Master of Dragons

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Drutheira re-wrapped the linen around her head again, knowing that it would do little good. The sun seemed to beat down between the weave, torturing her already scarred skin further. She wanted to drink again but their supplies were scant enough. Malchior, Ashniel and she each carried a gourd of gritty water and a few hard loaves — all they had managed to scavenge in the wreckage of the city — and she didn’t hold out much hope they would last them long enough.

Ahead of her, Malchior still walked with reasonable fluency. Ashniel was weaker, carrying a couple of injuries. One had been sustained when the red mage’s dragon had demolished the mountainside she’d been standing on; the other when her disguise had slipped and an Oeragor guard had recognised her. The knife-fight, Drutheira understood, had been vicious.

‘We should look for shade,’ Drutheira complained.

Malchior halted, and looked around him. The scrubland ran away from them in every direction, flat, hard and open. ‘You see any?’

Drutheira pushed her headdress up a little, squinting in the light. The sun was high in the sky still; it would be hours before the relative cool of dusk. Smoke rose from the northern horizon, now miles away. Oeragor would burn for a long time before they put the fires out. It was fortunate, in a way — slipping out amid all the confusion had been trivial, aided a little by Malchior’s subtle arts.

‘Walk at night, rest by day,’ she said.

Malchior’s expression was unreadable; like all of them he’d wound fabric around his face to ward off the worst of the sun.

He reached down for his gourd and took a swig. Ashniel did the same, swaying slightly.

‘So how did you find me?’ asked Drutheira at last. She’d been putting it off, not wanting to give Malchior the satisfaction, but curiosity got the better of her.

‘I could follow you,’ said Ashniel quietly.

Drutheira turned to face her, surprised. Ashniel had always been the quiet one.

‘I could sense you,’ Ashniel repeated. ‘Ever since the dragon came. Something in the aethyr.’

Drutheira didn’t like the sound of that. If some part of her resonated in there then there were plenty of other things that might be able to track her down.

‘It took days to cross the desert,’ said Malchior. ‘I argued against it.’

‘But we needed the dragon,’ said Ashniel. ‘To get home.’

Drutheira smiled acidly. ‘A shame it died, then.’

‘It didn’t take much art to blend in once we got to Oeragor,’ said Malchior, rather pompously. ‘Their minds were on other things.’

‘By then you knew the dragon had gone,’ said Drutheira. ‘Why did you still come for me?’

Malchior shrugged. ‘We missed your company.’

‘We needed you,’ said Ashniel, more seriously. ‘We know nothing of this land.’

‘Neither do I,’ said Drutheira.

‘You must do. You were in Malekith’s circle.’

Drutheira winced. ‘Don’t assume that means very much.’

Malchior exhaled irritably. ‘We need to get away from this Khaine-damned place.’ He looked at Drutheira reluctantly. ‘You studied the maps longest.’

Drutheira enjoyed the admission, wrung from him like sweat from his headdress. ‘That, of course, is true.’

Ashniel looked like she was going to collapse. ‘Do we have to do this now? And where are we going?’

Malchior’s mouth twisted in scorn. ‘South,’ he said. ‘Everywhere else is crawling with dawi.’ He glanced at Drutheira. ‘You agree?’

Drutheira nodded.

‘Nowhere else to go,’ she said. As she spoke, she tried to remember the charts she’d seen so long ago. Naggaroth seemed almost like a dream. ‘There was a river marked. There must be one, sooner or later. Vitae, was that it? Some arcane language. Malekith knew something about it.’

‘How far?’ asked Malchior.

‘A long way. We can’t walk. We’ll need to find somewhere to recover, or try to get to the coast. A boat — that would be useful.’

Malchior snorted derisively and turned away. ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’

Drutheira looked briefly north again, over to where Oeragor smouldered. The evidence of its ruin was like a premonition, a harbinger of what was to come for all Elthin Arvan. Soon there would be nothing in the colonies but fire, a blaze she had helped to start.

