“Thank you,” she said, breathlessly. “By Isha, thank you.”
Gilean nodded, and released his grasp. “Go more carefully.”
Anlia grasped the rock tightly, waiting for the shivering in her muscles to subside before pressing on.
That was stupid, came the familiar voice in her mind.
“I know,” whispered Anlia, feeling the cold stone against her face. “Yes, yes. I know.”
Haerwal winced and clung on tight. He couldn’t remember being more terrified. Every sinew of his body protested. Every rational capacity told him that it was utterly stupid, a certain route to an early and ignoble death.
But it was too late. He was aloft. Like all the others, he had been carried into the air by a dragon. When they came for you, swooping down from the summits of the mountains, it was impossible to resist the call. They spoke in your mind, and their voices were imperious and terrible.
Fumbling and nervous, he’d climbed on to his dragon’s back, gripping securely to the bone spurs in front of the enormous wings. Then the creature had hurled itself into the air and terror had taken on a new meaning.
Admittedly, after a few minutes of horror, things had gotten better. Haerwal had begun to realise that it was almost impossible to fall. The firedrake moved with an astonishing grace and speed. Every movement he made was compensated for. Soon, like all the others, he was heading south at huge speed, tearing down from the Dragon Spine peaks and out beyond the coast. The phalanx of dragons, resplendent in gold, red, sapphire and silver, shot across the waves, banking and dipping close to the water.
The speed made his heart race. Haerwal was no coward and had fought on a hundred battlefields in his long life, but hanging on to the plunging, snaking back of a giant lizard as it hurtled through the air scared him rigid.
“How do you find it?”
The voice was Rathien’s, coming from a few hundred feet away. There was something about dragonflight that made the speech—even the thoughts—of the other riders strangely easy to pick out.
“Majestic, lord,” replied Haerwal through a clenched jawline, knowing what was expected of a Caledorian.
He heard Rathien’s laughter clearly. Despite the rush of the wind and the roar of the flames, Haerwal found he could communicate easily not just with Rathien but with the other Caledorians who’d dared to mount a firedrake. It was almost as if they all shared a single part of one great, fractured mind.
That was, he supposed, how he knew that his dragon’s name was Inthalgar, and also that she was a female a little over five thousand years old. Certainly no one else had told him.
Inthalgar banked suddenly, and Haerwal scrabbled for a handhold. His heart leapt a beat as, for a moment, he was suspended high over the ocean with nothing between him and a drop of five hundred feet. Then the dragon righted herself, pulling up through a thermal.
Haerwal could feel the dragon’s mind almost as clearly as he could hear the words of his master. Inthalgar was amused.
You are clumsy.
“Blood of Khaine,” swore Haerwal, not deigning to answer Inthalgar and adjusting his riding posture inexpertly. His drake was a dull red across her scaled hide, and the flesh of her massive wings was pearl-white. “Anything, anything, to get him to stop this madness.”
Rathien now flew a long way ahead, perched on the back of a huge golden dragon with wine-red wings. The prince hadn’t been the same since walking out across the bridge in the mountains. The brooding he’d indulged in since the defeat in Eataine had been replaced by a fey kind of glee. He seemed to glory in the danger and speed of dragonflight. Unlike Haerwal, Rathien controlled his steed with what looked like innate control.
Haerwal had to admit he’d been surprised. In the long hours of waiting for the prince to return across the bridge, he’d been quite ready to believe that Rathien had died. When the drakes had finally emerged though, in the midst of his fear there had also been pride. Though no Dragon Prince, the blood of the Dragontamer ran through his veins too.
Now though, as the shock of the transition wore off, Haerwal found his mind filling with doubts again.
“You have done what you said you would do, lord,” he cried. “What now?”
Even as Haerwal finished speaking, the huge golden body of Khalathamor wheeled around, thrusting upwards from the power of a single devastating downbeat. Inthalgar arrested her course and made to follow the path taken by Khalathamor. In their wake came the other dragons, all riding the winds with power and speed.
