‘A black dragon?’
‘So they said. I’ve never heard of such a thing.’
Imladrik looked distasteful. ‘They exist. Creatures of the druchii.’
‘She did not desert, though: that is the important thing.’
For a moment Imladrik’s expression became almost desperately hopeful. ‘How reliable is this?’
‘They all said the same thing. A sorceress on a black dragon, attacking the fortress before being driven off by the red mage. I believe them.’
Imladrik reached for his sword. ‘Where did their fight take them?’
‘They don’t know. South, over the mountains.’
‘Anywhere, then.’ Imladrik took his helm under his arm and walked towards the doors, fully armoured and ready for his steed.
‘Should we not search for her?’ asked Caradryel, following him.
‘Elthin Arvan is vast.’ Imladrik’s voice was flat.
‘But a druchii dragon! Is that not worth–’
‘Just stories. The dawi are real, and they are here.’
‘But you cannot–’
‘Enough.’ Imladrik kept walking, out of the chamber and up another flight of stairs. ‘Liandra was always reckless. She should have been here, with us, when the city was under siege. I will not leave the war now.’
Caradryel followed him uneasily. ‘Oeragor is out there,’ he offered. ‘She might have made it that far.’
‘And if she has?’ Imladrik emerged at the top of the tower and donned his helm. A large courtyard extended out around them, open to the skies. ‘I do not choose my battle-grounds on a whim.’
Caradryel looked up just in time to see the giant sapphire dragon descending to the courtyard, its wings a blur of motion. He retreated in the face of it, his robes flapping and his hair streaming. He’d not been so close to it since the first encounter out at sea, and the experience was almost overwhelming. He retreated to the far edge of the courtyard and pressed his back against the railings.
The dragon landed impossibly lightly, its huge talons barely scraping the stone beneath it. Its long, inscrutable face didn’t so much as glance in his direction. Imladrik walked up to it casually, placed a foot on its crooked foreleg and hoisted himself up into position.
‘So where will you go?’ Caradryel called up to him.
Imladrik did reply, but by then the dragon was already moving, thrusting heavily and coiling up into the air. The response was lost in the downdraft of smoke-flecked turbulence.
Caradryel watched him go, overcoming his fear of the beast just enough to admire its smooth, powerful movement up into the heavens. He felt a pang of envy then, just for an instant, seeing the flash of sunlight on the creature’s sparkling flanks and hearing the low growl of its breathing.
Soon it had gone, undulating into the distance, thrusting through the heavens with its ever-astonishing speed and grace.
Caradryel pushed back from the railings and walked around the courtyard’s edge.
It was a good vantage. He could see out over the plain to the east, the cluster of spires in the old city to the north, the deep blue curve of the ocean to the west. Only one ship broke the waves – a light warship carrying full sail and working hard.
Caradryel screwed his eyes up against the distance. Few ships had come to Tor Alessi since the days of constant reinforcement; more recently the flow had been the other way, with heavy troop galleons setting off up the coast to Athel Toralien and the other coastal fortresses. This ship was heading in from due west, straight out of the open seas.
Caradryel watched it, wondering whether it brought any interesting news. He pondered whether he should head down to the harbourside. He was about to demur when he made out the emblem on the ship’s sails: the mark of House Tor Caled, picked out in gold, shining in the sun just as the dragon’s scales had done.
It was then he knew who was on that ship, and it made his mind up for him. Hurrying again, he passed down the stairs and into the tower, wondering what possible errand could have brought Yethanial of Tor Vael away from her books and over to Elthin Arvan.
They came out of the dust, a rolling tide of iron and leather, bodies pressed close together, standards swaying to the rhythm of hide drums.
Liandra watched them come, standing on the upper battlements with Kelemar and her fellow mages. Not many of them: just five besides her, and she far surpassed the others in power. Aside from the griffon-riders and some battle-hardened Chracian warriors sent east a decade ago, Oeragor’s defences were modest, designed for stray incursions of greenskins.
The dwarf army closing in on them was more than an incursion. The front ranks came on quickly, wading through the ochre dust, kicking it up and tramping it down. A vast rolling cloud came with them, rearing above the army like a protective mantle.
They brought wall-breaking engines with them, ballistae mounted on huge platforms and battering rams on rollers. They had crossbow units, axe-wielders, hammer-bearers and ironclad maul-bringers. The mismatch between the attackers and the defenders was almost ludicrous. Oeragor was like a lone spur of rock thrust out into a rising tide, isolated and ripe to be overwhelmed.
Kelemar watched them stoically.
‘Signal the archers,’ he said. ‘Let fly at two hundred yards.’
A messenger ran down to the parapet. Clarions rang out with the signal, and all across the ramparts longbows were notched and raised. The few bolt throwers mounted on the walls were primed, loaded and swung into position.
The gates were the weak point. Even though they had been reinforced with terraces of granite and cross-braced iron beams, that was the place where the outer stone barrier broke its smooth uniformity. Five hundred of Kelemar’s best troops waited on the other side of it, crouched in the shade, waiting for the inevitable breakthrough.
Liandra looked up to the skies. The griffons were aloft, hugging the central towers and circling slowly. Their riders would not venture far from the walls once the assault began, restricting themselves to
