by Gav Thorpe
‘The journey from here to Tor Alessi; booking passage on a ship to Ulthuan; arranging transport from Lothern. That doesn’t happen by itself.’
‘None of that will be needed,’ said Imrik, smiling slightly.
‘It won’t?’ said Thyrinor. He looked closely at his cousin, eyes widening with realisation as he saw his happy expression. ‘You want to ride the dragons all of the way back to Caledor?’
‘It’s quickest,’ said Imrik. ‘No point wasting time.’
‘What about our belongings? The servants? Shall they dangle underneath?’
‘They can follow after,’ said Imrik. He tapped gauntleted fingers on the desktop. ‘Bel Shanaar is known for the luxury of his palace, you will have comforts.’
‘But riding all the way?’ Thyrinor opened his hands imploringly to Imrik. ‘Why?’
Imrik stood up and folded his cloak over his arm.
‘We’re dragon princes,’ he said, tapping a finger against his breastplate. ‘Why sail when you can fly?’
TWO
THE PRINCE RETURNS
Like the dragons that made the kingdom their home, Caledor was wreathed in smoke and fire. Sulphurous ash clouds obscured the dark peaks of the Caledorian mountains, lit from below by the ruddy glow of volcanoes. Mingled with the billowing fumes were glowering storm clouds that flickered with lightning, the rumble of thunder merging with the crack of eruptions. Streams of hot lava flowed down the slopes; where they met the lakes and rivers, great columns of steam rose into the air. Pocked and cracked, the volcanic rock vented its subterranean fury through hundreds of geysers and fumaroles, while in dormant calderas thick forests grew, lush from the fertile minerals spewed forth in ages past.
It was a place of stark contrasts and harsh beauty, and even Imrik’s hard heart stirred at the sight. He was tired from the long journey; twenty days of near-constant flight, the last eleven over the ocean made without break. His fatigue slipped away as he caught sight of Tor Caled, his home city. Nestled in the eastern flank of the mountains, the city was a massive edifice of walls and towers, shaped from the raw element of the volcanoes by the magic of Caledor Dragontamer and his followers. Towers like stalagmites, slender and graceful, rose up from steep hills on the coast; the city’s wall flowed down to the water’s edge in undulating curves, black stone glistening with veins of red. A moat of lava protected the other side of the city, crossed by a hundred arcing bridges of granite, each protected by two towers at each end. Huge monoliths banded with silver and gold speared from the river of fire, glowing with ember runes that kept the flames at bay.
Not in Imrik’s lifetime had any foe tested the capital of Caledor, but in the time of the Dragontamer it had been an unyielding bulwark against the daemons. In those terrible days the flames that had girdled the city had risen as high as the towers, and the bridges had been cast down. Many were the paintings and murals that decorated the palaces and houses of the nobility depicting the epic battles that had been waged over the mountains.
Outside the city were the dragon grounds; a wide expanse of scattered bushes and hard earth populated by underground chambers housing attendants from Tor Caled’s noble families. Divested of their harnesses here, the dragons bade farewell to the princes and flew away to their roosting caves deep within the mountains.
Within the wall, the city was no less fortified and imposing. Though centuries of peace had laid a gentler touch upon the battlements and turrets of the grand houses, with many murals and mosaics brightening the hard stone, Tor Caled’s founding in war was plain to see. The layout of the streets, unchanged for millennia, wound back and forth up the slope, looked down on by each level above so that defenders could pour arrows and magic into an attacking force. The cliffs that separated the level of the city above each row of buildings were protected by redoubts and embrasures, surrounded by nests of spear-like outthrusts to protect against attack from the air. At each turn, huge gatehouses could be closed to bar the road, twenty in all between the wall and the summit. Even now bolt throwers and sentries stood guard at these watchtowers.
The streets were busy as Imrik, Dorien and Thyrinor took horse and rode up the winding street. The lower parts of Tor Caled were given over to commerce, three turns of the road filled with traders’ stalls and the shop fronts of craftsmen. The next four levels were the residences of the normal folk of the city, though even these were magnificent villas with their own gardens; Caledor was not a populous realm and barely a tenth of its people dwelt within the city, the others living in fortified towns throughout the mountains and along the coast of the Inner Sea. Before the pinnacle of the city came the artificers’ quarter, where many wonderful and ornamental things were created, and dwarfish wares were on display.
