, their ale-heavy sweat and their foul leather jerkins, and felt the thrill of incipient combat burn in her again.

This would be recompense. This would be retribution.

She halted before the doors, watching the timbers vibrate from the impact of the ram. The asur soldiers clustered in her wake, weapons drawn, faces torn between duty and doubt.

Liandra had no doubt. For the first time in a long time she knew exactly what to do.

Ravallamora telias heraneth!’ she cried, raising her staff high.

The doors exploded into a welter of light and heat, blasting the shards back and sending the dwarfs on the far side tumbling down the stairway. Sunlight flooded in, dazzling after the shade of the tower.

Liandra charged out, her staff ringing with power, her eyes shining. Behind her came the rest of the troops.

She looked out over Oeragor’s ruined towers, and smiled.

‘Fighting together, you and I,’ she breathed. ‘It was always meant to be.’

Imladrik leapt back as Morgrim swung his axe. The swipe was barely controlled — a vicious lunge that nearly sent the dwarf stumbling forwards.

Imladrik backed away warily. For all the hours of flying he felt fresh and in control. Morgrim looked exhausted. To reach Oeragor after the fighting at Tor Alessi he must have marched without pause for days. He had already endured heavy fighting under the punishing heat. Yet, somehow, he was still on his feet.

‘You want the honour of killing me yourself,’ he said, watching Morgrim come at him again. ‘Is that it?’

Morgrim grunted, breathing heavily. ‘It is not about honour any more.’

He swung again, moving surprisingly quickly, getting the axe-edge within a few inches of Imladrik’s body.

‘It is always about honour,’ said Imladrik, sidestepping easily. He kept his feet moving fluidly, letting his opponent do the work. ‘That is the one thing we share.’

‘We share nothing!’ raged Morgrim, breaking into a charge and switching his axe back suddenly.

Imladrik was forced into a parry, the impact nearly making him gasp. The strength in Morgrim’s blows was incredible.

‘You are sure about that?’ asked Imladrik, pulling his blade away before pressing in close, trusting to the speed of his movements. He battered a few blows across Morgrim’s armour before the dwarf pulled away, head lowered.

‘You ride those creatures,’ Morgrim spat. ‘You goad them to war. They’re vermin. Their minds are poison.’

Imladrik held guard watchfully. Getting through Morgrim’s armour would be a challenge — it was all-encompassing, a masterpiece of craftsmanship.

‘You should have listened at Tor Alessi,’ he said. ‘I warned you. Damn you, Morgrim, I warned you.’

Morgrim growled, and broke back into a lumbering charge. The two of them exchanged furious blows, one after the other, the steel of their blades sending sparks cascading around them. Imladrik ceded ground, pace by pace, retreating back towards the prone form of Draukhain.

‘And I listened!’ roared Morgrim. ‘By my beard, I listened! That is now my shame.’

Imladrik held his ground, digging in. The blades locked again. This time Morgrim gave ground first. Even his mighty arms, it seemed, were capable of exhaustion.

‘Your shame is right here,’ panted Imladrik. ‘You wanted blood-debt for your cousin, and now you have it.’

‘Do not mention him.’

Imladrik parried a fresh thrust and returned a low strike. ‘Why not? He blinds you still?’

Morgrim was wheezing now, rolling into contact like a drunken prize-fighter. He said nothing more but worked his axe harder, probing for the way through Imladrik’s defence.

‘You stubborn soul!’ spat Imladrik. ‘Snorri has gone. He was a fool, just as his killer was a fool.’

They rocked back and forth, trading more blows. Imladrik had to marvel at Morgrim’s endurance. Ifulvin nearly buckled under one spiteful lunge, the steel bending under the force of it.

‘We had a chance,’ Imladrik said, breathing hard. ‘We could have done better. I told you the truth.’

Morgrim fell back, gasping, his axe held low. ‘I watched what your animals did,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘You were riding one, so do not preach to me about restraint.’

Then he ploughed into the attack again. The blows were brutal, hurried, devastating. Imladrik fell away, working hard not to be overwhelmed.

‘This land is death for you now, elgi,’ Morgrim grunted. ‘All of you. It will never stop.’

