Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

It should have made him fiercely proud. Part of him was. He could still see the carnage caused by the drakes. It felt good to have repaid some measure of pain. Morek’s rune-artistry had answered at last, and Azdrakghar had tasted blood.

It was, at least, a beginning.

But beyond that he felt removed from all that had transpired. The long marches had battered his body into submission. He knew when he peeled his armour off, all he would see would be calluses, bruises and blisters. His flesh was now a carpet of them, weeping blood and pus under the hard shell of his battle plate.

He could cope with the pain. It was the other things he found difficult.

Imladrik had been an obstacle. No other elgi commanded such respect. His removal had been necessary, and not just for the satisfaction of grudgement. Morgrim could not have returned to the Everpeak with the Master of Dragons un-defeated and still claimed the title of elgidum .

Yet, for all that, his heart remained uneasy. He had tried to speak to Imladrik at the end, though he doubted the elgi had heard him.

‘You did not need to fight here,’ he had said, almost angrily. ‘You did not need to come.’

Then the mage had arrived, bursting into the courtyard with her anger and her witch’s fire. The order to release the body had almost been an afterthought. It would certainly not placate any of the asur. In a war that had already seen atrocity unleashed, it would do nothing to restore restraint.

He reached again for the casket at his breast, the one containing Snorri’s remains.

All it had been was an exchange. A barter. The dawi understood such things.

‘ Tromm , Morgrim!’

Brynnoth’s gruff voice rang out. He was walking towards Morgrim, his armour in terrible shape. An elgi arrow still protruded from his pauldron, the shaft snapped. His grizzled face spread in a wide grin.

‘We have broken them!’ Brynnoth roared, embracing Morgrim roughly. ‘And the dragon! Wings torn to ribbons. That was a mighty feat.’

Morgrim nodded weakly. ‘They can be beaten. We know that now.’

‘They can, and they will.’ Brynnoth’s blood was up. He looked ready to march off again that instant.

Morgrim couldn’t share his ebullience. ‘We should secure the city.’

‘Secure it?’ Brynnoth laughed. ‘From what?’

Morgrim felt like collapsing but kept his feet. He would have to do so for hours. The ale had not even been hauled into the city yet, ready for the hours of ritual drinking and oath-taking to come. ‘From ourselves. Let there be no mindless slaughter.’

‘Of course not.’ Brynnoth looked at him hard. ‘Are you all right?’

Morgrim knew he would be. Dawn would come, and he would remember the sacred runes he had sworn over. He would remember his hatred and his pride. He would speak with Brynnoth about the weapons in Barak Varr, and the foundries would soon be ringing with industry. Everything would grind into motion again. They would sweep west, this time knowing what they faced, knowing they could beat it.

In time, all of those things would happen. For now, though, he felt empty, like a clawed-out mineshaft.

‘I did not know how victory tasted until today,’ Morgrim said, remembering how Imladrik’s blood had coursed over his gauntlets. ‘It will take some getting used to.’

The three of them sat together in Imladrik’s high chamber: Yethanial, Thoriol and Caradryel. The windows were unshuttered and let in the evening light in warm bands of gold.

Caradryel felt awkward. He wasn’t sure why he had been summoned. It felt like he was intruding on some private family affair.

‘Was he angry?’ Yethanial asked, speaking to Thoriol.

The youth shook his head. ‘A little. More surprised, I think.’

‘He should have been angry.’ Yethanial’s voice was soft but harsh. ‘You have had every advantage. You could have died.’

Thoriol looked resigned. ‘So he told me. Look, I see the truth of it, so you do not need to tell me again.’

Caradryel shifted in his seat. Clearly this was something that would be best thrashed out between the two of them.

‘My lady, I-’ he started.

‘Stay where you are,’ ordered Yethanial, before turning her severe face back to Thoriol. ‘This is not some game we are playing at. None of us gets to choose, not when we are at war. There is duty , Thoriol, and that is all.’

She sounded so much like her husband. Thoriol looked chastened, and did not argue.

‘I will try again,’ he said, lifting his head to return her gaze. ‘I can return to the Dragonspine.’

Yethanial looked at him carefully, as if assessing whether he meant it.

‘It is not easy,’ she said at last. ‘Imladrik tells me they wake slowly now, but we need all the riders we can get.’

Thoriol’s expression didn’t change. Caradryel thought he looked very little like his father; much more akin to the mother.

‘And you?’ Thoriol asked, his eyes glittering with challenge.

Yethanial bowed her head. ‘I should have been here from the start. It was only pride that kept me away.’

Caradryel cleared his throat. ‘But a good time to return, if you’ll pardon me for saying. Salendor and Aelis are consumed with their own business, and Caledor’s gaze remains fixed on Naggaroth. There are opportunities here, lady.’

Yethanial looked at him coolly. ‘Opportunities? For what?’

‘Power.’ Caradryel had never quite got the hang of meeting Yethanial’s steely gaze, but worked hard at it. ‘Influence. Imladrik destroyed the dwarf host; his prestige has never been higher. We can use it.’

Yethanial looked uncertain. ‘I do not follow.’

‘The gods’ favour is fleeting: one moment all is golden, the next it lies in ruins. You and I both know this war is a disaster, and sooner or later others will realise it. We have armies here, whole legions whose loyalty is now to Imladrik alone. They would do anything he ordered. Anything.’

Thoriol stirred uneasily. ‘You mean-’

‘Caledor is a fool.’ Caradryel said. ‘Why apologise for saying it? We need to think to the future. We have what we need here. All that remains is picking the moment.’

A tense silence fell over the chamber.

‘This is not why I employed you, Caradryel,’ said Yethanial.

‘Was it not? I serve the House of Tor Caled, and its destiny is to rule, one way or another. So let me at least point out the possibilities.’

Thoriol shook his head. ‘Imladrik will not allow it.’

‘Not now, no,’ said Caradryel. ‘But he knows that no end to this can come while his brother rules. The bloodshed sickens him — he told me so. I think we can persuade him if we need to.’

Yethanial, somewhat to his surprise, did not immediately demur. She thought hard, teasing through the possibilities. Caradryel began to wonder if, of the two of them, she might be the better player of such games.

‘The time is not ripe,’ she said at last.

‘No,’ agreed Caradryel.

Yethanial gave him a distasteful look. ‘You will need gold?’

‘Some. More important is your patronage. Tor Caled is a powerful name; it opens doors.’

Yethanial nodded slowly. ‘So you told me before.’

Thoriol looked at both of them uncomprehendingly. ‘What are you saying? You talk of duty, and then… this?’

Yethanial shot him a withering glance. ‘Have you understood nothing? Your duty is to Ulthuan, to your bloodline.’

Caradryel found himself nodding. ‘So she says.’

Thoriol looked like he wished to protest, but his words were cut off by a sudden call of trumpets from the walls. All of them turned to the east-facing window. Caradryel got to his feet, but not as quickly as Yethanial. She hurried over to the sill, leaning out into the dusk air.