by Gav Thorpe
The druchii warriors let the heavy box tumble from their grasp as they turned to flee, Maedrethnir smashing into the bolt thrower moments later in a shower of jagged splinters, snapping rope and twisted metal. The bushes and rocks provided no protection against the sheet of flame that erupted from the dragon’s maw, razing leaf and branch, cracking stone and charring the elven warriors within their molten armour. Another cry from Caledor drew the dragon’s attention to the left, but too late. A second bolt thrower loosed its salvo of half a dozen shafts, the six spears thudding into Maedrethnir’s hindquarters and tail. Most broke upon his scales but two punched home, their barbed points digging into flesh. Lips rippling with anger, the dragon turned and pounced, jaws snapping off the head from one crew member, foreclaw gouging a furrow through mail and muscle, from groin to neck of the other.
Pausing for a moment, Maedrethnir’s nostrils widened, drawing in the scents of battle: dread and blood, leather and crushed grass. There was something else, something familiar yet unknown, the slightest touch on the wind. Though he could not identify the smell, it stirred something within the dragon, stabbing into the most primitive parts of his brain as the bolts had pierced his hide.
A flicker of movement caught the dragon’s attention; a shadow passing quickly across the rocks of the mountainside. Maedrethnir’s head snapped up out of instinct and he spied a winged shape against the clouds. Caledor had seen it also.
‘What is it?’ asked the Phoenix King.
It was too large to be a manticore or griffon, black against the pale sky. Maedrethnir caught the scent again, shocked by realisation.
‘Drake,’ snarled Maedrethnir. ‘Corrupted and vile.’
Ignoring Caledor’s call to wait, Maedrethnir hurled himself into the skies to confront this new threat. The other dragon sensed his approach and turned on a dipped wing, revealing scales as black as pitch and eyes that burned like flame. A fume of green vapours bubbled from between the creature’s teeth, embroiling itself and its gold-clad rider in a sickly mist.
‘A dragon?’ Caledor was awash with confusion and fear. ‘How can it be?’
‘It has been touched by the Powers Beyond the Skies,’ growled Maedrethnir. ‘Can you not sense it?’
The black dragon was surrounded by an aura of darkness, and as the two monsters closed on each other Maedrethnir saw that its head was encased in an iron harness studded with black gems, reins of golden chain in the fist of the rider. Its dark flesh bore many scars from old wounds, testament to a cruel upbringing.
It was an abomination. Maedrethnir had known that not all the eggs that had been laid over the centuries had been accounted for. The dragons had believed them to have been stolen by the other predators that dared to share their caves; bulbous-eyed, pale things that scavenged on the remains of the dragons’ kills. Now it seemed the mystery was solved; the eggs had been taken by the Naggarothi to hatch and raise and twist to their cause.
‘It must be destroyed,’ snarled Maedrethnir, beating his wings faster and faster, blood racing through his body.
He felt the butt of Caledor’s lance set against his flank as the Phoenix King readied for the first exchange. The other dragon raced down, its rider wielding a barbed trident. Not for an age had Maedrethnir fought another dragon, for mate or territory, but his old instincts were still with him. The other had the advantage of height, but was coming in too steeply in his inexperience.
A flick of the tail and a shifting of his left wing caused Maedrethnir to almost stop in mid-flight. The black dragon plummeted past, claws flailing wildly at Maedrethnir’s neck and face, the rider’s trident passing harmlessly overhead. Caledor’s lance caught the black dragon along the back, its enchanted tip raking a bloody furrow through ebon scales.
Maedrethnir turned and dropped after his descending foe, wings tilting and turning as the black dragon heaved left and right to avoid the pursuit. Smaller than Maedrethnir, the black dragon was swifter in the turn and as Maedrethnir’s jaws snapped at his tail, the drake reversed its course and with a rapid beat of wings shot upwards again, heading towards the clouds once more.
More laboriously, Maedrethnir swept out of his dive and into a climb. Each sweep of his more powerful wings brought him closer to his prey, who vanished into the thickening cloud. Growling with irritation, Maedrethnir soared into the white haze, eyes wide for any sign of the other dragon.
