The Curse of the Phoenix Crown Read online

  At the heart of the farmland was Sith Rionnasc itself, a sprawling coastal settlement that perhaps lacked the cosmopolitan flair of Tor Alessi and the grandeur of its noble houses, but which compensated for that lack of refinement with the buzz of enterprise. An endless stream of ships pulled into the city’s harbour, taking on loads of grain, vegetables, fruits and flowers that would be carried throughout the asur empire. From dawn until well after twilight, the waterfront would be a bustling hive of activity as cargo was loaded onto vessels bound for Lothern and the ten kingdoms. Many a fortune was made by those who travelled the trade route between Sith Rionnasc and the shores of Ulthuan, and the fame of captains who could make that journey in the shortest amount of time was a thing of fascination in the courts and tea houses of the elves.

  Such, Sith Rionnasc had been. Looking down from the Tower of Mathlann, Thoriol saw only the spoiled echoes of that past grandeur. The fields had fallen fallow, the meadows become overgrown. Most of the groves and orchards had been cut down, their shadowy expanses deemed inadvisable by a people who now had good reason to desire an unobstructed view of the approaches to their city. Here and there some of the flowers lingered on, going wild and expanding furiously beyond the acres they’d originally occupied. Tulips and roses were the most abundant, their red petals merging into a sanguine sea when seen from Thoriol’s vantage. The ghosts of the warriors who had died defending these lands, perhaps. Many of the keeps that had guarded the breadbasket of Elthin Arvan were nothing but broken jumbles of stone now, beaten into rubble by the fury and tenacity of the dwarfs.

  Now they had returned once more, in numbers he had never imagined to be possible. Like some colossal centipede of steel, the dwarfs came, tromping across the barren fields and wasted pastures, through the ruined meadows and desolate orchards. Their goal, of course, was to lug their catapults and siege towers close enough that they could bombard the city. They’d tried such tactics before, but never with enough strength to make their threat reality. That was different now. This wasn’t just the king of some mountain hold trying to claim glory for himself. The banners Thoriol gazed down upon bore the device of Morgrim himself, the infamous Elfdoom, conqueror of Athel Toralien, destroyer of Athel Maraya.

  Killer of Prince Imladrik.

  We could swoop down and roast the vermin in their armour until their little champion shows himself. Then we’d take our time ripping him asunder.

  Thoriol could feel Draukhain’s rage flow through him. The wrath of a dragon was an awful, primordial fury that its rider could feel in his very bones. The prince reeled in his saddle, clenching his jaw against the painful psychic resonance.

  ‘Today is not the day for revenge,’ Thoriol told the gigantic reptile upon whose shoulders he sat. The regret with which he denied Draukhain’s vengeful urges was more painful than the resonance that shivered through his spirit. He would have liked nothing more than to do just as the dragon wanted, to go down there and slaughter dwarfs until his father’s murderer showed himself. He’d give almost anything for that. But the one thing he wouldn’t surrender was his duty to his fellow asur. His uncle would never understand that, the kinship between highborn and commoner, noble and peasant. In King Caledor’s view the king was above everyone and obligated to no one. Thoriol couldn’t accept such a vision.

  Then you intend to fight as this petty general would have you fight? You intend that we should fly… with them?

  The general Draukhain mentioned was Prince Yverian, the latest noble to be dispatched to Elthin Arvan by King Caledor. Like all the others, Yverian had been chosen for his ambitious streak, his desire to take the battle to the dwarfs rather than sit behind walls and build up his defences. He’d been a cavalry commander fighting with the druchii in Naggaroth, but with that campaign fading so that it more resembled a boar hunt than a war, his family had petitioned the king to find a more auspicious battlefield. He’d been sent to replace Lady Kelsei and his first efforts had been to organise Lord Ilendril’s dragons into a strike force that could hit the dawi wherever they mustered in great numbers. The only defence, in Yverian’s eyes, was to attack the enemy before they came calling.

  It was a tactic the dwarfs had exploited time and again. Much as they had when Athel Toralien fell, they would gather a huge army only to disperse once they had the dragons where they wanted them. While the wyrms were away chasing shadows, other throngs would spill from their tunnels to attack their real targets. Many lives had been lost before Yverian agreed that he had to change his tactics, to become less reactive and more strategic about where he would send his strongest warriors.