Thyrinor made his excuses here, leaving his cousins to look for a homecoming present for his wife. Dorien and Imrik rode on, occasionally remarking on some shop or stall that had opened or closed in the five years they had been absent. Aside from the details, nothing had changed from the city Imrik remembered, and he was reassured by the sense of unchanging stability.
When they arrived at the palaces, a soaring spectacle of towers, turrets and balconies that delved into the slope of the mountain, they were informed that Caledrian was out of the city attending to business matters. Dorien and Imrik parted and went to be reunited with their families.
Word of Imrik’s arrival had preceded him, as he had expected, and his wife Anatheria greeted him at the grand entrance to the palaces. At her side, a young boy stood clutching her long dress, an unruly shock of blond hair obscuring his face. Imrik embraced his wife without comment, and crouched down in front of his son.
‘Standing up now,’ said the prince, clasping a hand to Tythanir’s shoulder. The boy shrank back, blue eyes wide and fearful. Imrik laughed.
‘What did I teach you, Tythanir?’ Anatheria said sternly.
The boy stepped to one side and stood with feet together, hands gripped tightly against his stomach. He looked at Imrik with studied solemnity.
‘Welcome home, father,’ said Tythanir, bobbing his head.
‘That’s good,’ said Anatheria, ruffling her son’s hair with slender fingers. She looked at Imrik. ‘And what do you say, husband?’
‘It is good to be home,’ said Imrik, pulling his son closer, arm around his shoulders. He planted a kiss on the boy’s forehead. ‘You grow up fast, son.’
Tythanir grinned and wrapped his arms around Imrik’s armoured leg, looking up at his father.
‘Did you ride a dragon?’ said the boy.
‘Yes, son, I did,’ Imrik replied. ‘One day, so will you.’
Though Imrik had not thought it possible, Tythanir’s grin grew even wider and his eyes looked up to the mountains.
‘I’ll be the most famous dragon prince ever!’ the boy declared. ‘And I’ll lead armies like you and everyone will know who I am.’
‘I have no doubt,’ said Imrik, with a glance to Anatheria. ‘You will become the pride of Caledor.’
Taking the boy’s hand, he walked into the palaces, his wife beside him. Tythanir broke from his grasp and ran ahead, chattering to himself as he pointed at the tapestries lining the hallway, each depicting the lords of Caledor on their dragons.
‘I will not be staying long,’ Imrik told his wife.
‘I know,’ she replied. ‘Caledrian spoke with me before he sent his letter. I think this will be good for us. Your brother is too dismissive of Bel Shanaar, and the other kingdoms find greater favour with the Phoenix King. Your brother’s ambassadors have been in Tor Anroc too long and are beguiled and rendered mute by its charms. Our status must be reasserted.’
‘I am more concerned with Nagarythe,’ said Imrik as the two of them followed Tythanir along the carpet running the length of the long hall. ‘Their isolation these last decades cannot bode well. Malekith’s absence has left Morathi free to aggrandise herself. The Naggarothi are not only arrogant, they are becoming dangerous. Their grip of the colonies is sti
ll strengthening.’
‘Then you must persuade Bel Shanaar and the other princes to weaken that grip,’ said Anatheria. ‘Make them see the danger.’
‘You and the boy will stay here,’ said Imrik.
‘Why?’ replied his wife, directing a scowl at him. ‘Tythanir has already spent more than half his life away from his father.’
‘I do not wish our son to be raised in Tor Anroc,’ said Imrik. ‘These are important years in his life, and he must learn the traditions of Caledor.’
Anatheria was not placated by this reasoning and quickened her pace to catch up with her son. Imrik ran a few steps and gently grabbed her arm. She snatched it from his grasp but stopped.
‘I know that you find your family burdensome, but you are a husband and a father and have responsibilities,’ she snapped, keeping her voice low, darting a look at Tythanir. He was engrossed with a suit of dragon armour, running his hands over the inlaid gems. ‘You have an heir, as you desired; now you must do your duty by him.’
‘I have returned,’ Imrik said, raising his voice in annoyance.