‘Keep watch behind,’ he told Caledor.
Glancing back, Maedrethnir saw the Phoenix King peering left and right through the cloud set swirling by each stroke of the dragon’s wings. A screech sounded from the right, muffled by the cloud, and a moment later the black dragon was darting from the gloom, claws outstretched.
Maedrethnir turned towards the attack, but not so swiftly that he could avoid the swooping drake. Diamond-hard claws sank into the flesh of his shoulder as Caledor swung his shield across and deflected the jabbing trident of the rider, the weapon’s three tines crackling with magical power.
The black dragon latched on, claws digging deep and deeper; a mistake.
Maedrethnir arched his neck and sank his jaws into the other beast’s right wing, teeth sawing through skin and tendon, cracking bone. With a scream that let forth a billowing pall of noxious vapour, the black dragon released its grip and pushed away, damaged wing spurting blood.
The gaseous breath of the drake filled Maedrethnir’s nostrils, acrid and burning, searing the dragon’s throat and scratching at his eyes. Choking on the fume and momentarily blinded, the old dragon circled cautiously. Caledor was having similar difficulty, coughing and retching, doubled over in the throne-saddle.
The drake appeared briefly to the left, diving down through the cloud before being swallowed by the pale mass. Maedrethnir dropped as well, falling steeply through the sky until he burst from the bottom of the cloud layer into open air. Rolling to his left, he arched his neck and glared at the haze, looking for the shadow of the black dragon.
‘There!’ shouted Caledor, pointing up and to the right. A flicker of darkness passed to and fro as the Naggarothi and his mount searched the clouds for their foe, unaware that they were far below. ‘After them.’
Maedrethnir snorted at the implication that he needed to be told and powered upwards with rapid sweeps of his wings. His wounds were starting to ache, but he pushed aside the pain and flew on, arcing upwards to come at the black dragon from directly below.
Like an erupting volcano, Maedrethnir exploded into the cloud, fire roaring from his gullet to engulf the drake and its rider. Rolling quickly, the black dragon avoided the worst of the blast, but the manoeuvre brought it onto Caledor’s lance tip. The ithilmar shaft plunged into the creature’s underbelly with a flicker of magical flame. The black dragon gave a howl and lurched sideways, favouring its damaged wing.
Maedrethnir flew above the enemy and then quickly plunged down, rear claws seizing upon the creature’s scarred tail. The rider tried to swing his trident around for a thrust but the back of the saddle-throne prevented him. Helpless, the black dragon toppled towards the ground, Maedrethnir upon his back, claws rending great wounds, leaving bloodied welts all over the black dragon’s hindquarters and back.
Far below, the two armies clashed. A dark spear of Naggarothi knights plunged through the white mass of Caledor’s spearmen while the silver-helmed knights of the Phoenix King outflanked the Naggarothi, curving around the enemy host in long columns. The druchii had brought Khainite cultists with them, a splash of red and naked flesh that hurled itself again and again towards the elves loyal to Caledor, driven back each time by clouds of arrows and war machine bolts.
The chaotic melee became distinct lines and companies as the two dragons plunged ever closer. Bodies littered the rocky ground of the pass, clad both in black and white, the heaped dead testament to the bitter fury of the two armies.
The black dragon snarled and beat its wings ferociously, trying to slow its descent, filthy gas pouring from its wide open mouth. Maedrethnir held firm
despite the writhing and struggling of the other monster, claws scraping against the black dragon’s spine.
Individual figures could be picked out in the battle; a captain with a red-crested helm waving his sword towards the druchii crossbows; a Naggarothi officer slitting the throat of a fallen spearman; wild cultists hacking at the bodies of the fallen from both sides, ripping free organs; a wall of lances crashing into the flank of the Naggarothi knights as the Silver Helms charged.
No more than a bow’s shot from the ground, Maedrethnir released his grip and opened his wings, muscles straining to stop, tendons taut almost to parting. The black dragon twisted, blood splashing onto the rocks, wings beating furiously, but to no avail.
With a thunderous impact, the drake and rider smashed into the rocks, splintering stone and bone in equal measure. The harness holding the saddle snapped with a loud crack and the throne was cast from the dragon’s back, splintering against the sharp boulders.
