by C. L. Werner
Morgrim cursed into his beard. That was why the elves had been fighting with such tenacity. They were playing for time, waiting so that their comrades could complete this atrocity. The elgi could be driven from Barak Varr and still kill dwarfs with poisoned water.
‘Have his wounds attended,’ Morgrim ordered one of his hearthguard. Without a second’s hesitation, he rushed down the passageway with Rundin and the rest of his bodyguard. He didn’t notice Drogor turn his head to watch him go, or the smile that formed on the dwarf’s bloodied face.
The reservoir was a crypt-like vault, its high ceiling festooned with a riot of pipes and pumps. At the centre of the chamber was a deep well, the natural pool surrounded by a stone platform. Pillars and columns stretched up the walls to sweep out in broad arches that further strengthened the ceiling, supporting it against the enormity of the hold above.
Morgrim’s fury sent him barrelling through the elf guards posted at the entrance to the vault. His arm was gashed by one of the elven blades before he was past them, but he refused to let his wound keep him back. A backhanded sweep of his axe sent the offending elgi sprawling in a burst of blood and teeth. He left Rundin and his hearthguard to finish the elgi warriors. His focus was entirely upon the reservoir and the elf lord standing beside it.
The elf lord turned at the sound of Morgrim’s violent entrance. For an instant there was fear on those sharp, arrogant features. His eyes darted from one end of the vault to the other, as though looking for a means of escape. The moment passed, however, and the fear was eradicated by an expression of monstrous hate.
‘I am Lord Caerwal of Athel Numiel,’ the elf snarled in perfect Khazalid. ‘Athel Numiel, whose beauty you animals put to the torch. Whose people you animals put to the sword.’ He reached to his belt, removing a golden coffer. ‘Now I pay you back in kind,’ he hissed.
Morgrim charged at Caerwal as he removed a lead flask from inside the coffer. In a blur, Caerwal’s other hand ripped his sword from its sheath and slashed at the oncoming dwarf. The edge of the slender blade slithered across Morgrim’s brow. Blood gushed from the cut, dripping into the dwarf’s eyes. As he reeled back, Caerwal’s boot kicked into his chest, pitching him against the wall.
‘Be honoured, dawi,’ Caerwal snapped. ‘It isn’t every mud-digger I let foul my sword with its greasy blood.’
‘Let’s foul it some more then!’ Morgrim roared, pushing himself off the wall and slamming into his foe. Caerwal screamed as the armoured dwarf crashed into him. Sword and flask alike flew from his hands as he was thrown backwards. The flask clattered across the platform to crash against the wall. The sword plummeted into the pool.
Morgrim had his arms wrapped around the elf lord as both of them struck the water. The weight of their armour sent both of them plunging towards the bottom of the pool – if a bottom there was. Caerwal’s hands ripped at his helm, finally pulling it free. The dwarf tightened his hold, feeling his enemy’s ribs crack. For an instant, the elf’s body went lax, then Caerwal’s hand was clutching at his beard. The elf tried to gouge his eyes with his other hand, pawing and ripping at him like some crazed beast.
Deeper and deeper they sank. Morgrim could feel the pressure pounding against his ears. He tightened his grip on Caerwal, his fury and disgust at what the elf lord had tried to do lending him a strength he didn’t realise he had. He could feel the instant he crushed the last breath from the elf’s lungs. A moment more and the hands pawing at him fell limp. With a surge of revulsion, Morgrim pushed Caerwal from him. He could feel the elf’s head slap against his boots as the armoured corpse sank down into the depths.
Kicking out, Morgrim tried to fight his way to the surface, using one hand to pull at the jagged wall of the well. The weight of his armour dragged on him, threatening to take him down into the deep. The thought of spending eternity in the company of a murderous wretch like Caerwal filled Morgrim with such horror that he drew the knife from his boot and began slashing the straps of his armour. Mail that had been in his family for generations fell away from his body, hurtling down into the watery darkness. Piece by piece, he cut his armour free, all the while feeling the torturous agony of his burning lungs.