‘Not by your choice,’ said his wife, turning away. ‘Always you place duty to Caledor above your family.’
‘I will do right by you and my son,’ said Imrik, softening his tone. ‘That is why you must remain here. Tor Anroc is not an ocean away. I will see Tythanir often enough, both here and there.’
He did not know if his wife heard him. She took her son by the hand and walked away, leaving the prince in the hallway. Imrik shook his head, frustrated. Though Anatheria might never comprehend the demands on a prince of the Dragontamer’s line, Tythanir would understand as he grew older. To be a leader of elves was in his blood, a legacy of his great lineage.
Feeling suddenly uncomfortable, Imrik wondered if it was his armour or the weight of something else.
Eight days after arriving home, Imrik was told that his brother was returning to Tor Caled within the next two days and was to be met by the court of Caledor. Imrik passed word to the other princes and nobles, sending riders to those who lived outside the city. It was an occasion of some remark as the lords of Caledor assembled; not for centuries had they all been gathered at the capital.
The city was abuzz with rumour, and more than once Imrik rebuked members of his household for indulging in speculation. Tor Caled swarmed with the entourages of the arriving nobles, and gala feasts were held each night to celebrate every arrival. By the light of red lanterns the elves danced and sang in the plazas and streets, needing only small excuse for festivity.
On the morning before Caledrian was due to arrive, another important elf appeared in the city: Hotek, the high priest of Vaul. On hearing this news, Imrik travelled to the main gate to meet Hotek in person and conduct him to the palaces with due ceremony. Though often bored by state functions and the interminable mingling that they entailed, Imrik held dear the oldest customs of Caledor and formally welcomed Hotek.
His deference was not so much to the elf, but to his position, for it was the high priest of Vaul, Hotek’s predecessor, who had aided Caledor Dragontamer in the forging of many weapons and artefacts during the war against the daemons. Such help had not been without risk, and several times the shrine at the mount of Vaul’s Anvil had been assailed by the minions of Chaos. Though incurred in millennia past, Imrik stayed true to the debt his bloodline owed to the priests, and said as much on greeting Hotek.
‘I repay the homage, Imrik,’ said Hotek as the two stepped aboard a golden carriage with an awning of green and grey dragon scales. The priest cut a severe figure: his face thin even for an elf, his high cheekbones and brow sharp, his white hair swept back by a band of black leather studded with ruddy bronze. Most remarkable were his eyes, of pure white. Like those that he led in his order, Horek had ritually blinded himself, to share in the suffering of Vaul. He showed no sign of discomfort or disability for the loss, his other senses, including his innate mystical awareness, heightened to compensate for his lack of sight. All the same, Imrik was always slightly disconcerted when talking to a priest of Vaul and kept his gaze away from Hotek’s face.
‘In you and your family, the honour and strength of the Dragontamer remains strong,’ Hotek continued. ‘So few there are these days whose call the dragons heed. It is a testament to you that they count you as an ally when so many of their kind have taken the long slumber of aeons.’
As the four horses set off up the steep road, Hotek arranged his heavy blue robes more comfortably and leaned back in his seat. He knitted his fingers across his chest, each digit weighed down by a jewelled ring, and about his wrists and neck were many fine chains of silver, gold and other gleaming metals.
‘To what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation?’ the priest asked, head turned towards the prince as though he could see him. ‘Caledrian’s missive simply stated that he was bringing together the full court of Caledor, and that as high priest of Vaul I have by tradition a seat in that esteemed gathering.’
‘I do not know for sure,’ Imrik replied. ‘He called me back from Elthin Arvan to represent Caledor at Tor Anroc, but I have heard no more since my return. The continuing strange behaviour of the Naggarothi concerns him.’
‘The Naggarothi?’ Hotek attempted to appear casual, but Imrik noticed a sudden tension in the priest’s body and voice. ‘What concern of the Caledorians are the affairs of Nagarythe?’
‘Perhaps none,’ said Imrik. ‘Even at Vaul’s Anvil you must have heard that they have closed their borders. Don’t you think that strange?’
‘The shrines are beyond the politics and boundaries of individual kingdoms,’ Hotek replied, waving a hand airily, relaxed again. ‘If the Naggarothi want to keep to themselves, I welcome it. The better for the rest of us to be free of their stern expressions and snide remarks.’