The duel stepped up in intensity. The twin weapons whirled around one another — the axe-blade cumbersome but crushing, the sword-edge rapid but lighter. None intervened, and still Draukhain did not stir, though the city continued to burn around them — a funeral pyre of old hopes.

Imladrik pressed the attack again, his blade blurring with speed. He hammered Morgrim back again, rocking the dwarf on to his heels.

‘Caledor will never surrender,’ he warned, his voice strained with effort. ‘Do you truly think you can kill a Phoenix King?’

Morgrim shorted his disdain. ‘His death will end this. Nothing else.’

‘And mine?’

‘I kill you because I have to. I will kill Caledor for pleasure.’

Imladrik smiled coldly. ‘You will have neither.’

He pivoted on his heel, building momentum for a savage crossways swipe. At the last moment he adjusted the trajectory, ducking his blade under Morgrim’s lifting guard. Ifulvin cut deep into the dwarf’s armour, catching on the chainmail between shifting plates.

Morgrim staggered, and his axe fell by a hand’s width. Imladrik hammered another blow in, denting a gromril plate. Ifulvin whirled, moving now with terrible velocity and smashing Morgrim back by another pace. The dwarf’s breathing worsened, his head lowered. More strikes scythed down, bludgeoning him back through the dust, nearly causing him to sprawl on his back. Blood splattered across the stone, thick as tar.

It was merciless. None of the assembled dawi moved a muscle — they watched, stony-faced, as their lord was driven across the courtyard. Imladrik kept up the pressure, fighting with peerless artistry, the sun flashing from his helm.

He smashed Morgrim’s defence aside with a brutal side-stroke, then rotated his glittering blade on its length, hoisting it over Morgrim’s reeling body and holding it point-down. He angled it at the dwarf’s shoulder, both hands on the hilt, ready to drive.

As he did so, Draukhain stirred at last, his bloodied head lifting from the rubble of the wall. A wave of hot, bitter air rolled out from his tangled body as he shook his neck, his great eyes cloudy.

The runes of Morgrim’s axe suddenly flared. The angular grooves in the metal blazed red-hot amid the bloody patina of the blade. His whole armour surged with power, as if kindled by the awakening of the dragonsoul.

Imladrik plunged Ifulvin down, powering it with all his strength. Morgrim thrust in return, shoving Azdrakghar upwards with both hands, and flames licked along the edge of the blade.

The twin weapons met in a crash of light. A ripple of force shot out from the impact, stirring the dust from the flags. With a crack like ice breaking, Ifulvin shattered. Imladrik felt the force of it radiate up his arms, hard as a hammer on an anvil. He pulled back, amazed, his hands shaking from the impact.

Morgrim roared back at him, heedless, his axe still intact and glowing blood-red. The runes burned like torches. Imladrik saw the blow coming in and desperately jabbed his broken blade in its path, but Ifulvin was swatted aside, its power broken. Morgrim’s whole body shook with raw heat-shimmer, a vision of rune-magic unlocked.

Somewhere close by, Draukhain was roaring in thunderous frustration, his coiled body still pinned by wreckage. Imladrik felt the dragon’s anger and pain and could have wept from it.

Weaponless, all he could do was watch the axe-head sweep around again, propelled by Morgrim’s blind savagery. Its curved edge punched deep into Imladrik’s midriff, cutting through the silver armour with a flash of rune-energy. The bite was deep. A wash of pain crashed through him, numbing his limbs. Morgrim pushed the blade in deeper, tearing through muscle.

Imladrik’s vision went blurry. He heard Draukhain’s strangled roaring behind him even as he sank to his knees. The broken hilt-shards fell from his hand, clattering in the dust.

Morgrim pulled his axe free, dragging a long sluice of blood with it. Imladrik fell forwards, catching himself with his hands.

That brought him level with Morgrim’s helm-hidden face. They looked at one another. Imladrik could feel the blood pumping out of him, draining his life away. Morgrim stared back, frozen rigid, as if suddenly shocked by what he had done. He could hear cries of alarm, the discharge of magefire and the groggy snarling of the dragon, still locked in the tangled detritus of its agony.

It was all strangely detached. All he truly saw was Morgrim. Everything else faded into grey.

He wanted to say something. He tried to blurt words out, but none came. Life ebbed from him like water from a sieve.

He closed his eyes. Morgrim was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear it.

