Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

For all that, Thoriol had been glad no confrontation had taken place. Giving orders was not, and had never been, his strength.

He limped down a long, crooked street in the south quarter of the lower city. It looked different to the last time he’d been there. Then again, much of the city looked different. The buildings seemed to crowd a little closer, their pointed roofs angling like furled batwings into the night.

He found the door he was looking for, and paused. Two narrow windows shone with hearth-rich light from within. He could hear voices from the other side, voices he recognised. Someone was laughing; a tankard clinked.

Thoriol smiled. His father was wrong. He did not understand such things. Comradeship, companionship — Imladrik had never known such closeness. He’d probably never fought alongside another living soul in his life, save for the great beasts that carried him into war.

Thoriol reached for the door and rapped hard. He heard more laughter, the sound of something being knocked over, then it opened.

‘Greetings!’ said Thoriol, trying to look carefree against the pain of his wound.

Taemon stood in the doorway. His mouth opened. It took him just a little too long to close it. He stood there, stupidly, a tankard in one hand, the door-latch in the other.

‘Well?’ asked Thoriol good-naturedly. ‘Are you going to let me in?’

Taemon stammered an apology and stood aside. Thoriol limped into a crowded chamber. Loeth sat in a chair by the fire, his leg bandaged and raised on a stool. Rovil stood over the mantelpiece, looking as if he’d just been speaking. Florean sat across a rough table. He’d been carving the skin from an apple, knife still in hand.

All of them stared at Thoriol as he entered. Their laughter stilled.

‘Silent?’ asked Loeth, squinting up at him as if unsure it was really him.

Thoriol nodded, grinning. Already he felt better; the marble chambers of the old city now seemed like some kind of fleeting aberration. ‘They would not tell me where you were, but I hoped nothing had changed. What happened to your leg?’

Loeth looked down at the bandages, as if seeing them for the first time. ‘Dawi quarrel,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Thigh. But it’s healing.’

Thoriol gazed around the room. He smelled the familiar aromas of rough wine, straw, cooked meat.

None of them spoke. The fire spat. Rovil stared at the floor; Florean kept his knife in hand, frozen in the act of peeling appleskin.

‘Well?’ asked Thoriol, wanting to laugh at their shock. ‘Have you all lost your tongues?’

Taemon closed the door and stood against it, arms folded. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked.

That was the first sign. Taemon’s voice was blunt with suspicion.

‘They took me to the old city.’

‘That’s what we heard,’ said Rovil.

‘But I’m back now,’ said Thoriol.

‘So you are,’ said Taemon.

Thoriol looked back at them all. The chamber felt suddenly chill.

‘What is this?’ he asked, maintaining a smile with some effort. ‘I know Baelian has gone, but-’

‘Yes, Baelian has gone,’ said Loeth. He plunged his dagger into the table. ‘He was not taken to the upper city. He was burned out on the plain.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘No, you didn’t.’ Loeth didn’t make eye-contact. He just kept staring at the dagger hilt. ‘Why would you?’

‘I was wounded.’

‘You were highborn,’ said Taemon.

Thoriol felt his cheeks flush. They had never spoken like this, not even on their first meeting out at sea. ‘Does that matter?’

‘Lying does,’ said Florean.

‘He didn’t-’ began Rovil, trying to soften the tenseness in the room, but he was soon talked over.

‘Did you fancy some sport, then?’ asked Florean. ‘See how the rustics live? I hope it was worth it.’

Thoriol’s heartbeat picked up. ‘That’s not how it was.’

‘Why don’t you tell us, then?’ asked Loeth. ‘How was it?’

‘It was Baelian. He was recruiting in Lothern. We spoke, but my memory is hazy. I don’t even remember agreeing to join, but-’

Taemon smiled coldly. ‘He took advantage. You were wine-stupid and you made promises he held you to.’

‘Yes,’ said Thoriol. ‘That’s it. But after that, I worked at it. You saw that I did. It wasn’t about lying, it was about being… honest.’

Loeth shook his head dismissively, smiling in disbelief. ‘Your father , Thoriol. Your father is Imladrik.’

‘And?’

‘You truly do not see, do you?’ murmured Taemon. ‘They won’t permit this, and when they come after us it won’t be you that suffers.’

‘I can prevent that.’

Loeth laughed harshly. ‘No, you can’t. And even if you could, here’s the thing. We don’t want you here.’

Rovil looked uncomfortable then. Even Florean looked a little embarrassed.

Thoriol felt like he’d been struck in the stomach. His father’s last words to him seemed to echo in his mind.

You do not belong there.

With a sinking, almost nauseous feeling in his innards, Thoriol realised how right he had been. Again.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said, though he did, perfectly.

‘It’s not just a game for us,’ said Taemon. ‘We can’t leave when the blood starts running. You can.’

‘And you lied,’ said Florean.

‘Baelian did too, but he’s dead,’ said Loeth. ‘There’s no place for you here any more.’

A tense silence fell. Rovil almost said something, his honest face contorted with unhappiness, but a glare from Florean cut him off again.

‘Then it seems I misunderstood,’ said Thoriol stiffly. ‘You should know this, though: I never lied.’

‘You hid the truth,’ said Taemon, as unbending as ever. ‘What’s the difference?’

Thoriol scanned across the room, seeing nothing but hostile faces. They wanted him gone. Not until he left would the drinking start up again, the flow of jests and jibes that would last long into the night. It was a curiously wounding experience, far more so than the quarrel-gash in his side.

‘I won’t say anything of this,’ he mumbled, pulling his robes about him and walking back to the door. ‘And… I wish you fortune.’

‘And to you,’ said Rovil. No one else spoke.

Then Thoriol ducked under the lintel and was out into the night again. The door closed behind him with a dull click . Few people were abroad; the street was quiet, no one paid him any attention.

He looked down the mazy passages, the ones that led deeper into the lower city. There was nothing for him there. Then he turned the other way, facing up the slope towards the spires and interconnected towers of the old city. Their pinnacles reared up like stacked arrowheads, sharp black against the sullen red of the sky.

They looked alien to him, like reminders of a harsher world he had almost managed to leave. Now they beckoned him back, as inexorable as the tides.

Not much use fighting it , he thought.

Slowly, his feet heavy, he started to retrace his steps, back up to where the highborn — his people — conducted their lives.

The first dwarfs were sighted on a cloudless morning following a rare lull in the heat. A griffon rider circling high above Oeragor’s northern marches was able to convey some useful tidings: a dozen lightly armoured scouts moving through the Blight. They weren’t going quickly; they were marking out the approaches, frequently stopping and conferring with one another.

After that, three more riders were dispatched north. They all came back with similar stories — the first tendrils of the dawi host were moving within range, creeping down from the foothills and out on the plains. The numbers reported steadily rose: a few dozen, then a few hundred, then many hundred, then more.