  Thoriol looked out over the city. Three of Ilendril’s wyrms were perched upon other towers, watching the dwarfs below. They represented almost half of his total complement – perhaps more than half since Ilendril himself and the great crimson beast he rode were among those present. Malok was a gigantic brute, only slightly smaller than Draukhain and perhaps a bit more massive in its overall build. The wyrm exuded an awful atmosphere of brooding malignance; when he gazed at Malok, Thoriol could think only of a seething volcano just at the edge of eruption. Despite his disgust for the noble, he’d even tried to warn Ilendril, cautioning him about how great his steed’s enmity towards him was. The warning, of course, had fallen on deaf ears.

  That is what they are, these dragons of the far lands. They are hate and greed and arrogance. They care nothing for anything except themselves, they think of nothing greater than their own hubris. That is why they can be chained, because for all their pride and strength, each of them is utterly alone.

  Thoriol looked down at Draukhain. The enormous blue head had turned to stare at Malok. The drakes of Ulthuan acknowledged a kinship with the wyrms of Elthin Arvan, but that was as far as their connection went. Draukhain considered creatures like Malok to be raw, savage things. They lacked the introspection of those who slumbered beneath the Dragonspine, the perspective to see beyond themselves. The nearest comparison Draukhain could make for Thoriol was the difference between the asur and the human barbarians of the wilds. There was enough similarity between them in form and shape that the asur should be disquieted to see humans enslaved, but that didn’t mean they held men to be equals or kindred souls.

  ‘You will show wyrm and asur alike what real pride and real strength are,’ Thoriol told Draukhain. He could feel the drake’s amusement at his words.

  It is impossible to show anything to the blind, but we will try, little one.

  The blast of horns from the distant towers was the signal that sent Malok and the other wyrms rising into the sky. It was the command from Prince Yverian that the dragon riders should launch their attack against the advancing dwarfs, targeting their siege engines and then their heavy infantry – the foes the archers would have the hardest time keeping from the walls. Thoriol watched the wyrms for a moment, fanning their leathery pinions as they climbed, finding the thermals that would sweep them out and away towards the invaders. Even knowing the miserable magic that forced the reptiles to obey, he was impressed by the majestic spectacle of the thing. Ilendril’s vassal riders fanned out until their dragons were in unison with Malok, taking up an aerial formation more perfect than anything he could remember the riders of Caledor attempting.

  ‘Tricks taught to dogs,’ Thoriol grunted, shaking his head and snapping from his reverie. He watched Ilendril’s riders a moment longer. As the king’s nephew, he was outside the command of anyone in Elthin Arvan, even Prince Yverian. He was under no order, no obligation to take any part in the fighting. He could stay here and watch and there would be none with authority to condemn him. Indeed, it was probably what the king would expect of him, to keep away from the battle and not expose himself to risk.

  Knowing that made it all the easier for Thoriol to urge Draukhain into the air, to send the dragon flying out over the city, out towards the advancing dwarfs. Regiments of dour axemen, the horns of their helms capped in gold and silver. Va
st companies of quarrellers, their crossbows resting against their mail-clad shoulders. Brigades of longbeards, their flowing white beards adorned with charms and amulets of ruby, jade and sapphire. Great axes from the far northern holds, wings of metal soaring out from the sides of their helms, their immense blades etched with the snarling faces of giants and dragons. Among the infantry came the dwarfs’ artillery, grotesque bolt throwers carved to resemble wyverns and wyrms, huge catapults with buckets shaped like the talons of trolls and monsters. It was a grim and terrible host, an army such as only the Karaz Ankor could muster.

  Obligations, orders and the regard of his uncle weren’t the things that mattered to Thoriol. What mattered was his duty to the colonies and the asur – and that was something even the king wouldn’t take away from him.

  Draukhain was a powerful beast, but its wings had never healed properly after the battle for Oeragor. It lagged behind Ilendril’s wyrms as the other dragons dived down upon the vanguard of the dwarf army, a phalanx of warriors in heavy plate and bearing great rectangular shields. They advanced slowly, even for dwarfs, but at first Thoriol didn’t guess the reason for their ponderous tread.