He felt the rain of Cothique against his face. He saw the tower of Tor Vael standing against a lowering sky, the light at its summit glowing warmly.

He tried to walk towards it, but even in his delirium he could not do so. The world folded up on itself in darkness.

The last thing he saw was the outline of a drake, high up over the sea, curving in flight out to the west.

He wanted to follow it, but could no longer move.

Liandra saw him fall.

She was running, sprinting with what remained of her escort, her robes and staff still wreathed in flame. The journey into the heart of the city had been horrific — a constant battle with hordes of dawi, all of whom had turned from their slaughter to waylay her. The swordsmen and archers around her had been cut down mercilessly, valiant to the last but wildly outnumbered. On another day she would have stopped to help them.

Not this day. She tore as fast as her legs would carry her, sending a wave of fire coursing out in front of her, burning and blasting any who stumbled into her path. Her desperation made her strong; not since Vranesh had died had she used her power so freely. Her whole body shimmered with it — it spilled from her eyes and mouth, as fierce as sunlight and as hot as coals.

For all that, she was too late. She careered into the courtyard, her boots skidding on the stone, only to see a vista of devastation open up before her.

Draukhain had been brought down and lay half-buried in wreckage on the far side of the square. Dwarfs were everywhere, hundreds of them, most arranged in a loose semicircle around the stricken dragon. Others streamed into the courtyard, attracted by the sights and sounds of combat.

Liandra looked about her. Only a handful of asur remained by her side, panting with exhaustion, their armour hanging ragged from their shoulders. In their expressions was bewilderment — she had led them through the heart of the battle to their deaths. At least at the tower they might have held out for a few hours longer.

‘Follow,’ she commanded, setting off once more.

Few of the dwarfs noticed her arrival — their attention was on the scene before them. Liandra powered through them, smashing them aside with blasts from her staff. Like a hot iron through water she forged a path towards the centre of the throng, raging words of power throughout, her copper hair flying about her face.

It was only then, right at the end, that she saw him fall. Imladrik collapsed forward, his silver armour dark with blood, his eyes wide with surprise. He didn’t see her. It didn’t look like he saw anything but the dwarf who had killed him.

Liandra knew who it was — she recognised the armour from a long time ago, though now it bled with the afterglow of unleashed magic.

‘Imladrik!’ she cried, rushing forwards, heedless of the dwarf arms that reached out to drag her back. The fires about her guttered out, extinguished as suddenly as they had been summoned.

Morgrim barked an order to his warriors. The fighting around her ceased, she was allowed through. Ignoring all else, she fell to her knees, cradling Imladrik’s head in her lap, barely feeling the tears that ran down her cheeks.

‘Imladrik,’ she said again, searching for some small flicker of consciousness.

He was gone. His bruised face was as pale as bone, his unseeing eyes still staring out.

Ahead of her, the vast form of Draukhain struggled to free himself from the wreckage. A foreleg emerged, crusted in dust. The dragon growled menacingly, his eyes flashing with fury.

The dwarfs backed away from it, crossbows raised. Liandra heard the clunk of bolt throwers being primed.

Morgrim issued another terse order in Khazalid, and the dwarfs stood down.

Liandra turned on him, half-blind with grief.

‘He was your friend!’ she blurted.

Morgrim looked uncertainly back at her, as if he’d awoken from some dream and no longer knew what it was he’d been striving for. The warriors around him held position, silent as statues.

Liandra turned back to Imladrik, smoothing his eyelids closed. Draukhain managed to drag himself half-free of the rubble, his long tail coiling. The dragon’s massive head lowered, dipping over Imladrik’s prone body, steam drifting from his nostrils. Even so badly wounded, the beast towered over all else in the square, a crippled leviathan amid the ruins.

Morgrim shook the blood from his axe, stared at it for a moment, then hoisted it across his back.

‘This place is ours now,’ he said grimly.

Liandra shot him a contemptuous look. ‘You could have had it. You could have had anything you demanded. He would have listened.’ She turned back to Imladrik. His blood ran across her robes, staining them deep. ‘You have killed the only one of us who would have done.’

Draukhain issued a low, grinding growl. The dragon was recovering some of his strength, and pulled another limb from the ruins. He was half-standing now, with only his hindquarters buried.

