The noise was the most terrifying thing. The Ithaniel’s spars shivered and the water drummed as if under a deluge. The sound was unforgettable — the mingled screams and battle-cries of a thousand mortal voices, locked together and blended into a pure animal bellow of rampant excess.
After the noise came the stink, a charred-metal stench like a blacksmith’s forge, hot, pungent and saturated with the wild edge of ancient magic.
And then, finally, how it looked.
Its body was taut like a hunting hound, ribbed with steely plates, vivid, glistening, a shard of a jewel hurled into the heavens. It twisted in the air, flashing a long sapphire-blue hide. Its wings shot out like speartips, splayed with membranous skeins of bone-white flesh. Its tail was prehensile, snapping and flicking; its jaws gaped, blurry from heatwash and snarls of smoke, lined with teeth the length of a mortal’s arm, crowned with drawn-back horns and tapers of ridged armour.
It was immense. Its shadow compassed the druchii corsair-ship, and its wingspan alone dwarfed the slack sails, turning what had been a daunting hunter into a drifting hulk.
Caradryel dragged himself upright, heart beating hard. As he did so the dragon came around for another pass. Flames thundered from its gaping jaws and hit the centre of the druchii vessel, punching clear through, shattering and carving, before exploding in a ball of steam as seawater gushed through the breach. The dragon swooped past and its tail lashed out, striking the reeling corsair amidships and breaking its spine. The warship wallowed in a flaming whirlpool for a moment before sinking fast, pulled down below as if grasped by greedy hands.
The dragon surged away after the remaining two ships. They had both turned hard into the wind and were beating a furious retreat, but it was hopeless. Caradryel steadied himself against the Ithaniel’s railing. The dragon reached the first corsair with a single wing-thrust, shooting across the water faster than a thrown spear. It vomited another burst of flame then pounced on the remains, seizing a mast-top in its maw and savaging it. The ship broke apart in a flaming tumble of splinters and shards.
Then the second. A score of heavy wing beats, a diving attack, a lash of the long sinuous tail, and it was over. All that remained of the corsair squadron was a miserable collection of bobbing flotsam. Those druchii not killed by the flames went under quickly, dragged down by their armour. A few deck-slaves clung to the wreckage, shivering from the shock, the cold, the awe.
Caradryel was unable to do much more than observe. The sight both scared and thrilled him — the exhibition of such power went far beyond anything he had seen before. The dragon’s movements were almost lazy in their effectiveness, as if the creature were barely summoning up more than a token effort. As he gazed up at the wheeling wingtips Caradryel found himself lost in the arrogance of it. It was primordial. It was astonishing.
He knew then why it made him afraid: he couldn’t control it, couldn’t hope to control it. It was as pure and mindless as the storms that raced down from the Annulii. Caradryel had never encountered anything that he truly believed he couldn’t control, whether through manipulation or flattery or the careful use of well-placed bribes. A dragon, though… Only a fool or a demigod would try to master that.
The creature came to a halt before the Ithaniel’s prow, maintaining its position in mid-air with a heavy sequence of downbeats. Its long, lean head rose high above the mast-top and its tail slashed through the waves below. Hot, metallic air washed across the decks, making the sails fill and flap.
Arian was the first to recover. He stood up in the prow, looking tiny under the shadow of the beast.
‘My lord!’ he cried, saluting. ‘Our thanks!’
It was then that Caradryel saw the figure mounted on the dragon’s shoulders. He wore silver armour chased with black runes and a tall helm crested with drake-wings. A heavy crimson cloak hung around him, pooling in the muscle-hollows of the dragon’s hide. One silver gauntlet rested on the dragon’s neck, the other held a naked blade.
He looked like a figure out of ancient legend — an avatar of Aenarion brought back to life.
‘Where are you headed?’ the dragon rider called. His voice rang clearly across the waves — a calm, authoritative voice, coloured with the aristocratic accent of Caledor.
‘Lothern, lord, on business for the Lord Riannon.’
‘Then make your way. More druchii will taint these waters before the sun sinks and I do not have the leisure to slay them all.’
Arian bowed. ‘We had not been warned of corsairs, nor did I dream to see a dragon rider aloft. Is something amiss?’
The dragon rider laughed wryly. ‘Amiss? That depends on your point of view. The Phoenix King returns to his throne, hence the seas are alive with intrigue and dragons are on the wing. Our meeting here was by chance — on another day you would have been alone with your assassins.’
‘Caledor returns!’ cried Arian. ‘You bring great tidings, lord.’
The dragon rider didn’t reply. His steed beat its wings fiercely, bearing them both higher and away from the ship. Caradryel found himself wishing they would linger. The spectacle of it all — the dazzling, bejewelled creature of the high airs, the aura of raw magic bleeding from its armoured flanks — it was a heady, intoxicating presence.
A few powerful downbeats, though, and the dragon was spiralling away from them. Mere moments later it was little more than a speck of glittering blue against an empty sky.
The Ithaniel drifted on the open sea, alone again, surrounded by the blackened evidence of the dragon’s power.
Arian stirred himself. ‘Lower the boats,’ he ordered, moving down from the quarterdeck. ‘Take aboard survivors. Slaves will be freed; druchii taken to Lothern. With haste! We must be under sail again soon.’
Spearmen and deck-hands shook themselves and stumbled back to work. The ship was quickly thick with activity as repairs were made and wounds bound up. Tales of the dragon could wait until they were safely in port.
Amid it all, Caradryel remained motionless, staring up at the heavens, his hands still clutching the rails.
That is true power, he thought. That is greatness. The one who controls such power controls the world.
He didn’t notice Arian coming up to him, a wide grin on his face. The captain stooped to pick up Caradryel’s discarded sword and handed it to him, blade-first.
‘Dreaming?’ he asked. Many lines of anxiety had fallen away from his face.
Caradryel took the sword and sheathed it self-consciously. ‘A dragon rider,’ he said, trying to affect disinterest. ‘How unexpected.’
Arian laughed. ‘We were honoured. Did you not see the livery? You were in the presence of the king’s brother.’
‘Imladrik?’
‘And you missed your chance for advancement.’
‘The Master of Dragons,’ Caradryel remarked. ‘What great fortune.’
Arian turned away, a smile playing on his lips. ‘I thought you didn’t believe in fortune,’ he said, heading back up to the prow to oversee the retrieval of the boats.
‘I don’t,’ murmured Caradryel, too soft for hearing, his mind working hard.
Chapter Two
Imladrik sat loosely in the saddle, no longer giving directions to his mount but letting him find his way amid the paths of the skies. Draukhain headed south-west, gliding languidly. The destruction of the druchii squadron had been a trivial task for one of his breeding and his enormous lungs worked as rhythmically as ever, untroubled by the diversion, drawing in the chill wind and transmuting it into fiery exhalations.
The work may have been easy but the orders had been an insult. Dragons were rare and perilous creatures; to turn them into celebratory attendants of Caledor’s homecoming was an ignorant misuse of power.