Who would know it, though? Would anyone ever whisper her name with reverence in the hallowed courts of Naggaroth? Drutheira, the destroyer of empires. If she couldn’t find a way back, then no one would, and that silence would be worse than death.

Malchior started to walk again. Haltingly, Ashniel followed him. Drutheira took a sip of water before falling in behind them, trying to ignore the residual pain in her joints.

But I am alive, she thought to herself, remembering the malice in the eyes of the red mage, the certainty that she had finally run her down. To be breathing still, to be free, that was more than improbable. Despite it all, my heart still beats.

She kept walking. The southern horizon stretched away from them, shaking in the heat. The emptiness looked like it went on forever.

Morgrim hobbled through the streets of Oeragor. He could feel blood sloshing in his boots. His ribs were cracked, his shoulder-blade fractured. When he breathed it felt like dry grass was being shoved down his throat.

Everywhere he went, his warriors saluted him. They raised their fists and bowed their heads. Some of the younger ones shouted Khazuk! They all knew what had been achieved. His name would go into the records, carved into the stone tablets buried in the vaults of Karaz-a-Karak. Starbreaker would summon him to the throne. The runelords would honour him. The pall of disgrace that had hung over his bloodline since Snorri’s death would lift.

It should have made him fiercely proud. Part of him was. He could still see the carnage caused by the drakes. It felt good to have repaid some measure of pain. Morek’s rune-artistry had answered at last, and Azdrakghar had tasted blood.

It was, at least, a beginning.

But beyond that he felt removed from all that had transpired. The long marches had battered his body into submission. He knew when he peeled his armour off, all he would see would be calluses, bruises and blisters. His flesh was now a carpet of them, weeping blood and pus under the hard shell of his battle plate.

He could cope with the pain. It was the other things he found difficult.

Imladrik had been an obstacle. No other elgi commanded such respect. His removal had been necessary, and not just for the satisfaction of grudgement. Morgrim could not have returned to the Everpeak with the Master of Dragons un-defeated and still claimed the title of elgidum.

Yet, for all that, his heart remained uneasy. He had tried to speak to Imladrik at the end, though he doubted the elgi had heard him.

‘You did not need to fight here,’ he had said, almost angrily. ‘You did not need to come.’

Then the mage had arrived, bursting into the courtyard with her anger and her witch’s fire. The order to release the body had almost been an afterthought. It would certainly not placate any of the asur. In a war that had already seen atrocity unleashed, it would do nothing to restore restraint.

He reached again for the casket at his breast, the one containing Snorri’s remains.

All it had been was an exchange. A barter. The dawi understood such things.

‘Tromm, Morgrim!’

Brynnoth’s gruff voice rang out. He was walking towards Morgrim, his armour in terrible shape. An elgi arrow still protruded from his pauldron, the shaft snapped. His grizzled face spread in a wide grin.

‘We have broken them!’ Brynnoth roared, embracing Morgrim roughly. ‘And the dragon! Wings torn to ribbons. That was a mighty feat.’

Morgrim nodded weakly. ‘They can be beaten. We know that now.’

‘They can, and they will.’ Brynnoth’s blood was up. He looked ready to march off again that instant.

Morgrim couldn’t share his ebullience. ‘We should secure the city.’

‘Secure it?’ Brynnoth laughed. ‘From what?’

Morgrim felt like collapsing but kept his feet. He would have to do so for hours. The ale had not even been hauled into the city yet, ready for the hours of ritual drinking and oath-taking to come. ‘From ourselves. Let there be no mindless slaughter.’

‘Of course not.’ Brynnoth looked at him hard. ‘Are you all right?’

Morgrim knew he would be. Dawn would come, and he would remember the sacred runes he had sworn over. He would remember his hatred and his pride. He would speak with Brynnoth about the weapons in Barak Varr, and the foundries would soon be ringing with industry. Everything would grind into motion again. They would sweep west, this time knowing what they faced, knowing they could beat it.