‘Order your beast back, or I will have it killed,’ said Morgrim.

Liandra glanced up at Draukhain.

Did you hear that? she mind-sang. He thinks he can have you killed.

He may be right, came Draukhain’s song, coloured with almost unbearable misery. There was no fight left in the dragon’s eyes. The creature stared moodily at Imladrik’s corpse, uncaring of the ranks of dawi about him.

Morgrim reached for a casket at his chest. He held it for a while, lost in thought. ‘My warriors wish to kill you, too.’

‘Do what you will,’ said Liandra dismissively, not looking up at him.

‘Will the dragon fly?’

Liandra glanced at Draukhain. He was terribly injured, but she had seen drakes recover from worse. ‘He might.’

‘Then take the body,’ said Morgrim.

Liandra stared at Morgrim for a moment. If anything, her hatred for him intensified. ‘Your grudge is settled, is that it?’

‘Far from it, but we are not animals.’

Liandra shook her head in disdain. ‘Caledor will come after you. All of Ulthuan will come after you.’

Morgrim nodded calmly. ‘We will meet them.’

Draukhain coughed a bloody gout of smoke from his jaws.

Let me bear him, feleth-amina, he sang. His place is not here.

Liandra smiled bitterly. She had never been quite sure where Imladrik’s place was. Perhaps he hadn’t been, either.

‘And the asur who remain?’ she asked, glaring at Morgrim again.

‘They will be held, once the fighting is over. You may go. For the others, I make no promises.’

Liandra glanced at the few soldiers who had made it with her to the courtyard. They deserved better. Surrounded by dwarfs, their blades lowered, they looked resigned to their fate.

‘I know their names,’ she said. ‘If they are not returned, I will hold you accountable.’

Morgrim bowed. ‘So be it.’

Liandra rose, shakily, to her feet. Ahead of her, the dragon hauled itself free. Its flanks glistened wetly. Many barbs protruded from its flesh, each one weeping blood. She had never seen Draukhain brought so low, and that alone stabbed at her heart.

‘There is a prisoner in the dungeon below,’ she said to Morgrim, stooping to carry Imladrik. ‘If she has not been killed already, you should do so. She is a witch.’ She hoisted Imladrik into her arms, his feet dragging on the stone. He was impossibly heavy in his armour, but no dwarf came to aid her.

‘Elgi crimes are not our concern,’ said Morgrim.

‘They should be,’ she said wearily. ‘If you had listened to him you would know why. If you care for anything other than bloodshed, kill her. Kill her and cut the heart from her body. And tell her Liandra of House Athinol ordered it.’

In truth, though, she could not bring herself to care overmuch. Drutheira had done her work. If she lived on she was now a ruined thing, destined for nothing but some petty oblivion. The seeds she had planted had grown into dark fruit and would keep growing now whatever else was done.

She dragged herself over to Draukhain. The dragon dipped his shoulder as low as he could. It was hard work getting the body in position. Several times Liandra nearly slipped, crying out with frustration and anger. Eventually, though, Imladrik’s corpse settled in the hollow between the dragon’s wings. His cloak hung limply over the armoured hide.

Liandra turned before mounting. In front of her stretched the carcass of Oeragor, destroyed by the dawi who now occupied it. They stood in silent ranks, still bristling with sullen anger. She could tell that they did not want to see her leave alive, but none would gainsay Morgrim.

‘You will never know how much he held himself back,’ Liandra told him. ‘He was the best of us, and you have ended him.’

Morgrim nodded again. The dwarf seemed almost numbed by what he had done. ‘He will have a place in our annals. Govandrakken. He will not be scorned.’

Liandra shook her head. She could take no comfort from the dwarfs’ obsession with records and grudges. More than ever it seemed pathetic to her, a dull rehearsal of rituals that signified nothing. If they could not see what tragedy their stubbornness had unleashed then they deserved the war that would cripple them.

She climbed into position, no longer looking at the dwarfs below.

Can you fly? she asked Draukhain, feeling his pain as her own.

The dragon’s legs tensed, ready for the pounce that would propel him aloft. His ravaged wings spread, casting a tattered shadow over the stone.

I will bear you to Tor Alessi, he sang, his mind-voice stricken with a dull kind of emptiness. But fly? Truly fly? Never again.

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