Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

‘No!’ Thoriol exhaled with irritation. ‘No, they will not want that. Do you not understand?’

‘No, I do not understand.’

‘It would terrify them.’ Thoriol didn’t want to explain. ‘They were all running away, for one reason or another. I will find them myself.’

Imladrik looked at him with concern. It was an expression Thoriol recognised very well — the look of strained worry, of doubt, one that said are you sure that is wise?

‘You are not one of them,’ Imladrik warned. ‘You are a prince. It could not have lasted.’

‘You do not know them.’

‘Of course not. Do you think I know a fraction of those who serve under me?’

Thoriol struggled to control his irritation. ‘They were good soldiers.’

‘No doubt, but you are better than them.’

‘Why? Because I am Tor Caled?’

‘Yes.’ Imladrik’s voice was soft but his expression was unbending. ‘We do not choose our path, son. You may think you can deny your bloodline and take up a longbow, forgetting every privilege you have had, but believe me the gods will punish you for it. You were born to higher things.’

Thoriol laughed sourly. ‘You saw what happened in the Dragonspine.’

‘You failed. Once. Do you think that every rider succeeds on his first attempt? Don’t be weak. You are throwing everything away.’

That stung. ‘Do you know how many dwarfs I killed on the walls? I was of service . For the first time in my life, I did something worthy.’

‘I have ten thousand archers,’ said Imladrik, still struggling to comprehend. ‘I have one son.’

‘Yes, you do, so let me choose this.’

‘Did you not hear me? Choice is for lovesick swains. There is no choice; there is duty.’

Thoriol felt like screaming. All his life it had been the same, the relentless pressure to fulfil the potential of his ancestors.

‘It is not as if I wish to remain idle,’ he protested. ‘I can fight! I will fight.’

‘You placed yourself in danger.’

‘But the dragons are dangerous. Magic is dangerous.’

‘You do not belong there.’

‘I do not-’

‘I will not lose you! ’ Imladrik shouted, losing control for just a moment before reeling it in again. He clenched his fists, balling them into the coverlet.

Thoriol said nothing, stunned. His father rarely raised his voice; he rarely needed to.

Imladrik took a deep breath. Fatigue hung heavily under his eyes in black rings.

‘You are the destiny of the House,’ he said, quietly, recovering himself. ‘My brother is a fool and a warmonger — he has no issue and will not live out the storm he has set in motion. Only you will remain, Thoriol. Only you.’

That was hard to hear. It had always been hard to hear. He had never wanted any part of it, though even to think such a thing seemed churlish in the light of the sacrifices that had been made.

That had ever been his curse, ill-fitted for the life the gods had ordained for him. His father would never understand, being so consumed by the path he had taken, so entranced and absorbed in the dragons that gave him his power and his reputation.

Before he could reply, though, Imladrik rose, pushing himself heavily from the bunk as if he carried the weight of the Annulii on his shoulders.

‘You need rest.’ He looked shaky on his feet. ‘Gods, I need rest. I should not have raised my voice. But promise me this: stay here. Do not seek them out. We will talk again and find some way to make sense of all of this.’

Thoriol watched him, wondering if anything he had said, now or at any other time, had ever made much of an impression on his father. Perhaps he should have tried dragonsong.

Imladrik extended a hand awkwardly, then let it drop. ‘I am glad you are recovering. For a moment, during the siege…’ A wintry smile flickered. ‘We will talk again.’

Thoriol nodded weakly, knowing that they would and yet doubting that anything much would be said.

‘So we will,’ he replied, his voice unenthusiastic.

Death just wouldn’t find Drutheira. She felt as if it had been snapping at her heels for years, but the final cut was never quite made. If she had been of a sentimental disposition she might have suspected fate was preserving her for something or other, but she wasn’t, and so she didn’t. It was all luck, blind luck, and of a particularly sadistic kind at that.

At least her jailors had given her something to drink. The asur treated her roughly but Liandra had been insistent that she wasn’t to be harmed and her orders had been followed with typical assiduousness.

So noble, the asur; so proper , in thrall to the rules that bound them into their stultifying patterns of decay. Their reasonableness drove her mad. If the situations had been reversed they would all have been writhing in agony pits by now, their skin hanging from their flesh and their eyes served up on ice for the delectation of the witch elves. They would have begged to tell her everything they knew before the end, which would at least have been amusing for her if not actually useful.

Her detention in Oeragor had been luxurious in comparison. Once she had recovered enough bodily strength to swallow her food unaided she had been strapped into a metal chair deep within the citadel’s dungeons. Warding runes had been engraved in the walls, sapping any residual sorcery that might still have lurked in her battered body. A dozen guards stood outside her cell at all times, two of which were always mages. When the asur entered to give her food they glared at her with stony, hatred-filled eyes, clearly itching to do her violence but never giving in.

She could not move, she could not use her art, she could not even speak unless the gag was taken from her scabrous mouth. The whole thing was a humiliation; a spell of honest torture might have been preferable.

Liandra didn’t deign to speak to her for two days. When she finally did descend to the dungeon, closing the door behind her with studious relish, Drutheira wondered whether death had found her at last. She certainly didn’t blame the mage for wanting to kill her — the antipathy was, after all, entirely mutual.

Once again, though, her expectations were confounded. Liandra looked sleek and rested, freshly supplied with a new staff and pristine mage’s robes. She ripped Drutheira’s gag free, checked her bonds were secure, then stood before her, arms crossed. For a long time she did nothing but examine her, as if trying to ascertain whether the pitiful creature before her could really have been responsible for so much suffering.

‘No questions?’ Drutheira croaked eventually. Her strained voice sounded odd in the dank, echoing cell.

‘What could you tell me,’ said Liandra coolly, ‘that I do not already know?’

Liandra’s voice was a surprise: it was temperate, restrained even. Everything Drutheira knew about Liandra promised impetuosity, but perhaps being deprived of her creature had bled the fire from her.

‘Plenty, I judge,’ Drutheira said.

Liandra’s expression didn’t change. It was contemptuous more than anything.

‘You were sent to Elthin Arvan by Malekith,’ she said. ‘We were guarding the sea-lanes, so the best you could do was land in secret. You were here for years, hiding out in the wilds, doing nothing. Only when orders from Naggaroth came did you act, starting the violence that turned the dawi against us. You killed the dawi runelord. You ambushed the trade routes.’

Drutheira couldn’t help but smile. When listed like that, the tally of achievement was rather impressive.

‘We didn’t do it all,’ she said. ‘Plenty of you wished for war.’

‘You are right. I was one of them.’