In time, all of those things would happen. For now, though, he felt empty, like a clawed-out mineshaft.

‘I did not know how victory tasted until today,’ Morgrim said, remembering how Imladrik’s blood had coursed over his gauntlets. ‘It will take some getting used to.’

The three of them sat together in Imladrik’s high chamber: Yethanial, Thoriol and Caradryel. The windows were unshuttered and let in the evening light in warm bands of gold.

Caradryel felt awkward. He wasn’t sure why he had been summoned. It felt like he was intruding on some private family affair.

‘Was he angry?’ Yethanial asked, speaking to Thoriol.

The youth shook his head. ‘A little. More surprised, I think.’

‘He should have been angry.’ Yethanial’s voice was soft but harsh. ‘You have had every advantage. You could have died.’

Thoriol looked resigned. ‘So he told me. Look, I see the truth of it, so you do not need to tell me again.’

Caradryel shifted in his seat. Clearly this was something that would be best thrashed out between the two of them.

‘My lady, I-’ he started.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Yethanial, before turning her severe face back to Thoriol. ‘This is not some game we are playing at. None of us gets to choose, not when we are at war. There is duty, Thoriol, and that is all.’

She sounded so much like her husband. Thoriol looked chastened, and did not argue.

‘I will try again,’ he said, lifting his head to return her gaze. ‘I can return to the Dragonspine.’

Yethanial looked at him carefully, as if assessing whether he meant it.

‘It is not easy,’ she said at last. ‘Imladrik tells me they wake slowly now, but we need all the riders we can get.’

Thoriol’s expression didn’t change. Caradryel thought he looked very little like his father; much more akin to the mother.

‘And you?’ Thoriol asked, his eyes glittering with challenge.

Yethanial bowed her head. ‘I should have been here from the start. It was only pride that kept me away.’

Caradryel cleared his throat. ‘But a good time to return, if you’ll pardon me for saying. Salendor and Aelis are consumed with their own business, and Caledor’s gaze remains fixed on Naggaroth. There are opportunities here, lady.’

Yethanial looked at him coolly. ‘Opportunities? For what?’

‘Power.’ Caradryel had never quite got the hang of meeting Yethanial’s steely gaze, but worked hard at it. ‘Influence. Imladrik destroyed the dwarf host; his prestige has never been higher. We can use it.’

Yethanial looked uncertain. ‘I do not follow.’

‘The gods’ favour is fleeting: one moment all is golden, the next it lies in ruins. You and I both know this war is a disaster, and sooner or later others will realise it. We have armies here, whole legions whose loyalty is now to Imladrik alone. They would do anything he ordered. Anything.’

Thoriol stirred uneasily. ‘You mean-’

‘Caledor is a fool.’ Caradryel said. ‘Why apologise for saying it? We need to think to the future. We have what we need here. All that remains is picking the moment.’

A tense silence fell over the chamber.

‘This is not why I employed you, Caradryel,’ said Yethanial.

‘Was it not? I serve the House of Tor Caled, and its destiny is to rule, one way or another. So let me at least point out the possibilities.’

Thoriol shook his head. ‘Imladrik will not allow it.’

‘Not now, no,’ said Caradryel. ‘But he knows that no end to this can come while his brother rules. The bloodshed sickens him — he told me so. I think we can persuade him if we need to.’

Yethanial, somewhat to his surprise, did not immediately demur. She thought hard, teasing through the possibilities. Caradryel began to wonder if, of the two of them, she might be the better player of such games.

‘The time is not ripe,’ she said at last.

‘No,’ agreed Caradryel.

Yethanial gave him a distasteful look. ‘You will need gold?’

‘Some. More important is your patronage. Tor Caled is a powerful name; it opens doors.’

Yethanial nodded slowly. ‘So you told me before.’

Thoriol looked at both of them uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you saying? You talk of duty, and then… this?’

Yethanial shot him a withering glance. ‘Have you understood nothing? Your duty is to Ulthuan, to your bloodline.’

Caradryel found himself nodding. ‘So she says.’

