It wasn’t easy, but it was possible.
‘First, to survive,’ she breathed out loud, picking up her pace and leaving the dragon-corpse behind. ‘Recover strength. Learn what manner of place this is.’
Her eyes glittered darkly, remembering the witch.
‘Then vengeance.’
The summit chamber of the Tower of Winds was full. Armed guards posted themselves wherever there was room; mages shuffled about, preparing spells that would not be ready for hours. A few loremasters tried to stay out of everyone else’s way, apologetically shuffling parchment maps and requisition ledgers.
None of them dared to take a step within the inner circle of thrones. Four figures stood there, ignoring the seats, seemingly oblivious to the hubbub around them.
Both Aelis and Gelthar seemed subdued. Imladrik couldn’t have cared less about the wretched Caerwal, whose plans would have been uncovered by Caradryel if they hadn’t been by Salendor. The only consolation he took from the whole sorry affair was that his most potent general had remained loyal and still stood at his side. As things had turned out, that might prove the most important point of all.
But Liandra – where was Liandra? Her disappearance had gone from being regrettable, to curious, to worrying. She had always been impulsive, but Imladrik couldn’t believe she would have actually deserted, not when things were so poised.
It was too late to do anything about that now.
‘Are they marching yet?’ demanded Salendor, his blunt expression hard to read.
‘They will be soon,’ said Aelis.
‘What changed?’ asked Gelthar, obviously still shocked. ‘We were talking. I thought we might be getting somewhere.’
Imladrik shook his head. It felt as if events were running away from him. ‘We were.’ He slammed his fist into his gauntlet, a gesture born of pure frustration. ‘This was not Caerwal’s work – something else has riled them.’
‘We can find out,’ said Salendor.
Imladrik turned on him. ‘How?’
‘A sending. It may do no good, mind.’
Imladrik felt like laughing. It could hardly make things worse.
‘Make it,’ he ordered. ‘I must speak with him, just one more time.’
Salendor placed his staff before him, holding it two-handed and resting the heel against the marble floor. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against the tip. A greenish bloom rode up from the centre of the marble, coiling like oily smoke. Strange noises echoed from it – the clash of metal against metal, shouting in a strange tongue, the rush of wind from another place.
Imladrik watched distastefully. A sending was a crude thing, a simulacrum and a sham, but it was the only course left to him. The plain beyond the walls now seethed with dwarfen warriors and the great tent had been abandoned. With the gates having been sealed, no elf now walked outside the walls.
Perhaps, he thought, they should have stood firmer – made some kind of principled stand at the site of the talks. But Imladrik had seen the looks in the eyes of the dawi once the war-horns had started blowing, a look he recognised from a long time ago. There had been no time, no means of responding. The only sensible thing to do had been to withdraw to the city until it was clear what had changed.
Sensible, but hardly heroic.
Salendor’s spell took firmer shape. The green cloud reached chest height and spread out across the floor. Within the swirling centre images began to clarify. Like an eye sweeping across a confused panorama, fleeting glimpses of dour faces flickered in and out of focus. The harsh tones of Khazalid rose and fell, fading as the roving search cast about for its target.
Salendor began to sweat. ‘They are aware of me,’ he said, his eyes still closed. ‘That damned runesmith…’
‘Do not lose it,’ warned Imladrik.
The cloud’s restless movement paused and the images within its centre sharpened. Imladrik saw faces looming up out of the gloom, like weeds slowly rising to the surface of a lake.
One swam to the forefront.
‘Master Runelord,’ said Imladrik, recognising Morek’s grim visage.
The dwarf glared back at him, eyes out of focus, as if struggling to see through the sending’s magical depths. He raised his runestaff and the anvil-head sparked with energy.
Then Morek’s face was gone, replaced by a blurry image of Morgrim. The dwarf lord glowered at Imladrik, squinting hard.
‘Sorcery,’ he spat. ‘This will not be forgotten.’
‘What is happening, Morgrim?’ asked Imladrik. ‘Your war-horns are sounding. Your warriors are moving.’
Coarse laughter sounded from somewhere behind Morgrim; perhaps Morek’s.
‘I believed you,’ Morgrim said. ‘For the sake of the past, I believed you. Grimnir’s beard, I should have known better.’
Imladrik drew closer, peering with difficulty through the miasma. ‘I don’t understand. What has changed?’
Morgrim didn’t reply immediately. He gazed back at Imladrik, scrutinising him as if for a sign of deception. Then, finally, he spat on the ground and shook his head.
‘Maybe you do not know,’ he growled. ‘Warriors from Karak Varn, attacked as they marched to the muster, their bodies still lying unburied in the great forest.’
They were the words Imladrik had dreaded hearing.
‘This was not our doing,’ he said, though he knew it would sound empty.
‘No, nothing in this war seems to be,’ said Morgrim dryly.
Imladrik could hear hurried mutterings all around him as his loremasters tried to ascertain the truth of what Morgrim was saying. It was a futile quest – no reports of a break in the truce had come in, not even rumours.
‘Tell me where,’ said Imladrik. ‘I will investigate, you have my word. If there has been–’
‘North of Kor Vanaeth,’ said Morgrim. ‘A woman – a sorcerer – on a dragon. She came on our warriors with no warning.’ Morgrim jabbed a stumpy finger in accusation. ‘Who but the asur ride dragons? Who among you commands them?’ He was getting angrier with every word. ‘This is the greatest insult – I believed you. For just a moment, you made me trust again.’
Imladrik felt light-headed.
Liandra.
‘I did not order this,’ he protested. ‘Why would I?’
‘You know what?’ said