‘It is said that they openly worship the cytharai,’ said Imrik. ‘Khaine for certain, and the other undergods likely. In the colonies, they are quite brazen about it.’
‘We do not dictate to others how they choose to appease the gods,’ said Hotek with a shrug. ‘I know that they endeavour to spread the worship of the cytharai to other kingdoms and cities, but their proselytising falls on ears unwilling to listen for the most part. Better to ignore them and let the metal cool than temper it to hardness with accusations and persecution.’
‘Your shrine, it fares well?’ asked Imrik.
‘Our days as armourers to the princes have thankfully long passed,’ Hotek said. ‘Today we fashion amulets not swords, rings not shields. And much time is spent in the study of such dwarfen artefacts that come into our possession. They are most remarkable pieces, unlike anything fashioned in Ulthuan. Sometimes crude to look at, I admit, but containing simple yet powerful enchantments.’
The conversation continued in similar vein until they reached the palaces. Imrik passed the care of Hotek to the servants of his older brother and with his duties discharged, spent the rest of the morning playing with Tythanir. At noon, the time of his brother’s expected arrival, he made his way to the great hall, which had been set with a ring of high-backed chairs for the council, nearly a hundred in all. Caledrian’s throne faced the huge doors, his advisors already waiting beside it and most of the nobles already present.
Imrik took his place to the right hand of the throne, Dorien on the other side, with Thyrinor next to him. The hall soon filled, leaving only a handful of places of nobles that had been unable or unwilling to attend. The muffled call of clarions rang from the citadel walls announcing Caledrian’s arrival. The assembled elves stood and awaited his entrance, a quiet whispering rebounding from the painted walls of the hall.
A stamp of feet preceded the opening of the doors. All eyes turned on Caledrian as he entered. The ruler of Caledor was dressed in a long robe of white, patterned with golden thread in curling flames, a wide belt about his waist and a narrow circlet on his head. He strode into the hall without much ceremony, waving a hand in greeting to some of his councillors, stoppin
g to have quick conversations with others. He had an easy smile, and clasped hands and shoulders without unease, but Imrik thought he saw a certain stiffness in his brother’s movements that betrayed some burden he carried.
Imrik stepped up to meet his brother as he reached the throne. He embraced Caledrian, as did Dorien, and the three stood together for a moment.
‘It is good to see both of you here,’ said Caledrian. He glanced past Dorien and smiled at Thyrinor. ‘And you, cousin. I wish that our reunion took place in happier times, but I have grim tidings. After the council, we will feast together and become properly reacquainted.’
With that, Caledrian signalled for the council to be seated, though he remained standing. Imrik noticed that another elf had joined the short line of Caledorian dignitaries behind the throne. He was a little stockier than the others, with grey hair and almost white skin; certainly not of Caledor. He wore a purple robe of light material, so that it flowed from his arms and legs in the slightest draught. He was relaxed yet alert, eyes never still as they took in the details of the hall and its occupants.
‘My gratitude to you all for coming here at such short notice,’ declared Caledrian, drawing Imrik’s attention away from the newcomer. ‘There has been much speculation as to my activities of late, so let me put rumour to rest. Not long ago, I received representation from Bel Shanaar.’ He waved a hand towards the elf that Imrik had been watching. ‘This is Tirathanil, a herald of the Phoenix King. He bore to me alarming news, and we have spent days in debating its import and the wishes of Bel Shanaar. The matters are of such import that, according to custom, I will lay them before this council and conduct a vote to know the wishes of Caledor.’
The prince sat on his throne and paused; the councillors leaned forwards in their seats, anxious to hear what he had to say next, their eyes fixed upon Caledrian.
‘For years we have heard of an unsettling rise in the open worship of the cytharai,’ he continued. ‘Each of us knows tales from the other kingdoms of some of the depravities involved in these rituals, and I am thankful to acknowledge that such practices have not encroached upon Caledor. It is Bel Shanaar’s suspicion, and I share it, that these cults are under the sway of Nagarythe. More specifically, that they owe allegiance to Morathi. We are not content to allow this state of affairs to remain unchanged.
