This wasn’t Tor Alessi; the dwarfs were not facing battalions of mages and spearmen, nor were there other dragons to rake the bolt throwers while Draukhain slaughtered the infantry. They were alone, a sole dragon and his rider against an entire army, grappling over a fortress that had already been lost.
Imladrik felt like screaming. The hot rush of killing hammered in his temples again, the familiar surge of fury that always came when the dragon was unleashed. This time, though, it was tainted by other things: guilt, frustration. He was too late. He had tarried at the coast for too long, tied up with the business of the war there, dragged down by the complaints and concerns of others.
Liandra. Is she here?
Draukhain thundered down a narrow gap between buildings, his wings brushing at the edges of the stone canyon, covering the cowering dwarfs below in vengeful flames. Then he leapt steeply upwards, swerving away from a looming watchtower before hauling his immense body into the clear.
The bolt seemed to come out of nowhere. As if guided by fate, it scythed through the maze of spires and speared clean through Draukhain’s right wing. Its steel tip pierced the hard membranous flesh and lodged fast.
The dragon immediately tilted, righting himself a fraction of a second later. The pain of the blow radiated through Imladrik’s mind, a sharp echo that felt as if his own right arm had been impaled.
Down lower! he sang urgently.
More quarrels spiralled through the air, a constant barrage, hurled over the towers by the ranks upon ranks of bolt throwers brought up to the city. They shot above and around them, mere yards away.
Imladrik looked about him, despair mounting. He almost gave the order to pull away then, to power clear of the city’s edge and seek respite. There was precious little to save in any case – he needed to think.
It was Draukhain that prevented him. The wound seemed to enrage him, as if the sheer impertinence of it somehow pricked his immense sense of superiority. The dragon flew harder, barrelling into the sides of buildings around him and crushing them into rubble. His flames surged out, cascading like breakers against whole rooftops and street-fronts. He roared and bellowed, his tail thrashed, his jaws gaped.
He would take on the whole army, Imladrik knew. He would fly into it, again and again, until one of them lay broken in the dust.
Imladrik looked down then, through the murk and the dirt, trying to make some sense of the milling confusion at ground level. Dwarfs were everywhere, gazing up in either fury or wonder, some running for cover, others angling crossbows in their direction.
Draukhain broke out of the narrow spaces and swung round into a wide courtyard, pursuing a whole company of fleeing infantry into the open. Hundreds more waited for them there, all heavily armoured in iron plates and carrying huge, ornate warhammers. As soon as he saw them Imladrik realised this was the heart of the dwarf army, the thanes and their elite troops at the forefront of the fighting. Dozens of quarrellers crowded the space, jostling to get the first shot away. Bolt throwers had been erected around the courtyard’s edge, each one strung tight and loaded.
Pull away, warned Imladrik, seeing the danger. They couldn’t miss. Even a blind bowman with a single arrow couldn’t miss in that space. Pull away!
Draukhain paid no heed. He fell into attack posture – wings splayed, claws out, jaws open. He flew at them in a blaze of fire and loathing, ripping through their ranks like a wolf loosed amid cattle. Imladrik bucked as the impact came, nearly losing his seat. He saw the walls race around in a blur, broken by scattered dwarf corpses, many on fire, others torn into tatters of bloody flesh.
Draukhain thrust upwards, nearing the far side of the courtyard and needing to climb again. Imladrik felt bolts slice into the dragon’s side – two of them, each punching deep within Draukhain’s armoured hide.
Draukhain twisted in agony, almost crashing straight into the oncoming wall, hampered by his impaled wing. Flames flared out from his outstretched jaws, bursting across one of the bolt throwers and blasting it into ash.
The dragon tried to gain loft, but a fresh flurry of crossbow bolts slammed into his outstretched wings. They pierced the flesh, sending hot, black blood spotting in the air.
Away! ordered Imladrik, glancing up at the sky above. They were hemmed in, overlooked by walls on all sides. This was no place to get bogged down.
Draukhain’s claws brushed against the ground. He pounced back at the dwarfs, almost running, his wings rent and bloody. A ferocious swathe of fire burst from his maw, clearing the ground before him. Dwarfs caught in the blaze staggered away, clawing at their eyes or trying to roll the flames out.
The carnage was terrible – Imladrik saw scores dead, face-down in the dust and blood, their armour charred black – but Draukhain couldn’t kill them quickly enough.
More quarrels screamed across at them from the far side of the courtyard. Two more found their mark, biting deep in Draukhain’s thrashing neck. Imladrik felt the pain of it again, blinding in intensity.
Caught by the impact, Draukhain skidded to one side, tilting over wildly. His shoulder crashed to the earth, digging deep into the stone flags and tipping them up. Imladrik was thrown clear, leaping at the last moment before his mount careered into the side of a terrace. The impact was huge – a crack of breaking stone, a shower of masonry over the prone body of the huge beast. Rocks the size of a dawi’s chest thudded into Draukhain’s