Maedrethnir dived again, leaving nothing to chance. As the black dragon struggled to right itself on twisted legs, wings broken and flopping uselessly, Maedrethnir slammed into the drake. His jaws seized the other dragon’s neck just behind the head, spines and fangs snapping from the titanic pressure. His claws raked at the black dragon’s underbelly, slashing through scale and muscle, exposing ribs and organs.
With a flap of his wings and a heave of his body, Maedrethnir leapt over the black dragon, twisting the foe’s neck in his jaw with a loud cracking of bone. Shaking left and right, Maedrethnir slammed the black dragon’s head repeatedly into the rocks, dashing open its skull. Releasing his hold, the red dragon turned and plunged his fangs into the drake’s exposed innards, crunching through bone, tearing at its gizzards.
Maedrethnir feasted, gorging himself on the meat of his slain rival. It had been millennia since he had last tasted dragon flesh and he wolfed down huge gulps, cracking open the bones to lap at the marrow. The dragon’s blood sang through his body, drowning out the pain of his wounds, blotting out the calls of Caledor upon his back.
Something hard cracked across the top of Maedrethnir’s skull, stunning him for a moment. Dazed, he stumbled back from the corpse of the black dragon, seeking the source of the attack.
‘The rider is getting away,’ said Caledor, hitting the dragon again with the haft of his lance.
Maedrethnir growled at the impudence of the elf, to berate him so. The dragon took a step back towards the corpse of his dead foe but was stopped by more sharp words from the Phoenix King. Maedrethnir wanted to shrug off the rider, to rip free of the harness that bound them together.
Caledor snarled words that bit into Maedrethnir’s mind; words of power discovered by the Dragontamer. Cowed, the dragon slumped to his belly and shook his head, trying to dismiss the numbing sensation seeping through his brain. Through the fog of insensibility, he heard Caledor’s calm voice.
‘Your enemy flees,’ said the Phoenix King. ‘Chase him down.’
Maedrethnir looked around and spied the Naggarothi scrambling over the rocks some distance away, one leg dragging with a limp. With a snarl the dragon bounded quickly over the boulders, wings half-furled. He loomed over the druchii, who turned and pulled a sword from his belt. The blade glittered with a frozen light that hurt Maedrethnir’s eyes and he shied back, almost blinded.
Caledor was not to be denied, his lance taking the Naggarothi high in the chest, punching through breastplate and heart. The druchii slashed wildly with his sword, ringing its blade from the ithilmar lance, leaving a stream of frosty particles in the air. Caledor moved his arm, pushing his weakened opponent to his back, pinning him to the ground.
‘Finish him,’ said the Phoenix King.
Maedrethnir raised a foreleg and stamped down, crushing helm and head beneath his weight. Blinking away the after-image of the ice-tinged blade, Maedrethnir regained some clarity. The hunting rage subsided, the fire inside cooling in his belly. The dragon shuddered, feeling the sudden pain of his injuries.
He remembered the black dragon, realising with disgust the twisted nature of the beast.
‘I must return to my kin,’ said Maedrethnir.
‘When the battle is won,’ said Caledor.
‘No!’ the dragon replied fiercely. ‘They must be told about the black dragons. I must pass the word, raise my kind from their slumber.’
‘When the battle is won,’ repeated Caledor.
Quick as a serpent, Maedrethnir whipped his head around, fangs slicing easily through the bindings of the saddle-throne. Shrugging his shoulders, he let the construction slip gently from his back, depositing the saddle and Phoenix King unkindly upon the rocks.
‘Win your battle, little elf,’ said Maedrethnir. ‘I shall win your war.’
Before Caledor could recover and speak the taming words, Maedrethnir launched into the air, skimming up the mountainside with swift beats, heading south.
The smog and the night were no barrier to Maedrethnir’s keen sight. The dragon steered between the volcanic peaks as easily as if it were noon and not the darkest night. By the glow of lava and patches of starlight, the dragon soared over the peaks of Caledor, mind and body alive with disgust verging on hatred.