Thoriol looked like he wished to protest, but his words were cut off by a sudden call of trumpets from the walls. All of them turned to the east-facing window. Caradryel got to his feet, but not as quickly as Yethanial. She hurried over to the sill, leaning out into the dusk air.

A dragon was riding towards the city, its flanks glowing dull blue in the failing light.

‘He returns!’ cried Yethanial.

Caradryel saw the sudden hope in her face. The soft greyness lifted from her features and her eyes sparkled. For a moment, a fleeting moment, he saw unalloyed joy there, a profound delight that banished her severity. It was transformative, and quite unexpected.

‘Why does he fly so low?’ murmured Thoriol.

Caradryel looked back out of the window. He had seen Imladrik tear through the air many times and this flight looked nothing like that. The dragon seemed to limp along, dipping frequently. Its wings were ragged. As it neared the walls its tail hung low, trailing feebly.

Caradryel stared harder. An awful feeling crept over him.

‘My lady, I think-’ he began, but she was already moving, running out of the chamber and towards the spiral stairway leading up to the roof.

Thoriol followed her. Cursing, Caradryel did likewise, taking the steps two at a time to keep up. The three of them broke out into the open, on to the same wide platform where Caradryel had last bid farewell to Imladrik.

The dragon swooped down on them, its flight erratic. Droplets of black blood splattered on the stone.

‘Isha, not this…’ breathed Yethanial, horror written on her face. She looked like she’d suddenly aged. As Draukhain touched down she hurried over, gathering her robes around her.

Thoriol held back, his face white. Caradryel stayed beside him. The dragon’s aroma was awful — like rotten meat mingled with old embers.

He saw Liandra dismount. How she came to be riding Imladrik’s dragon was a riddle he knew he did not want to solve. She looked as dishevelled as her steed, her face streaked with tear-tracks over grime and blood. She tried to say something to Yethanial but the grey lady barely noticed her.

Yethanial approached Imladrik’s corpse hesitantly, carefully, as if he were terribly wounded and might still get up. Caradryel could see the futility of that — his master lay awkwardly, as slack as sackcloth, his armour dark with blood.

Yethanial’s grief then was terrible to witness, so powerful and so complete that for a moment none of them could speak. The dragon wheezed sclerotically, its huge eyes weeping black tears. Across the city, the trumpets were stilled as the celebrating heralds realised that something was terribly wrong.

Thoriol stumbled forward to stand by his mother, his feet shuffling unwillingly on the stone. For a moment the two of them just stood there, staring stupidly, emptily, at Imladrik’s body. Then Yethanial’s tears came at last — huge racking sobs that made her bend double. Thoriol held her up, his body erect, his face like stone. The two of them clung to one another, grasping greedily as if they could somehow insulate themselves against the truth.

Caradryel looked away, unwilling to intrude further. He felt nauseous.

‘What happened?’ he asked Liandra.

The red mage looked exhausted. ‘Dawi,’ she said, coldly. ‘They got to Oeragor ahead of him.’

‘And you? Where were you?’

Liandra glared at him. ‘It can wait.’ Her gaze travelled to Yethanial. Sympathy was etched on her features. Sympathy, and perhaps a little envy.

Caradryel felt wretched. Just moments ago the future had been mapped out. His decisions had been vindicated, his path clear.

Now, nothing. He remembered the first time he had seen the sapphire dragon, high above the waves, swooping earthwards like a messenger of the gods. It had looked invincible then, something that no force of the earth could ever vanquish.

Now it slumped on the stone, bleeding like any mortal, still carrying the body of its dead master. Around it huddled the remnants of the House of Tor Caled, one weeping, one silent with shock.

What now, then? he asked himself weakly.

The wind picked up, cold from the west. The east was darkening quickly, sinking into the deep night that made the forest so forbidding. That dark had always seemed contestable before; now it looked infinite and unbreakable.

Caradryel didn’t know where to look.

What now? Who will follow him?

But no answer came.