Standing knee-deep, she looked around her. The shoreline was empty – a parched scrubland of ochre soils and meagre bushes. The sun beat down hard from a clear blue sky, already warming her sodden body.
Her breathing began to calm down, the shaking in her hands eased. There was still no sign of the red mage. The asur’s steed had been horribly wounded; perhaps it too had fallen to earth.
Bloodfang, though, was gone. Against all expectation, Drutheira felt a pang of remorse at that.
She shook her head irritably.
It was a beast, she remonstrated with herself. A dumb, mad beast. May the day come when all the dragons are so enslaved.
She started to wade again. A silty beach drew closer, covered in a scum of algae and beset by clouds of flies. Beyond that, desolate land stretched away from her. She could see bare hills on the eastern horizon, their crowns baked butter-yellow and dotted with sparse vegetation. Already she felt thirsty, and the heat was growing. The sky remained empty, devoid even of birds.
Perhaps I killed them both.
Her head was light. Already the past two days of unremitting combat felt like some crazed, poppy-fuelled dream, and she still didn’t know quite what to make of it.
It had not gone how she had expected, and certainly not as she had planned, but she was alive. That was the important thing: she was bruised, alone, exhausted, but alive.
‘So then,’ she said out loud, sweeping her dark, hollow eyes across the strange landscape before her. ‘What now?’
Caradryel made his way quickly to the city. Just inside the gatehouse he caught up with Feliadh, who was waiting for him with a dozen of his troops in tow.
‘Is it time?’ Feliadh asked.
‘It is,’ replied Caradryel. ‘Where did he go?’
‘Into the Merchants’ Quarter.’
Caradryel nodded. ‘Then we follow him there.’
They went swiftly. Caradryel let his hand stray down to the long knife at his belt, and cursed himself for not bringing something a little more useful.
The Merchants’ Quarter was not far, though the name had long since ceased to signify anything meaningfully mercantile. The old storehouses and market squares had been given over to supply depots and training grounds, and like everywhere else in the city the place was crawling with soldiers.
‘Who has responsibility for this place?’ asked Caradryel as they made their way deeper into the warren of streets.
‘The Lord Caerwal,’ said Feliadh.
‘Really? Interesting.’
They reached a ramshackle courtyard near the centre of what had been the clothiers’ market. One of Feliadh’s soldiers was waiting for them at the junction of two narrow streets.
‘He went in there,’ said the soldier, pointing to a nondescript tower a few yards down the left-hand street. ‘I counted six with him.’
Caradryel glanced at Feliadh. ‘I’d rather not wait. Can you handle six?’
Feliadh smiled condescendingly. ‘Worry not,’ he said, patting the hilt of his ornate Caledorian longsword.
The captain took the lead. Feliadh walked up to the tower and tried the door. It swung ajar as he pushed it, revealing a shadowy hallway on the other side.
Caradryel took a deep breath. This kind of work was not something he enjoyed – the prospect of blood, real blood, being shed made him nervous in a way that was hard to hide.
‘Let’s try to make this clean,’ he said, drawing his knife. ‘Remember – Imladrik wants proof before we take him in.’
Feliadh gestured with a forefinger and his troops drew their blades.
‘For Ulthuan,’ he said quietly.
Then he plunged inside, barging the door open and charging into the hallway. Caradryel followed closely, trying his best not to impede the movements of the Caledorians around him.
The space beyond the doorway was deserted, but a stairway rose up steeply on the far side. Light and noise came from the upper storey – the sound of voices raised in anger.
Feliadh raced up the stairway two steps at a time, reaching another landing with a heavy wooden door on the far side. An elf was slumped on the floorboards, unconscious. As Caradryel jogged past him he noticed the crimson edge-livery on his rumpled cloak, then Feliadh shouldered the door open.
‘Lower your blades!’ he roared as he and his soldiers bundled inside. ‘In the name of Imladrik of Caledor, lower your blades!’
Caradryel was next inside, his heart thumping heavily.
It was a large, sunlit chamber. A long table ran down its centre at which half a dozen elves in loremasters’ robes were seated. Maps, campaign plans and other documents covered the surface. Six soldiers in the armour and colours of Athel Maraya stood protectively around the loremasters, their swords hastily raised at the intrusion.
Salendor stood at the head of the table with mage-staff in hand. He looked furious.
‘What is this?’ he demanded.
Caradryel pushed his way to the front of his party. The Caledorians fanned out defensively around him.
‘My apologies, lord, but I have been tasked with ending this.’
Salendor looked at him incredulously. ‘And who are you?’
Caradryel stiffened. The contempt in Salendor’s voice was withering.
‘Imladrik’s agent,’ he replied, producing the seal of office he’d been given. ‘Please do not resist – it will be easier on everyone.’
For a moment Salendor looked too outraged to speak. Caradryel worked hard to retain eye contact with him, painfully aware of how dangerous the mage could be and hoping Feliadh’s troops would have his measure if things turned difficult.
‘Do not resist?’ Salendor laughed harshly. ‘Blood of Khaine, you have no idea what you’ve stumbled into.’
Caradryel walked over to the table and grabbed a handful of parchment pieces. He could see instructions scrawled in Eltharin outlining attack routes, all leading to the dawi lines. It was a pre-emptive strike, one designed to destroy the fragile truce.
‘This is the proof, my lord,’ said Caradryel. ‘I have been observing you for some time.’
Salendor raised an eyebrow, and a dark humour played across his lips. ‘Have you, now? And you truly think you can bring me in?’
Caradryel swallowed. ‘Know that I will
