When the first sun of spring finally touched Anul Caled above the city, Imrik announced that the weather was fair enough to set out for the dragon caves. Though he did not know it, another expedition was setting forth at the same time; Prince Malekith’s army marched across the Annulii, destined for the Naggarothi capital of Anlec and a confrontation with his mother.
Dorien and Thyrinor joined Imrik’s family on the journey, along with several other nobles whose sons had yet to see the dragons of their homeland. To witness the creatures in their lairs was a birthright and a privilege known only to the Caledorian nobility, and so it was unsurprising that there was much ceremony and celebration surrounding the trip.
It took five days for the caravan to wind its way up to the higher passes of the mountains; a journey a dragon could fly in a day, Imrik thought wistfully as his carriage bumped and rolled over the uneven road. Dozens of wagons carried the families and their servants, each flying the green and red flag of Caledor.
Each morning the children woke with the dawn, gazing hopefully into the cloudy skies for their first sight of a dragon, yet nothing larger than a bird of prey was to be seen. The clouds grew heavier, joined by the fumes and vapours of the volcanoes. The rocks were dark grey and the caravan traversed ancient lava flows, heading higher still.
By late afternoon on the fifth day, they came to the Vale of the Drake, a bleak gorge nestling within the Dragon Spine Mountains. Hundreds of cave entrances broke the slopes like gaping mouths; from many, wisps of steam and smoke curled lazily into the valley.
They left the horses and wagons and went on foot, Dorien carrying a long instrument made from a dragon’s horn tipped and rimmed with gold. The princes and their young charges stopped upon a lifeless mound of shining rock in the middle of the vale.
Dorien lifted the dragon horn to his lips and blew a single bass note that echoed for a long time.
“Will the dragons come?” asked Tythanir.
“Hush,” said Thyrinor. “Listen.”
All stood in silent expectation, the children straining to hear so hard that some of them stood on tiptoe.
“Blow it again, uncle,” said Tythanir.
“Quiet,” snapped Imrik. “Patience.”
It seemed as if the horn blast continued to reverberate from the cave mouths, long after any natural echoes would have died away. Yet rather than diminishing, the sound grew in strength. All turned left and right, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise. It seemed to issue from every cavern at once.
“There!” hissed Dorien, pointing behind them and to the left.
There was the faintest flicker of light in the smog that crept from the cave, as of distant fire. To the keen ears of the elves came the sound of scratching, as of monstrous talons scraping rock and scales sliding against stone. The answering call to the horn continued, dipping and rising. Imrik’s skin prickled at the sound, even though he knew its cause; the breath of a dragon rebounding strangely along the maze of tunnels that riddled the mountains.
Closer and closer came the sound, and brighter and brighter glowed the light. It was a trick of the featureless gorge that the caves seemed small, for Imrik had walked them and knew some to be large enough for a ship to pass into.
With a billowing of fumes, something immense launched itself from the cave entrance; broad wings unfurling to catch the thermals of its own fire, a red dragon soared into the sky. A few of the children shrieked at the sight, but most stood dumbfounded; Imrik remembered his own silent awe and terror when he had stood on this same spot with his father.
As the dragon circled above, Imrik knew it immediately to be his own mount.
“You are fortunate,” he told Tythanir and the others. “This is Maedrethnir, the oldest of the dragons to remain awake. It is a great honour to meet him. Be sure to show proper respect.”
Necks craning to watch the dragon above, children and adults followed Maedrethnir’s progress as his shadow flitted across the mountainsides and disappeared as he rose into the clouds. There were some sighs of disappointment, but Imrik smiled, knowing what to expect. The old dragon was showing off, just as he had done the first time Imrik had seen him.
The whispers from the children turned to gasps as the clouds above the valley began to roil across the sky, lit from within by patches of orange. As the fumes and vapours swirled, a dark shape blurred through the air at their heart. The glow deepened, becoming a blood red that grew more intense with each heartbeat.