“Revenge,” came the clear voice of Rathien. “If there cannot be victory, then there can at least be vengeance.”
Haerwal shook his head. His knuckles were white from the jaw-tight grip, and the nausea brought on by the erratic, violent dragonflight had not gone away.
“Do you dwell on Valaris still?” he asked. “What purpose can that serve?”
Rathien swung around, then powered low across the water. For a second, Haerwal caught sight of the prince’s disfigured face. It made him look more daemon than asur.
“Vengeance has its own purpose,” he replied, and his voice was as cold as the grave.
Then Khalathamor beat his wings heavily again and the golden dragon surged away to the south.
“Its own purpose,” Haerwal muttered bitterly, looking at Khalathamor’s whipcurl tail as it receded into the sky ahead. With every passing hour, Rathien seemed to be consumed further by his obsessions. It was almost as if the chimera’s blood had stained his soul as well as his skin. “So the futile battle continues.”
Inthalgar gave a disdainful snort from her nostrils, and a wave of acrid ash ran over him.
We travel for the fulcrum. The enemy is there.
“Oh, shut up,” said Haerwal, blurting out loud in his fear. “For the love of Isha, just keep me close behind him without tipping me into the sea.”
Valaris stood at the summit of the fulcrum and flexed his limbs, trying to ease the stiffness of the long climb from his joints. All around him, Sword Masters stood watchfully, their robes rippling in the wind. Their faces were impassive, and every one of them had a hand on the pommel of his weapon.
He could see for miles. The sea extended in every direction towards the horizon, choppy and endlessly moving. The fulcrum was the only speck of land. Everything else was ocean, boundless and primordial.
The pinnacle was flat and smooth and extended about fifty feet in diameter. That didn’t leave much room for the survivors of the Tiranien’s voyage to cluster without getting in the way of one another.
After so much uncertainty though, and so much danger, he finally began to understand Anlia’s vision. Somehow, closeted away in the citadel he had found for her, she had seen the potential of the storm of magic. In a most unlikely fashion, it had been her, rather than some aged master of mages, who had discovered the location of the fulcrum.
He had to hand it to her. Though she looked young and behaved younger, she had stumbled across something of quite staggering power. It defied all likelihood, and yet gave him the chance he’d been waiting for. Surely that showed the gods at work. Surely that indicated the hand of greater powers in all that had taken place.
Valaris turned to look at her. Anlia stood in the centre of the space, arms outstretched, eyes closed. She’d been there for hours, saying nothing, drawing power towards her from the stone under her feet. If he had not known better, he would have thought she wasn’t doing very much at all.
The raising of the fulcrum had dispelled any doubts he might have had on that score. Anlia’s full potential had been released by that, and it was awesome. Even with his mortal senses, Valaris could feel the quickening elements race around her. She was preparing a cantrip of truly frightening proportions, a spell so powerful that all of Ulthuan would feel the measure of it when it was complete.
Anlia began to murmur out loud. The air above her shimmered like the air over a candle. A bead of sweat ran down her brow, even though the air was clear and cold.
Valar
is let his eyes wander across the water-smoothed stone at her feet. The flags were drier now and paler than the dark cliffs below. There were marks on the stone, worn and hard to read. Not words. Crude pictures, perhaps. It was hard to make much out—a pyramid, maybe. Some kind of blunt-jawed creature. An angular serpent.
Then his eyes were drawn to a glyph depicting what looked like a giant toad-like being sitting on an angular, vine-clad platform. He started to move closer to it, strangely intrigued.
“My lord,” came Gilean’s voice.
Valaris looked up. Unlike the rest of the Sword Masters, the Bladelord had turned away from Anlia and was facing north.
“What is it?” asked Valaris, forgetting the carvings and coming to stand by his side.
“You should have told me about your mage.”
Valaris started. “She told you? Of her past?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Gilean turned to face the Ellyrian. “When this is over, there will be a reckoning. The judgements of the Tower do not lapse. She must face justice.”