After what felt like an eternity, Morgrim managed to claw his way up the side of the well. When his head broke the surface, when he drew the first breath of air into his starved body, he wondered if he’d ever felt anything more precious. Then he heard the cheer that sounded from the throats of his guards and knew that what he had accomplished, the foul villainy he’d thwarted, was more precious still.
Rundin hurried to the side of the ledge and helped lift Morgrim from the reservoir. The hill dwarf studied the thane’s state of undress as he climbed out of the water. In his panic to cut away the armour, he’d slashed his clothes and cut his skin.
‘Surely you aren’t trying to follow my example,’ Rundin said.
Morgrim wrung what seemed a deluge from his soaked beard before answering the hill dwarf. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘After all, it is said I am to kill a dragon. When that day comes, I may need to ask you for advice on how it’s done.’
Rundin laughed. ‘When that day comes, the only way you’ll get near a drakk is if I’ve failed to kill it and the beast has given me a glorious death.’
Lord Draikyll had come to Barak Varr seeking glory. Instead the general had found humiliation and disgrace. There was little question in anyone’s mind that he would be relieved of his command as soon as Caledor II learned of his failure. Too many resources had been squandered for anything less than a supreme victory. That would be the decision in Ulthuan.
From the stern of the Cormorant, Ilendril watched as the still-smoking sea hold receded in the distance. The siege was over. Threatened by no fewer than four converging dwarf armies and with reports of a fifth reinforcing the hold from below, there had really been no choice. Without waiting for the flames raging behind the sea-gates to subside, Draikyll had given the order to withdraw.
Barak Varr would be a shambles for decades and dwarf ships wouldn’t be harassing Sith Remora or any other coastal settlement any time soon. It was a limited success, to be certain and nothing that would appease the expectations of the Phoenix King. However, it might be enough to impress whoever Caledor II sent to replace Draikyll.
Ilendril would be certain to discuss the role the dragons had played in the asur defeat. He’d impress upon the new general that they couldn’t depend on creatures that wouldn’t obey orders but rather had to be persuaded to fight. They couldn’t rely upon the whims of beasts when planning strategy.
Yes, Ilendril thought, he’d pursue that line of reasoning. Then, he would propose an alternative.
Staring down at the fang of the merwyrm he had commanded in the last battle, Ilendril could see the potential for the future. A future when the power of the dragon riders was broken and the glory of exiles like himself was restored.
Chapter Nine
Heir to the Crown
386th year of the reign of Caledor II
‘The king is in a foul mood.’ Caradryel kept his voice low as he walked with Thoriol through the halls of Caledor’s palace in Lothern. ‘Please keep that in mind when you meet with him.’
Thoriol paused, glancing down the corridor at the royal guards they had passed, looking ahead to the ones at the far end of the hall. None of them were in earshot, but he knew better than to broach untoward subjects anywhere within the palace. The very walls had ears.
Caradryel was making a valiant effort to keep his speech from flirting with his true meaning and true intentions. The highborn diplomat considered King Caledor II to be a reckless fool, an adventurer more concerned with expanding his own personal glory than doing what was right for Ulthuan. There was a growing segment of the asur nobility who were sympathetic to that position. Lady Yethanial and Lord Athinol were but the point of the spear when it came to the disquiet among the highborn.
; The expanding crisis in Elthin Arvan was making the situation worse. Lord Draikyll’s siege of Barak Varr had been characterised as a wasteful fiasco by Caledor himself. Draikyll was recalled, a new general dispatched to oversee the military situation in Elthin Arvan. Now even the replacement was being recalled, accused of too much timidity in his conduct of the war. The real reason, however, was the dragons.
The dragons. They had become both shield and sword to the embattled colonies. Draikyll had insisted that but for their defection at the siege, he would have taken Barak Varr. Just when he needed them most, the drakes had left the battle and returned to Tor Alessi. Now, the dragons had left even that bastion. They’d flown away, returning to the mountains of Caledor, back to their caves and caverns.
The dragons had left the war.
Thoriol could understand the king’s frustration. So much was dependent on the dragons keeping the dwarfs in check. Just the fear of a dragon swooping down on one of their armies had restrained the dawi for a long time. Now, that restraint would be gone. The enemy would feel emboldened to launch campaign after campaign against the asur, to exploit the distress of their weakened foe.