He descended swiftly to the valley of the caves, folding his wings as he plunged into the largest opening. Feet scraping on rock furrowed by millennia of dragon claws, he advanced into the darkness, laboured breaths echoing along the wide tunnel. His right flank was sore and his muscles ached from the two days of constant flight, but the news he bore was too urgent to allow him rest.
He headed directly for the deepest chamber, ignoring the many other passages that twisted away from the main tunnel. The air cooled as he moved further and further beneath the earth, his hot breath coming in great clouds of vapour that condensed upon rock walls worn smooth by the scales of dragons passing in and out.
The chamber was vast, a massive hole in the world ringed with stalactites and stalagmites larger than the towers of the elves, jutting like the fangs of the beasts that slumbered within. Patches of luminous moss and clouds of fireflies gave the appearance of a globe of starry night, the dim green and orange and yellow reflected from crystal veins in the walls and the edges of angular geodes.
The immense cavern dropped down sharply from the tunnel mouth and the dragon opened his wings and leapt into the air, gliding effortlessly between the upthrusts of rock. As he neared the centre of the chamber, the dragons could be seen. A few, those that had begun the long sleep in the last few centuries, still moved subtly, chests expanding slowly or contracting with enormous exhalations and inhalations, the ground around them glistening with ice from frozen vapour.
The others were immobile, only distinguished from their surroundings by the subtle hue of their scales. Many were part of the rock, stalagmites covering their unmoving bodies, melding the dragons with the floor. Spines had become roots for immense pillars that stretched towards the ceiling, limbs were like rivulets of hardened lava, covered with dully glowing patches of lichen.
Maedrethnir settled close to the chamber’s heart, surrounded by the eerie gloom. Save for the flutter of large insects that nested with the dragons, nothing moved. The dragon’s claws scraped on the rock, sending up showers of stone shards as he turned about, tail lifting to avoid the jagged points of the smallest stalagmites.
The dragon raised himself up, gripping a pillar of rock with a foreclaw and arching his neck. He let out a bellow, the noise filling the chamber, echoing back and forth, rebounding from every angle. Long and hard Maedrethnir roared, until pieces of stalactite broke from the ceiling of the cavern, their crashes adding to the reverberating din.
Closing his mouth, wisps of fire dancing from his nostrils, the dragon waited as the after-echoes of the noise slowly died away.
Something stirred in the darkness, a scrape of scale and scratch of claw. Rock splinters and ice crystals tinkled to the ground as a dragon to his left shifted its bulk, shaking off the layer of centuries. A yellow ey
e half-opened in the gloom.
There was more movement and noise from all around, as slumbering dragons shook free the drag of the long sleep, coughing dust and flame. A mighty column of rock trembled and then shattered, spilling to the hard floor as a green dragon almost as large as Maedrethnir arched its back, slowly pushing itself up on four trunk-like legs.
‘Awake, my kin!’ bellowed Maedrethnir. ‘Dread times are upon us!’
Carathril stood upon the northern tower of the gatehouse, overlooking the road into Lothern. Around him all was a wasteland. Over five years of siege, the druchii had felled every tree and lain waste to every field, razed every village and farm. Blackened ruins jutted from the bare earth. The stench of death lingered in the air. In the ruins of an outbuilding not far away Carathril could see bodies draped over the rubble, splashes of red on their pale robes, limbs twisted unnaturally. He had seen many such sights these past years, yet each innocent slain raised his anger again and reminded him why the druchii had to be stopped.
Into the square behind him marched a column of elves. They walked wearily, toiling over the uneven white slabs, worn down in their spirits by the battles they had fought. With bleak eyes they gazed at the desolation, some of them weeping, others unmoved and utterly despondent, all the more frightening for that, their gazes dead to the suffering that had been inflicted.
‘We are too few,’ said Eamarilliel, another captain of the guard. ‘We cannot hope to defeat the Naggarothi.’
‘They muster again,’ Carathril replied dully.
Around the city, columns of black-armoured warriors marched into position. For weeks more ships had come, disgorging reinforcements for the besieging army. Time and again the vessels of Lothern had sailed forth to impede their landings, but they had succeeded only in delaying the next assault, not halting it.