Valaris considered this. Though unexpected, there were advantages to such a scenario. Once Anlia had done what she had promised to do, her usefulness to him would be diminished. He had run many risks to keep her safe from the consequences of her actions; perhaps, in the future, the costs of doing so would outweigh the benefits.
“Of course,” he said, looking over at her. It was hard not to feel a little sadness as he betrayed her at last. For all her headstrong impetuosity, she had had such irrepressible vitality. “She will be submitted to your judgement.”
“I am glad that is how you feel,” said Gilean. “But, for now, I suspect there will be more pressing matters to attend to. You should look north.”
Valaris did so.
“I see nothing.”
“There, on the far horizon.”
For a moment more, Valaris made out nothing but the haze of the water and sunlight. Then he saw the first movement.
“Do you see it, lord?” asked Gilean.
“I do,” said Valaris, squinting against the glare. “At least, I think I do.”
He looked closer, suddenly feeling a stab of unease.
“Tell me, Bladelord—am I going mad, or is the sky on fire?”
CHAPTER TEN
Air and fire.
They were the elements of the Dragonmages, the twin tools they used to bend the world to their will. As Rathien flew low across the oceans, he was surrounded by both. Khalathamor’s withering breath washed back over him, hotter than the sands of Araby. The haze of it made his armour glitter as if fresh-forged.
“I see it, lord!” cried Haerwal, close behind on his right flank.
“As do I,” replied Rathien, resting his hand on Khalathamor’s neck in silent thanks. The ancient dragon had guided him well.
The phalanx of drakes had swept southwards from Ulthuan, speeding low across the waves like bolts from a repeater. They were tireless on the wing, able to eat up the miles without rest or complaint.
So it should have been, of course, for the air was their home. A dragon was a terrifying enough prospect on land—all spines and scales and choking smoke—but in the air, they were veritable angels of destruction.
The tips of their wings extended, exposing the streaked and patterned flesh. Their long tails curled and flicked as they plunged through the heavens. Their jaws gaped wide, drinking in the pure air and expelling it in gouts of smoke and sparks. As they speared to their destination, they left behind a long trail of burned metal stink and hanging, smouldering ash.
Rathien leaned down closer to Khalathamor’s massive head.
“I see my enemy, great one,” he said. “He is your enemy now. From this moment forth, all enemies we face will be shared.”
There was no reply from the great drake. Khalathamor mind-spoke rarely. The understanding he shared with Rathien was so complete that there was seldom need for words.
The pace of the phalanx’s advance only began to slow as the dragons neared the tower of rock. Rathien could see magical Winds circling around the pinnacle, brighter and more dazzling than the sunlight. Lines of shimmering force ran up through the stone and out into the sky, terminating in the high heavens in a cloud of spinning brilliance.
A spell, one of great magnitude, was gathering momentum. The closer he got, the more Rathien could feel the tingle of it on his flesh.
“Valaris of Ellyrion,” he said, speaking to himself. His wounds burned at him, fuelling the dark mood of revenge that had lodged deep in his soul. He no longer had the will to resist it. “Whatever you’ve done here, it will not be permitted to endure.”
As the dragons approached the tower, they reared up into the air, deftly halting their onward rush and breaking into a high circling pattern over the pinnacle. Khalathamor was at the forefront, and drew closest to the summit before arresting his forward momentum.
From that vantage, Rathien could spy the flat top of the rock tower. There were asur standing on the stone, many of them. Some were in the white robes of Sword Masters, others looked like Sea Guard.
Only one soul drew his attention, though. Valaris. As Rathien laid eyes on his rival, he felt his hatred flare up again. The bitterness of the road from Eataine stirred once more, and the memory of that darkness fuelled his anger.
The Ellyrian prince was far down below, staring up at him, shock written all over his cultured face. Even from so great a distance, there was no mistaking that face. It had been the face of his vanquisher; soon it would be face of the vanquished.