And at home, the voices of dissent saw in the retreat of the dragons a final condemnation against the war with the dwarfs. Yethanial and Athinol hoped that this would be the event to make Caledor sue for peace with the dwarf High King. Even if it meant withdrawing from the colonies.
The very thought of that made Thoriol sick inside. If they abandoned the colonies then they were betraying all those who had fought and died to defend them. He could sympathise with his mother’s call for peace, with Athinol’s insistence that they turn their full might against the lingering druchii in Naggaroth, but he wouldn’t accept that the price for such objectives would be forsaking everything so many had died for. Everything his father had died for.
‘I have an advantage over you in that respect,’ Thoriol told Caradryel. ‘No matter how ugly my uncle’s mood, he won’t have me executed.’
The jest hardly brought a smile to Caradryel’s face, especially in their current surroundings. ‘You are the heir of the House of Tor Caled,’ he agreed. ‘That makes you the king’s great hope for the future.’
It was a familiar warning. Caradryel didn’t have to say the rest – Thoriol knew the diplomat wouldn’t even whisper it while he was within the palace. What went unsaid was the cruel wisdom that, should the king’s favour turn against Thoriol then far from being Caledor’s great hope for the future, he would become the king’s fear for the present. The king’s suspicions were what had sent Imladrik back to the colonies. However much Caledor indulged Thoriol, the prince could neither forget nor forgive that fact.
King Caledor II was in the Amber Room of his palace. It was a fabulous chamber, an example of the opulence that attended the Phoenix King. From floor to ceiling, the room was covered in amber. The walls were coated in little polished hexagonal discs of the material, each carefully selected for hue and transparency. The ceiling was covered in tiles of a slightly deeper hue, their thickness creating the illusion of unreachable heights hidden just beyond the semi-translucent skin overhead. The floor was coated in a fine dust of the same amber, persistent enchantments endowing it with a strangely electric cohesion that always reminded Thoriol of the action of iron filings around a lodestone. The dust would sink beneath the tread of a visitor only to restore itself once the intruding foot had passed.
All the appointments within the chamber were adorned with amber, from chairs to cabinets to tables. Even the decanters and goblets were fashioned from amber, and the wine being poured into them by a servant arrayed in an amber-adorned doublet was a magically adjusted vintage designed to perfectly match the colouring of the room. The guards standing at attention on either side of the chamber were likewise arrayed in amber-coloured armour, its unusual sheen precipitated by spells from one of the mages of the king’s court. The same magic wouldn’t alter the white lion pelts the guards customarily wore, so while they were posted in the chamber they stood watch without the traditional symbol of their warrior brotherhood. Envaldein looked especially uncomfortable when Thoriol glanced his way. Briefly, the prince wondered if his uncle was aware of the insult he paid his guards by commanding them to set aside the distinction and honour of their traditions. If he did, then Thoriol wondered if the king even cared.
Caledor II was easy enough to find amidst his amber settings. He wore a long robe of silver and a heavy necklace of ruby and sapphire. Seated before a game table, he set his ivory pawns against the opposing ebony forces of Hulviar. The king’s seneschal, observing some whim of his lord, had adopted black raiment to echo the hue of his pieces on the game board.
The king turned from the game when a steward announced Thoriol. Caradryel, at the moment a mere auxiliary of the prince, went without introduction. He frowned slightly at the indignity, but was careful to compose himself when he felt royal eyes glance his way.
‘Dear nephew,’ Caledor smiled, rising from his chair and motioning for Hulviar to forsake his turn until such time as the royal presence could again concentrate on the game. The king gave Thoriol an appraising look. ‘You have heard about Lord Teranion’s betrayal?’ The fury in the king’s tone was subdued but unmistakeable.
Thoriol was careful about choosing how to answer. ‘It is my understanding that only the dragons left Tor Alessi. Lord Teranion and the other dragon riders stayed behind.’