Maedrethnir burst from the clouds like a meteor, wreathed in flame and smoke, plunging straight at the elves. At first the children laughed with delight. A piercing cry split the air, building in volume as the dragon continued to dive. The giggles died away and Imrik felt Tythanir slip his hand into his father’s, grip tightening as the dragon roared closer and closer.
There were some wails of panic from the youngest children, and anxious murmuring from the others. Down plunged Maedrethnir, flames licking along his body and wings, trailing spirals of black smog. Imrik felt his son tug at his hand and heard him urge his father to move. The prince held Tythanir to the spot. The pulling grew more insistent with every moment, Maedrethnir a comet of flame and scale and claw hurtling towards the barren mound.
Just as the children’s screams cut the cold air, the dragon snapped open his wings, soaring over the group so low his wings almost brushed the ground.
The blast of wind knocked the smallest to the ground, Tythanir left dangling in his father’s grasp as Imrik’s hair and cloak swirled and the air raged around him, reverberating with a crack as the dragon flapped his wings once and climbed away.
Imrik could feel his son trembling and turned, helping him back to his feet. For a moment, tears glistened in Tythanir’s eyes, his whole body shaking, his lips bloodied from being bitten.
Recovering from the shock the children’s laughter came again, tinged with a mania of relief and joined with the deeper chuckles of their fathers. Above, Maedrethnir tipped a wing and turned sharply, descending to land a short distance away, rock shards sent flying as his claws scraped across the mound.
“A fine display!” Dorien called out. He looked at the young elves, who stood with wide-eyed awe, staring at the dragon just a stone’s throw away. “We thought it time you met the future lords of Caledor.”
Introductions were made, each child brought forwards to bow before Maedrethnir. As he greeted each, the dragon’s breath ruffled hair, causing some to laugh while others retreated quickly, still struck dumb by the experience.
Lastly, Tythanir was presented.
“The line of Caledor himself,” said Imrik. “My son, Tythanir.”
The boy stepped towards the dragon and placed his hands on his hips defiantly. He stared up into the monstrous face of Maedrethnir, his scowling countenance reflected in the dragon’s large eyes.
“That was a very bad thing to do,” scolded Tythanir. “You frightened everybody. You should say sorry!”
Maedrethnir drew back and looked at Imrik, head cocked to one side in surprise.
“That is no way to pay respect,” snapped Imrik.
“This old creature should bow to us,” said Tythanir. “Caledor was the Dragontamer. We are their masters.”
“You are wrong, boy,” said Dorien. “Though Caledor first tamed the wild dragons, they are now our trusted allies. They are the source of our kingdom’s power and you will show them respect.”
“Bow and say you are sorry,” said Imrik.
“What if I don’t?” replied Tythanir.
“I will crush you,” said Maedrethnir, lunging at the boy, one clawed foot held above Tythanir’s head. The boy flinched only a little, and despite his annoyance at Tythanir’s ill manners, Imrik felt some respect for the young elf standing his ground against the dragon.
“That would be silly,” said Tythanir. “You are not going to crush me.”
Maedrethnir hesitated and looked at Imrik again, unsure what to do.
“If you do not bow, you wi
ll be punished,” said Imrik.
“But it’s not fair,” said Tythanir, crossing his arms as he turned to his father. “I am a dragon prince!”
“You have had good warning,” said Imrik. He nodded to Maedrethnir.
The dragon swung its tail, the tip cracking against Tythanir’s backside with just enough force to propel him to the ground. A wail erupted from the boy as he clutched his hands to the offended area.
“His mother will hear of this,” Dorien whispered in Imrik’s ear. “She will not take it kindly.”
“She can take it whichever way she wants,” Imrik replied. “The boy was rude and he was punished. She spoils him sometimes.”
“Have you learnt the lesson, young elf?” said Maedrethnir, raising the tip of his tail threateningly.
“Yes,” sobbed Tythanir as his father helped the boy to his feet and turned him towards the dragon. He bobbed a quick bow. “I am sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” said the dragon, lowering his tail.
