Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

Everything he had touched had turned to swill. Confidence, a quality he had never struggled to lay hold of, was in short supply. He had considered speaking to Imladrik about it, perhaps even suggesting that his service had been a mistake and he would be better employed back in Ulthuan.

That, of course, would have been a mistake. Having offered his assistance so brazenly, Caradryel knew there would be no backing out of it now.

In the days since the siege had ended he had barely exchanged a dozen words with his master. Imladrik had looked exhausted in the aftermath of the battle, his face drawn with a dull kind of horror. He’d remained punishingly busy, striding from one end of the city to the other to oversee repairs, rebuilding and restocking. Given the damage inflicted, it would be weeks before full order was restored.

Beyond the walls, the battlefield reeked. Mists rolled in from the sea, turning everything mouldy and sodden. Huge funeral pyres had been constructed to dispose of the dead but they had burned sullenly, leaving thick shrouds of foul-smelling smoke suspended in the air around them. Days later the plain still smouldered under grey clouds, its soils blackened and clotted.

Caradryel had found few things to occupy himself during those days. He had followed up on a few loose ends from the Caerwal affair. He had ensured that his informants were paid, and had kept several of them on to ensure he knew what was going on while the city slowly recovered its equilibrium.

Many of the regiments were now being prepared for marches elsewhere. The dragons flew constantly in the skies over the harbour, as if giving visible reminder of the might of Ulthuan before the troops were sent off into enemy-infested swamps to an uncertain fate. It felt as if everything was unwinding, slowly dissipating like the smoke over the slain.

He tipped his chair on to two legs and swung back on it lazily. When the knock came on the door of his chamber, he nearly sent it — and himself — toppling over.

‘Come,’ he snapped, righting himself and brushing his robes down.

The door opened and Geleth entered with a female elf in tow. She looked like a beggar, her shift dirty and ragged, her hands and face dirty from the road.

‘My lord,’ said Geleth, bowing. ‘Something I thought you might wish to hear.’

Caradryel shot a superficial smile at the newcomer. ‘Welcome. Be seated.’

She remained standing. She had a hunted look in her eyes. Her hands turned over one another in a nervous pattern.

Caradryel glanced at Geleth, who returned a look that said give her time .

‘Perhaps you would like some wine?’ Caradryel tried again. ‘Something to eat?’

The elf shook her head. ‘Are you Imladrik?’

Caradryel just about suppressed a smile. ‘No, not really, but if there is something you wished-’

‘I came here for Imladrik.’

‘He has many things to worry him. The best way to get a message to him is to entrust it to me. So, let us see if we can get things started. What is your name?’

She looked uncertain. For a minute Caradryel thought she might make a break for the doors.

‘Alieth,’ she said.

‘Good. Alieth, where are you from?’

‘Kor Vanaeth.’

Caradryel raised an eyebrow. ‘Kor Vanaeth was destroyed.’

Alieth’s face flickered with momentary anguish. ‘It was. I walked here.’

‘On your own?’

‘There were others. Not many.’

Caradryel found himself getting interested. Geleth stood calmly by her side, saying nothing.

‘You should sit,’ Caradryel said, motioning to a chair opposite him. ‘You look like you need it.’

Gingerly, Alieth shuffled over to it, perching on the edge as if afraid it would fall apart.

‘You are among friends,’ Caradryel went on. ‘Tell me everything. No dwarf can get to you here.’

She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t the dwarfs.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Kor Vanaeth. It was not destroyed by the dwarfs. We never saw them.’

Caradryel frowned. ‘The reports we have-’

‘They are wrong. That is why I have to speak to Imladrik. We know he is close to the Lady.’

‘Liandra?’

Alieth nodded. ‘We came because we had nowhere else to go. When we arrived here we heard rumours.’ She frowned. ‘Foul rumours. They are saying the Lady broke her commands, that she caused the dwarfs to attack. It is lies.’

Caradryel crossed his legs and leaned forwards, listening carefully. ‘Tell me everything. From the beginning. Can you do that?’

‘We were attacked. A black dragon ridden by a sorcerer. She destroyed the city. The Lady came to our aid, and they fought above us. I saw it. I saw the red dragon take on the black, driving it out over the mountains.

‘A black dragon?’ asked Caradryel. He’d never heard of such a thing.

Alieth nodded vigorously. ‘A monster, covered in chains. The Lady pursued it. That was the last we saw. Some tried to follow, but they moved too fast.’ She started to rub her hands together again. ‘Imladrik must know. The Lady is in danger. There were no dwarfs at Kor Vanaeth.’

‘Please calm yourself. If what you say is true-’

‘It is true.’

‘-then I will pass it on to Lord Imladrik. Are you prepared to vouch under oaths to Asuryan?’

Alieth nodded firmly.

Caradryel reached out and rested his hand on hers. It was a tender, reassuring gesture, one he had always been proud of.

‘Then I want you to keep remembering,’ he said soothingly. ‘Think carefully, hold nothing back. Lord Imladrik will be made aware, but first you must tell me what happened next.’

Alieth began to speak again then, a little more fluently as she gathered confidence, explaining how she and her companions had survived the onslaught and subsequently made their way through the forest towards the coast.

Caradryel listened, making mental notes of the portions he would pass on to Imladrik. Even as he did so, though, another, more encouraging thought made its presence felt.

This will make me useful again.

So it was that as he listened, despite the impropriety of it, despite his attempts to quell it, Caradryel could not help a furtive smile creeping along the corners of his elegant mouth.

Night fell, though the skies above Tor Alessi remained blood-red from the fires. Labourers worked tirelessly, building as fast as their exhausted limbs would allow. Detachments of soldiers still prowled the streets, though their numbers had been thinned following losses and reassignments.

The world’s moons rode high in a cloud-patchworked sky. A lone dragon flew lazily to the north, its black outline stark against the silvery feathering of the heavens.

Thoriol did not spend time watching it. His whole body throbbed. It felt as if his wound had opened up again; a hot, damp sensation had broken out just under his ribs.

He didn’t stop walking. He limped through the dusk, ignoring those around him just as they ignored him. He passed fire-scarred walls and piles of rubble. Somewhere in the distance he heard weeping. There had been weeping every night since the siege and the passing of time did little to lessen it.

Thoriol kept going, averting his face from the glow of the torches.

It had been easy to deceive the Master Healer, who was more adept at creating poultices than he was at reading intentions. With all else that had transpired, the few guards there had been preoccupied with other matters and were not looking for a lone charge seeking to evade their attention.

In any case, there was little they could have done to stop him leaving. He was a prince of a noble house, the Dragontamer’s House no less, and they would have been bound to accept his orders if he’d been forced to give them.