Now at his destination, his eyes shone. He felt invigorated. The sensations, the smells, the incessant low rumble of steam and wind – they were the things he had been born to. Something in his blood responded to it – he had always felt the same way, ever since his father had taken him into the peaks as a child.
‘This is the forge of our House,’ the great Imrik had told him. ‘This is where we were tempered. As the sea is to Eataine and the forests are to Avelorn, the fire-mountains are to Caledor. Forget this truth, and we lose ourselves.’
Imladrik had taken the words to heart, returning to the Dragonspine whenever he could. Even during times of warfare he had made the pilgrimage, renewing himself, reciting afresh the arcane vows he had made so long ago.
A dragon rider was a restless soul, condemned to rove the passages of the air for as long as the bond existed between steed and rider; if he had a home on earth, a true home, then it was the Dragonspine.
‘Such a thing has not been seen for many years,’ Imladrik said. ‘We are honoured, Thoriol.’
Imladrik’s travelling companion stood close by. Thoriol tended to his mother in looks, with pale colouring and slender frame. Only his eyes were the same as his father’s – emerald, like summer grass.
Thoriol said nothing. He looked doubtful, standing dutifully beside his father, the collar of his robe turned up against the heat rolling down from the cavern entrance.
‘I remember my first summoning,’ said Imladrik, lost in the memory. ‘We tell ourselves that we choose them, but of course they choose us. We are like swifts to them, our lives flitting across the path of theirs.’ He smiled broadly. ‘But who can tell? Who really understands them? That is the majesty of them: they are an enigma, an impossibility.’
Thoriol drew in a deep breath, wincing against the foul air. He looked paler than normal. ‘You are sure this is the place?’ he asked.
Imladrik put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘I have been watching this peak for ten years. When I saw the first signs, I thought of you. Others have been studying for longer, but – forgive my pride – I wanted you to have the honour. New blood is so rare.’
‘And if…’ Thoriol broke off. He looked nauseous. ‘And if it does not choose me?’
‘She,’ corrected Imladrik. ‘Can you not tell from the way the smoke rises? She is a queen of fire.’
Thoriol tried to calm himself. ‘I sense nothing. Nothing but this foul air.’
‘I taught you,’ said Imladrik proudly. ‘The songs will come. You have my blood in your veins, son. Take heart.’
Imladrik drew himself to his full height. He was clad in the silver armour he wore when riding Draukhain, embellished with a drake-winged helm and crimson cloak. The runes inlaid into the metal seemed to smoulder, as if aware they were close to the foundries where they had been made. Thoriol, wearing only brown acolyte’s robes, looked insubstantial.
Both of them carried swords. Imladrik bore Ifulvin, Thoriol an unnamed blade from the armoury. Once he became a rider it would be rune-engraved and named.
Imladrik raised his blade before him in a gesture of salute.
‘Soul of ancient earth!’ he cried. ‘Wake from sleep! Let your spirit rise, let your heart beat, let your eyes open.’
Thoriol mimicked his father’s movements. He shut his eyes, mouthing the words he had been taught in Kor Evril. A thin line of sweat broke out on his brow.
Imladrik felt the familiar thrill of power shudder through him. The cavern mouth gusted with fresh smoke, swirling and tumbling over the dark rocks.
You know my voice, he mind-sang. You sensed my presence in your long slumber. Come now, answer the call. I have been calling you since you first stirred. Listen. Awaken. Stir.
The gusts of smoke grew stronger. The air before the cavern entrance seemed to shimmer from sudden heat, and a low hiss emerged.
Thoriol held his ground. Imladrik heard him begin his own dragonsong, haltingly at first, then more assuredly. He had a clear voice; a little tremulous, perhaps, but greater command would come in time.
My will is before you, mind-sang Thoriol. Bind your will to mine. Our minds shall be joined, our powers merged. We shall become one mind, one power.
Imladrik felt his heart burn with pride. He remembered singing the same words, many years ago, just as nervous and uncertain as Thoriol was now. It was a momentous thing, to summon and bind a dragon. Once forged the link could never be broken; the names of a dragon rider and his steed ran down together in history: Aenarion and Indraugnir, Caledor Dragontamer and Kalamemnon, Imrik and Maedrethnir.
‘She approaches,’ Imladrik warned, maintaining the summoning charm but letting Thoriol’s voice take over the harmony of the song. ‘Do not waver now, I can feel her mind reaching out to yours – seize this moment.’
Thoriol kept singing. His words were clearly enunciated, echoing through the aethyr with perfect clarity. Our minds shall be joined. Our powers merged. One mind, one power.
The shadows at the cavern entrance shuddered, shook and were broken. A golden shape, sinuous and dully reflective, slid slowly into the shrouded sunlight. It uncurled itself, stretching out lazily, extending a curved neck atop which rested a sleek, horned head. A pair of golden wings unfurled, splayed out to expose rust-red membranes blotched with black streaks. Two filmy eyes opened, each slitted like a cat’s.
The dragon’s back arched. Like all her kind, she was massive – many times the height of the figures that stood before her. Her shadow fell