The boy stepped back and sheltered behind his father, eyeing the dragon carefully.
“Are any of your kin willing to join us?” asked Thyrinor. “We are honoured by your presence but would like to introduce the young ones to some of the others.”
“They do not wish to be disturbed,” replied Maedrethnir. “They sleep and will not rouse for infants, even the sons of Caledor’s greatest.”
“A shame,” said Imrik. “It has been a long while since you have graced us in number.”
“And perhaps we will never again,” said the dragon. It was impossible to tell Maedrethnir’s thoughts from his reptilian expression but Imrik thought he detected a note of resignation in his words. “For a long time we have concerned ourselves with the lives of elves, but our interest is dwindling. The peace of slumber beckons strongly.”
“We will not disturb you longer,” said Dorien, bowing to Maedrethnir. “Pass our regards to your kin.”
Maedrethnir lowered his head on his long neck and looked at each of the children in turn, baring fangs as long as each was tall.
“Learn your lessons well, and pay due respect,” said the dragon. “If you do, one day you may be worthy of riding upon the back of one of my brothers or sisters.”
There were nods and solemn promises from the boys. With a growl of contentment, Maedrethnir backed away across the mound and launched into the air. He flew a few loops, gouting fire, before gliding back into the cave from which he had emerged.
Imrik sent Tythanir to the others and gestured for Dorien to join him.
“You look concerned, brother,” said Dorien.
“I think Maedrethnir lied,” said Imrik. “I fear he is the last of the dragons awake.”
“Let us hope not,” replied Dorien. “It is the dread of the dragons that keeps Caledor safe. If it was known that the power of the mountains is spent, it would go ill for our kingdom.”
“Yes it would,” said Imrik, heart heavy. “Say nothing of this, not even to Caledrian. He does not need any other worries at the moment.”
“As you say, brother,” said Dorien. “The day when the dragon princes cannot fly forth will be the day the kingdom falls.”
“Not while I live,” growled Imrik. He patted the sword at his waist. “The dragons are not our only weapons.”
A few days after he had returned to Tor Caled, Imrik was called to the great hall of the palace by Caledrian. He arrived to find his brothers and cousin already waiting for him, along with several others of the city’s princes.
Imrik’s eye was drawn to a falcon perched on the back of his brother’s throne, as placid as a songbird. Caledrian held something in his hand and there was a small velvet bag cast upon the seat of the throne.
“Your message seemed urgent,” said Imrik as he strode along the hall. “What do you have there?”
“I thought it best if we saw this together,” said Caledrian. “It was sent by Thyriol of Saphery.”
Caledrian opened his palm to reveal a shining yellow crystal, a small rune etched into each of its many faces. The prince held out his hand, the crystal resting upon it, and read a short incantation from the note that had accompanied it. Imrik felt the flutter of magic in the air, emanating from the stone.
The light of the crystal brightened, growing to a golden shimmer that dappled the floor, walls and ceiling of the hall. Like sunlight streaming through a window, the gleam rippled and moved, darker shapes forming within it. Imrik could sense the magic on his flesh even as the light touched upon his eyes. He noticed the light cast no shadow in the chamber.
A figure resolved from the shifting light, a wavering image of Thyriol standing with arms folded, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robe. Details of the scene behind him could be just about discerned; marching troops and a high tower that disappeared into vagueness. The ghostly figure stared straight ahead, looking at a nondescript stretch of wall behind Caledrian.
“Felicitations, princes,” said the image, the voice seeming to originate in the air itself, leaving no echo. “I have sped these tidings to you for I have important news from the north. Prince Malekith has assaulted Anlec and been victorious. He has taken Morathi prisoner and reclaimed the rule of Nagarythe.”
The apparition paused and looked away for a moment. He seemed to mutter something and then returned his attention ahead.