Caledor flung the game piece he had been holding to the floor. ‘A pretence!’ he snapped. ‘The dragons leave and he stays behind? That is supposed to be some astonishing show of loyalty? I am supposed to be impressed by that?’ He turned to Hulviar. ‘I am certain his show of solidarity with the colonists will go far to easing their minds. Knowing that Lord Teranion stands with them will make the mud-diggers rip at their beards in terror. Honestly, can you think of anyone so useless as a dragon rider without a dragon!’
The moment he made the remark, Caledor froze. He turned back to Thoriol. No apology would ever leave those royal lips, but there was a trace of regret in the royal eyes.
Thoriol kept his expression neutral. His uncle’s barb – intentioned or not – had struck home. It was a long time since he had aspired to follow in his father’s footsteps. There was no use for it. Try as he might, no drake responded to his dragonsong. The king was right – there were few things more useless than a dragon rider without a dragon.
‘They are wilful creatures,’ Thoriol said. ‘They have a sort of pride and arrogance about them that I don’t think any asur can ever really understand. Lord Teranion could be as loyal as Envaldein or Hulviar and still be unable to compel the drakes to do something they have no intention of doing.’
‘Then what good are they?’ Caledor snarled. ‘By Asuryan, of what use is a weapon you can’t depend upon? What’s next? Must I look forward to the day when the dragons guarding the coast or hunting the druchii decide they’ve had enough and go crawling back into their holes?’
The king’s argument brought back to Thoriol Imladrik’s words. How many times had his father cautioned that dragons weren’t merely weapons, weren’t simply beasts to be goaded into battle? Enough times that Thoriol had grown sick with the hearing of it. Enough times that he had despaired of ever truly understanding.
‘They aren’t weapons,’ Thoriol said, echoing his father’s words. ‘They aren’t beasts or servants. They are allies whose help must be requested, never commanded.’
Caledor was silent, remembering only too well when he’d last heard such arguments – and from whom. It was Hulviar who chose to contest Thoriol’s words.
‘Allies? Friends?’ the seneschal scoffed. ‘What kind of ally is it who abandons our forces in the field? What kind of ally is it who deserts our outposts, leaves them helpless before the enemy? Perhaps our mistake was ever trusting the fidelity of such fickle creatures.’
‘They yet patrol the coasts an
d harry the druchii,’ Caradryel reminded. ‘Perhaps it would be better to hear Lord Teranion’s explanation for why the dragons left Tor Alessi before making any decision.’
‘If Teranion felt he had any worthwhile excuse to offer, he would have returned with his drake and made his explanation in person,’ Hulviar said. ‘Instead, he chooses to keep himself in the colonies.’
‘As a sign of solidarity,’ Caradryel retorted. ‘Our people in Elthin Arvan fear that they have been forgotten by Ulthuan.’
Hulviar smiled. ‘I have been discussing strategy with his highness. He is of a mind to dispatch a new general to Tor Alessi, Lady Kelsei of Tor Ferrek.’
‘With all due respect, my Lord Hulviar, I don’t think another general is going to assuage the concerns of the colonists,’ Caradryel observed.
‘If it is any concern of yours,’ Caledor told the diplomat, ‘Lady Kelsei will have two thousand troops arriving with her and more at her disposal as and when they can be safely detached from the campaign in Naggaroth.’
Caradryel blinked in surprise. ‘My liege, you would withdraw soldiers from Naggaroth?’
‘The fighting in Naggaroth is all but over,’ Hulviar said. ‘Malekith lacks the resources for real war. What we’re left with is simply to push the druchii back into the wastes and keep them there until they submit.’
‘Would it not be more prudent to bring the campaign to a conclusion before throwing more resources into the war against the dawi?’
A scornful laugh sounded from Caledor. ‘You are becoming a contrarian, Lord Caradryel. From you I hear that these dwarfs are too powerful to dismiss. Then, when I intend to send more forces into the war against them, I am told that they aren’t worth the effort.’
Caradryel knew when his counsel was of value and when his words were wasted. He could tell that the king had already made up his mind. Whatever he was told that didn’t agree with the decision he’d reached would be dismissed. Or, worse, deemed treasonous.