Sword Masters hurried to come between the prince and the dragons. A touching gesture, though little more than a statement of futile loyalty.
Standing behind them all was another figure, a female mage in robes of red. The magic came from her. The aura around her was impressive. If Rathien had been alone then her powers, fuelled by the fulcrum of magic she controlled, would have been far in excess of his.
But he wasn’t alone.
“Prince of Ellyrion!” cried Rathien, sitting forward as Khalathamor came to a halt. The drake’s wings beat heavily to maintain position.
Rathien could see Valaris’ lips move, but heard no words. The strange power the dragonriders had to communicate with one another evidently didn’t extend to the speech of those on the ground.
“Our contest is not yet over!” Rathien cried. “You are overmatched here. Do not make me spill more blood for no cause. Cease whatever rites your mage has entered into, and yield this place—I claim it for Caledor!”
Khalathamor drifted closer to the rocks, giving Rathien a better view of the Ellyrian’s response. Rathien still couldn’t make out the words exactly, but he could see the expression perfectly. It was as defiant as he’d expected, and, given the circumstances, impressively profane.
“So be it,” he said, adjusting his posture and preparing for the plummeting dive. “You have given your answer. Now hear mine.”
“They’re attacking!”
For the first time since spying the trails of fire on the horizon, Gilean sounded alarmed.
Valaris froze, unable to move. He’d shouted appropriately scornful abuse at Rathien, but in truth the sight of the dragon hovering in the sky above him had chilled his blood.
It was massive. There was nothing, nothing, that could stand against such a beast—and there were many of them to contend with. The downdraft of the dragons’ wings alone nearly brushed the Sword Masters from their precarious positions. They were nightmares made flesh, remnants of the myths of Caledor brought writhing and blazing into reality.
And then his dread turned into real fear. Unbelievably, Rathien’s dragon began to swoop down on them, its head dipping and its wings furling like a falcon. It raced earthwards, erupting into summer-yellow flame as it came.
“He would not da—”
Valaris felt Gilean grab at his robes, trying to pull him away. He heard the sudden, disbelieving cries of the Sword Masters. He heard his own blood thumping in his temples.
He saw fire.
The golden dragon vomited a raging, twisting torrent of flame, smothering the tip of the rock tower and rolling down the cliff edges, scorching the stone and vaporising the lingering seawater. Valaris flung himself to the ground, covering his head with his arms.
He felt sudden, terrible heat. The flames raged for horrifying moments, burning away the air itself in a thunderous roar of destruction, before blazing out in a final gutter of fury.
Then the momentum of the drake’s run carried it over the peak, and it swept out across the waves, banking sharply to come back for a second pass.
Valaris raised his face from the rock, astonished to find that he was still alive. He lifted his hands. They were unharmed. Gingerly, he looked around him. The Sword Masters were doing likewise, and even their stoic faces were pale with surprise.
It was only then that he saw the glittering dome of diamonds above him. There were still flames flickering over the dome, dying out as the seawinds gusted across it. He twisted around, rising to his knees as he did so, and saw Anlia looking at him. She was still standing, but her face was red and streaming with blood.
“I can’t hold them off for long!” she gasped, her face twisted in horror. “They are terrible!”
Valaris had no words with which to reply. He looked over at Gilean, then back at Anlia, then out over the ocean. Other dragons were closing in. One by one, the drakes were lining up to burn the life from the fulcrum.
They were beautiful, those creatures. Sunlight flashed from their scales as their sinuous bodies slid into attack postures. There were warriors riding on them, clad in the proud armour of Caledor.
It was then that Valaris found himself lost in that awful beauty of it all, mesmerised by the killing dance being played out in the sunlit vastness. He forgot to feel hatred for his enemy, or even surprise at the reckless attack. For Valaris, like so many of his kind, dragons had become little more than a myth, a mere memory of more glorious days.
[Storm of Magic 02] - Dragonmage Page 8