“We are keeping the capture of Morathi secret, lest her followers attempt some attack to rescue her,” the mage continued. “With a small guard, Malekith escorts his mother to Tor Anroc to face the justice of the Phoenix King. Given the grievances of many against her, Malekith has extended invitation to each kingdom to send a single representative to Bel Shanaar’s court to learn of the Phoenix King’s judgement. Ride swiftly.”
The image wavered and vanished, leaving a faintest glow for a moment within the crystal before that also disappeared. Caledrian closed his fist around it.
“Malekith invites us to Tor Anroc?” Thyrinor was the first to speak, incredulity raising the pitch of his voice. “He acts if he were Phoenix King, not Bel Shanaar.”
“Malekith has equal accusations to answer,” said Dorien. “His neglect of his kingdom for fifty years has brought misery to many.”
“I will go,” said Imrik.
“You offer?” said Caledrian, unable to hide his surprise. “You assume I will ask.”
“You would,” said Imrik, sighing at the inevitability. “Deny it.”
Caledrian looked embarrassed for a moment and then nodded.
“I cannot,” he said. “Malekith will ask for clemency for his mother. You must ensure Morathi does not receive it.”
“I will,” said Imrik. “There is blood on her hands.”
The palace of Tor Anroc had continued to expand even in the short time since Imrik had last visited. No doubt helped by the gifts of grateful princes, Bel Shanaar had lavishly furnished his chambers. White gold was inlaid on the flags of the floor and no fewer than six hundred tapestries covered the walls of the hall above the benches, each picturing a scene from Ulthuan and lands across the world. It irked Imrik to recognise many from his own conquests, hanging in the palace of an elf that had not lifted a sword to claim the places depicted. From silver chains hanging from the ceiling the chamber was illuminated by dozens of lanterns of dwarfish design, each a subtly different hue of pale yellow.
Bel Shanaar sat on his throne, with Bathinair, Elodhir, Finudel and Charill of Chrace in attendance. Unseen but close at hand, Thyriol stood ready to counter any enchantments Morathi might cast. The princes of the other realms had refused to come, fearing that despite Bel Shanaar’s precautions the Queen of Nagarythe would still unleash some last spiteful act rather than face her judgement. Imrik stood with the other princes, waiting for Malekith to make his appearance. There was no conversation, and no audience had been allowed onto the benches.
The Caledorian could feel the trepidation of the others, but even his grave misgivings did not extend so far as to believe this was some
trap to ensnare them. Over the past decades, Morathi had been given plenty of opportunity to see the Phoenix King if she planned any physical malice towards him.
The doors opened and all turned their gaze down the hall. Malekith entered with long strides, still clad in his golden armour, a hooded figure cloaked in black following a step behind.
“My king and princes,” said the Naggarothi ruler. “Today is a portentous occasion, for as I vowed, I bring before you the witch-queen of Nagarythe, my mother, Morathi.”
Morathi cast off her cloak and stood before her judges. She was dressed in a flowing blue gown, her hair bound up with shining sapphires, her eyelids painted with azure powder. She appeared every inch the defeated queen, dejected but unrepentant.
“You stand before us accused of raising war against the office of the Phoenix King and the realms of the princes of Ulthuan,” Bel Shanaar said.
“It was not I that launched attacks against the border of Nagarythe,” Morathi replied calmly. Her gaze met the eyes of the princes in turn. Imrik studied the others: Bathinair met her stare coolly, Elodhir flinched, while Finudel and Charill looked away in discomfort. Imrik stared back, making no attempt to hide his distaste. “It was not the Naggarothi who sought battle with the other kingdoms.”
“You would portray yourself as the victim?” laughed Finudel. “To us?”
“No ruler of Nagarythe is a victim,” replied Morathi.
“Do you deny that the cults of excess and luxury that blight our realm owe their loyalty to you?” said Bel Shanaar.
“They owe their loyalty to the cytharai,” said Morathi. “You can no more prosecute me for the existence of the cults than you can impeach yourself for assuming the mantle of Asuryan’s chosen.”
“Will you at least admit to thoughts of treason?” said Elodhir. “Did you not plot against my father and seek to undermine him?”
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