Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

He would take on the whole army, Imladrik knew. He would fly into it, again and again, until one of them lay broken in the dust.

Imladrik looked down then, through the murk and the dirt, trying to make some sense of the milling confusion at ground level. Dwarfs were everywhere, gazing up in either fury or wonder, some running for cover, others angling crossbows in their direction.

Draukhain broke out of the narrow spaces and swung round into a wide courtyard, pursuing a whole company of fleeing infantry into the open. Hundreds more waited for them there, all heavily armoured in iron plates and carrying huge, ornate warhammers. As soon as he saw them Imladrik realised this was the heart of the dwarf army, the thanes and their elite troops at the forefront of the fighting. Dozens of quarrellers crowded the space, jostling to get the first shot away. Bolt throwers had been erected around the courtyard’s edge, each one strung tight and loaded.

Pull away , warned Imladrik, seeing the danger. They couldn’t miss. Even a blind bowman with a single arrow couldn’t miss in that space. Pull away!

Draukhain paid no heed. He fell into attack posture — wings splayed, claws out, jaws open. He flew at them in a blaze of fire and loathing, ripping through their ranks like a wolf loosed amid cattle. Imladrik bucked as the impact came, nearly losing his seat. He saw the walls race around in a blur, broken by scattered dwarf corpses, many on fire, others torn into tatters of bloody flesh.

Draukhain thrust upwards, nearing the far side of the courtyard and needing to climb again. Imladrik felt bolts slice into the dragon’s side — two of them, each punching deep within Draukhain’s armoured hide.

Draukhain twisted in agony, almost crashing straight into the oncoming wall, hampered by his impaled wing. Flames flared out from his outstretched jaws, bursting across one of the bolt throwers and blasting it into ash.

The dragon tried to gain loft, but a fresh flurry of crossbow bolts slammed into his outstretched wings. They pierced the flesh, sending hot, black blood spotting in the air.

Away! ordered Imladrik, glancing up at the sky above. They were hemmed in, overlooked by walls on all sides. This was no place to get bogged down.

Draukhain’s claws brushed against the ground. He pounced back at the dwarfs, almost running, his wings rent and bloody. A ferocious swathe of fire burst from his maw, clearing the ground before him. Dwarfs caught in the blaze staggered away, clawing at their eyes or trying to roll the flames out.

The carnage was terrible — Imladrik saw scores dead, face-down in the dust and blood, their armour charred black — but Draukhain couldn’t kill them quickly enough.

More quarrels screamed across at them from the far side of the courtyard. Two more found their mark, biting deep in Draukhain’s thrashing neck. Imladrik felt the pain of it again, blinding in intensity.

Caught by the impact, Draukhain skidded to one side, tilting over wildly. His shoulder crashed to the earth, digging deep into the stone flags and tipping them up. Imladrik was thrown clear, leaping at the last moment before his mount careered into the side of a terrace. The impact was huge — a crack of breaking stone, a shower of masonry over the prone body of the huge beast. Rocks the size of a dawi’s chest thudded into Draukhain’s flanks, denting the armoured scales.

Imladrik leapt to his feet and spun around, his sword in hand. He twisted his head to see where Draukhain had landed, and saw with horror the half-buried outline of dragon flesh amid a landslide of rubble.

Ahead of him, their formation steadily recovering in the wake of the dragon’s ruinous descent, stood the dwarfs. They shook themselves down. They gazed up at the beast, now crippled and in their midst. They saw the lone elf standing before him.

They drew their blades.

Draukhain barely moved — perhaps stunned, maybe mortally wounded. His presence in Imladrik’s mind was almost imperceptible. Being without it was terrible, even amid all else, like having his memories excised.

He turned to face the enemy. More than a hundred limped towards him, and others were entering the courtyard. Recovering their poise, they spread out, hemming him in. Some of them started to murmur words in Khazalid — battle-curses, old grudges.

Imladrik gripped his sword tight. Ifulvin was ancient, encrusted with runes of power and forged in the age of legend before the coming of the daemons. The ithilmar felt heavy in his gauntlets; he would have to find a way to make it dance.

‘Do not approach him,’ came a thick, battle-weary voice from the midst of the advancing dwarfs.

They instantly fell back. The speaker emerged from among them, alone. Imladrik recognised him at once — the heavy-set arms, the embellished armour, the dour air of sullen hatred. He carried his huge axe two-handed, and runes showed darkly on the metal.

The two of them faced one another, just yards apart. The remaining dwarfs fanned out, forming a wide semicircle of closed steel around them. Imladrik could hear Draukhain’s broken breathing behind him, moist with congealed blood.

‘You,’ said Imladrik, gazing at Morgrim and wondering if he was some kind of horrific mirage. ‘How are you here?’

‘Do not worry about that,’ Morgrim replied, swinging his axe around him and striding forwards. ‘Worry about this.’

The dragon changed everything. Liandra sensed it coming just before she saw it, magnificent and beautiful, tearing in from the west. For a moment she dared to hope that the others were with him — six dragons would have turned the tide, shattering the dwarf advance and giving them a chance. Even one, though — just one — toppled everything on its head.

Then it disappeared, plunging into the mass of spires at the city’s heart.

‘We have to reach it,’ she said, turning from the tower’s window and heading for the door. She felt invigorated.

The swordsmen around her stared back in almost comical surprise.

‘Lady, do you mean-’

‘Do not protest.’ She glared at them all, daring one to voice an objection. Only a few dozen remained, plus the archers on the lower levels. They would be lucky to make it half way before being overwhelmed, but that changed nothing. ‘Stay with me — I will do what I can to protect you.’

Her staff was already humming with energy. The short respite, combined with Imladrik’s presence in Oeragor, gave her fresh hope.

It could be done. They could resist, if only their scattered forces could be given fresh impetus. It wasn’t over.

She pushed the door back and jogged down the stairs. The swordsmen came behind her, hastily adjusting their helms. As she descended, Liandra heard the hammering on the outer doors rise in volume. She smelled the musty stink of the dawi on the far side, their ale-heavy sweat and their foul leather jerkins, and felt the thrill of incipient combat burn in her again.

This would be recompense. This would be retribution.

She halted before the doors, watching the timbers vibrate from the impact of the ram. The asur soldiers clustered in her wake, weapons drawn, faces torn between duty and doubt.

Liandra had no doubt. For the first time in a long time she knew exactly what to do.

‘ Ravallamora telias heraneth! ’ she cried, raising her staff high.

The doors exploded into a welter of light and heat, blasting the shards back and sending the dwarfs on the far side tumbling down the stairway. Sunlight flooded in, dazzling after the shade of the tower.

Liandra charged out, her staff ringing with power, her eyes shining. Behind her came the rest of the troops.

She looked out over Oeragor’s ruined towers, and smiled.