Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

The hostess nodded. Her hair shimmered strangely as her head moved, as if it were a single sheet of silk.

‘Do you see that one, over there?’ she asked, pointing directly ahead of her.

Thoriol followed her manicured fingernail. In a booth opposite lounged a tall elf in a white gown. He was drinking from a goblet, watching the people move around him absently. He had a blunt face for one of his race, by the look of it bitten by a life in the open air. A scar ran down his right cheek, pale and raised.

‘What of him?’ asked Thoriol.

‘I think you might get along,’ replied the hostess.

‘Maybe we would.’

‘Perhaps I might introduce you.’

‘Maybe you should.’

The hostess smiled at him. It was a comforting gesture; almost maternal. ‘Your glass is empty. More heliath ?’

Thoriol looked at his goblet. He hadn’t noticed that he’d drained it. ‘What was the other thing?’

‘A dream-philtre. I can get that for you. Just ask.’

Thoriol lay back on the couch, stretching his arms lazily. A languor spread throughout his body, warming him pleasantly. ‘That would be nice.’

The hostess placed her hand on his arm lightly. ‘Whatever you wish,’ she said. ‘You are amongst friends here.’

Draukhain plunged through the night sky. He let slip a grating roar, like metal being dragged across an anvil. He was in a savage mood.

Imladrik gave him his head. He too was in a savage mood.

Together they wheeled and dived above a seething mass of cloud. The layers below them were unbroken, lit vividly by the stars and the world’s moons. An undulating carpet of mingled silver and green rippled towards the curve of the horizon. The two of them might have been in another dimension of the universe, locked away from the world and sustained only by starlight and infinity.

I feel your wrath , sang Draukhain. The last time you summoned me you were angry. Is this how it will be from now on?

Imladrik laughed harshly. The wind raced through his bronze hair. Your spirit is wrathful too.

Because you are, kalamn-talaen . You are angry; so am I.

Imladrik had kept his son’s sword with his own and the two scabbards hung at his belt, clattering against Draukhain’s heaving hide. The dragon flew very, very fast. Every so often Draukhain would unleash his potency to the full. Even after centuries steeped in dragons and their ways, Imladrik could still be taken aback by it.

You awaken this in me , Imladrik sang. You are wild.

Draukhain grunted, dropping low and skimming across the landscape of vapour. Believe that if you wish , he sang, inflecting the harmonies with sceptical humour.

On Ulthuan I am equable , sang Imladrik. I live a modest life. I sleep on the ground beside my troops.

You say that as if it were something to be proud of.

It is.

Mortals , snorted Draukhain contemptuously. Modesty is perverse. Revel in the superiority you have been given.

Imladrik laughed again. And be more like you.

It would improve you.

It would improve my mood.

They hurtled into the north-east, swinging far out over the cloud-wreathed ocean. They had left the rugged shoreline of Chrace behind them a long time ago; now all that remained below the cloud-veil was open sea, black as pitch. No birds flew so far out, no ships plied those waters.

I have been ordered to the east , said Imladrik.

Good. I grow tired of the Annulii.

It is against my will. Duty compels me.

Draukhain let a long stream of fire wash over his body, rolling amongst it as he powered through the air. I will never understand your obsession with duty.

I know you won’t.

You could disobey.

I could. It would break Ulthuan apart, and the druchii are not slow to take advantage of weakness.

At the mention of the dark kin, Draukhain let fly with a furious spout of smoke-edged flame. Nothing, save perhaps the daemons of the earth, was more likely to rouse a drake to fury than the mention of the druchii, who enslaved and broke dragons whenever they were able.

That is the one thing I will miss , sang Draukhain. Every druchii that dies under my claws makes me live a little more.

You may find some to kill in Elthin Arvan.

Not enough of them. But still — I am glad we are going. I will bring terror to the wilds.

Imladrik smiled grimly. Draukhain was perfectly capable of that. All the dragons under his command brought terror in their wake. They were perhaps the only weapons they had that the dawi didn’t understand.

But dragons were not ‘weapons’ — he had admonished his brother for saying the same thing.

I will not fight this war the way he wishes me to , Imladrik sang. He thinks the dawi will crumble on the first charge. I know they will not. I have seen their stone halls. We could break against those holds for eternity and they would never crack.

Draukhain rolled to one side, pulling across a buffeting squall of wind and angling expertly along in its wake. I would relish taking apart a hold , he sang. It would be vengeance for all my kind they have slaughtered. They think of us as beasts — did you know that?

I did. And many asur think the same way about them. He looked up at the stars above them, cold, distant and uncaring. That is the easiest step to take: to see one’s enemy as an animal. He thought of Thoriol, and winced inside. None of us are brutes. We should not even be fighting.

But we are. That cannot be changed now.

Perhaps, perhaps not. That shall be my first battle.

Draukhain began to sheer downwards, dragging his wings closer to the thick carpet of moonlit cloud. So when shall we commence this? Shall I bear you to Elthin Arvan this night?

Imladrik shook his head. Not yet, great one, he sang. His mind-voice became low, almost reluctant. Did I say my first battle? No, I have one more ahead of me before I leave. Take me to Tor Vael.

Yethanial awoke with the first rays of sunlight bursting through open shutters. She had slept poorly — just a couple of hours, her mind unable to break itself away from the worries that circled endlessly in her head. For a moment she stared groggily at the pale grey arched window. She could smell salt on the breeze, and something else too: charred metal.

She pushed herself free of the sheets abruptly, suddenly worried that something in the kitchens had been left to burn. Then she remembered what else in her life routinely smelled of a blacksmith’s forge.

‘My lady,’ said Imladrik from behind her.

She turned to face him. ‘How long have you been there?’

Imladrik came over to join her on the bed. ‘Not long. I did not wish to wake you before the dawn did.’

Yethanial smiled cautiously. ‘My lord,’ she said and reached for him.

Imladrik pulled back.

Yethanial frowned. ‘What is it?’

Imladrik rarely looked truly uncertain. He had an understated confidence that resonated with those around him; it was one reason why he was popular with his troops. In the absence of that, Yethanial felt her anxiety return.

‘Where is Thoriol?’ he asked.

‘I thought he was with you, in Kor Evril.’

‘He did not come back here?’

‘No. What happened?’

Imladrik seemed to slump inside. ‘He failed with a drake. He blames me. He may be right to. It was not the proper time.’

Yethanial reached for his hand. ‘He will recover, though? It does not always succeed the first time — that is what you told me.’