The sun had gone. Flying through the flamelit dark was like flying through the recesses of a dream. Brilliant explosions of dragonfire and magelight briefly exposed a desolate waste of mud, bone and broken weapons. Tattered standards flew from splintered poles, bearing the images of mountain holds. Every so often Draukhain would spy a living soul and go after it, bearing down like a falcon pouncing on a hare.
The core regiments had gone. They had been smashed open, first by the dragons and then by the vengeful spear battalions that had emerged in their wake. The battlefield had been thinned out, harrowed, flensed.
He remembered the screams. Hearing dwarfs scream had been a strange experience – it took a lot to make a son of the earth open his throat and give away his agony.
All of them had fought. He had admired the hardened units in the centre of the advance on the gate – they had resisted for the longest, striding towards him with utter fearlessness as he glided in for the kill. Their thick plate armour had given them some protection from dragonfire and their blunt warhammers and mauls had been able to crack with some force into the hides of the ravening drakes.
He didn’t remember how long it had taken to kill them all. The whole recollection was little more than a mix of blind wrath and delirium. Draukhain had raked into them again and again, tearing up the ground beneath their feet and shaking them in his jaws like a dog with its quarry. Imladrik had been a part of that, guiding him, fuelling his rage, amplifying the annihilation.
At some point the war-horns had sounded again, marking the retreat. That didn’t stop the killing. The dragons raced after the withdrawing columns, harrying them, picking off the outliers and tearing them to pieces in mid-air. The dwarfs never turned their backs. They left the field in good order, facing the enemy the whole time, stumbling backwards over terrain made treacherous by blood-slicks. They left behind huge baggage trains, each composed of dozens of heavily laden wains and upturned carts. When the dragons got in amongst the ale-barrels, the night was lit up with fresh explosions and racing channels of quick-burning fire.
Only when they reached the cover of the trees did the worst of the slaughter break off. The dragons wheeled up and around again, hunting down those still out in the open. The asur infantry, seeing the assault begin to ebb, established positions out on the plain, unwilling to break formation by pursuing the dawi into the shadows of the forest.
It was then, slowly, that Imladrik began to recover his equilibrium. He felt the swell and dip of the mighty muscles beneath him and smelled the smoky copper stench of his mount. He saw the stars spin above him and the gore-sodden earth stretch away below. For the first time since the kill-lust had taken him, he truly took in the scale of the destruction.
He allowed Draukhain to carry him across the face of the plain. They flew in silence, the roars and battle-cries stilled.
He could not count the dead. Thousands lay in the mire, spines broken and armour cracked. They stretched from the walls right up to the eaves of the trees, half-buried in muck and slowly cooling gore.
Draukhain still flew strongly. His spirit burned hot. A palpable sense of satisfaction emanated from his blood-streaked body.
Imladrik said nothing. His heart was still beating far faster than usual. His breathing was shallow and rapid. His palms were scorched even through his gauntlets and his sword still glowed red.
The dragon did not slow until they reached the walls again. He flew low over the asur on the plain, who whooped and saluted as they soared overhead, before rising up towards the Tower of Winds.
No, sang Imladrik, his first words since giving the order to unleash the drakes. The walls.
Draukhain understood, and banked steeply, heading back towards the breach where he had first sensed Thoriol. In a few moments he had found the spot again and hovered over it. Menials were already at work clearing the bodies from the stonework, labouring under the light of torches brought up from the lower city.
Imladrik guided Draukhain to the breach. The parapets were almost clear; only a few sentries from the archer companies remained, and they cowered in the dragon’s shadow, awe-struck.
‘Where are the archers who were stationed here?’ demanded Imladrik, finding it strange to hear his mortal voice out loud again. His throat was raw and painful.
One of the sentries, shading his eyes against the fiery presence above him, stammered a response.
‘Th-they withdrew to the healing house. With the others.’
‘Their wounded?’
‘They took them. The captain died. Two others died.’
‘Who lived?’
‘Loeth did, lord, and the Silent, and–’
‘The who?’
‘Thoriol, the Silent, lord.’
A desperate hope kindled. ‘Go to the healing house now. Find the captain of the guard and tell him to place a watch on it. Tell him that Imladrik orders it, and will be with him soon.’
The sentry bowed, and fled.
Then Draukhain rose up once more, spiralling higher, his tail curling around the charred and semi-ruined spires.
Where now? the dragon asked.
Imladrik drew in a long, weary breath. He felt sick. He saw Yethanial’s face before his mind, calm and grey. Then he saw Liandra’s, the polar opposite. He wanted to be furious with her still, but sheer exhaustion got the better of him.
The Tower of Winds, he sang gloomily.
He knew why such torpor affected him: it was always the same after the brief releases of power. Every action had its price, and losing control exacted a heavy burden.
Draukhain thrust upwards, his flight as effortless as