  As the dragons descended, the dwarfs raised their shields, presenting them with an unbroken wall of defiant steel. The wyrms drew up short just above them, spewing withering blasts of fire down upon them. For an instant all was lost behind a pall of writhing flame and billowing smoke. It was only as the draconic fury began to abate that Thoriol noted the runes shining upon the shields of the dawi. In past battles, he’d seen champions and thanes equipped with enchanted armour that could resist dragon fire, but he’d never suspected that whole regiments could be afforded similar protection. The art of crafting such devices must be tedious and costly, otherwise the dawi would have sent such warriors into every battle.

  At once, Thoriol suspected that the dwarfs would not invest such expense simply to defend against dragons. He brushed his hand along Draukhain’s neck, coaxing the drake to slow its flight.

  In a matter of a few heartbeats, Thoriol saw the wisdom of such caution. At the heart of the dwarf formation, concealed and protected by the shields of the warriors, a compact, wheeled bolt thrower was suddenly exposed. The dwarf artillerists hastily aimed their already loaded weapon and loosed a great barbed bolt into one of the wyrms. The missile struck the reptile even as it tried to climb away, slashing through its side and pinning its left foreleg to its breast. The stricken dragon howled and roared, sizzling blood steaming from its wound.

  See what befalls the rider now that he has lost control, Draukhain cautioned Thoriol.

  The rider of the wounded dragon was screaming, his arm and side coated in blood. The elf gave no thought to maintaining command over his steed, of using the talisman hanging from his neck to demand the creature’s obedience. So it was that he didn’t stop the wyrm from slashing the straps of his saddle with its remaining foreclaw and sending the asur plummeting earthwards. Before he could hit, the elf’s dragon dived down and snatched him in its jaws, biting him in half with a vicious snap of its fangs. In its rage, the wyrm ignored the dwarfs and their bolt thrower, and the fact that the weapon had been rearmed. A second missile speared through its neck and knocked the beast from the sky.

  Ilendril and his remaining vassal peeled away from the dwarf dragon-killers, retreating into the sky beyond the reach of their missiles. The dawi cheered, hurling their derision at the fleeing wyrms. They reformed their ranks, pressing on towards the city. Behind them came the bulk of the dwarf force with their onagers and siege towers, a rumbling sea of glistening steel and sombre banners, the tide of the mountain holds made manifest. These were the dawi and they had come to Sith Rionnasc for blood and vengeance.

  Thoriol clenched his fist in frustration. He knew that he couldn’t risk taking Draukhain close to the dragon-killers. The drake’s compromised wings would make him an easy target for the artillerists. They might be able to circle around, to harry the flanks, maybe destroy any supplies the dawi had stockpiled, but such tactics would hardly blunt the impetus of the advance.

  Even as Thoriol urged Draukhain to swing around the dawi force and set upon it from the rear, Ilendril and Malok re­appeared. The crimson dragon was carrying a great chunk of rubble in its claws, the broken side of an abandoned keep. The wyrm didn’t descend to breathe his fire on the dragon-­killers. Instead, it climbed high above them, far beyond the reach of their bolt thrower. Then, when it felt it was high enough, Malok let go of its burden. The massive stone crashed down upon the regiment, smashing their rune-inscribed shields, flattening their steel plate, pulverising their bones.

  The dragon-killers were thrown into disarray by the vicious attack. Before they could recover, before they could defend the bolt thrower, Draukhain was diving down upon them, its fire shooting across their ranks. Some of the dwarfs were collected enough to lower their shields and guard themselves against the flames, but many more were too dazed by Malok’s attack to remember their discipline. They collapsed as the flames consumed them, flesh and metal bubbling away in greasy threads of steam.

  Draukhain landed full among them, its claws lashing out and smashing the bolt thrower, its tail whipping around to scatter the armoured dawi. Thoriol stabbed his lance into a bearded warchief, spitting him like a boar. A slash of the dragon’s claw ripped the dying dwarf free so its rider could attack again. For several minutes, elf and dragon lost themselves in a frenzy of carnage, careless of anything but the enemies around them and the power to annihilate them.

  The sound of dragon fire searing its way towards them was what drew Thoriol from the red mist of battle. He looked up and saw Malok winging its way through the sky. Nearby, a band of dwarfs lay burning, caught by the wyrm’s fire. Thoriol wondered if Ilendril had deliberately allowed the warriors to draw so close, so that he might have an excuse to offer if the prince should accidentally be caught in his steed’s fire.

  Whatever the cause, it was clear to Thoriol that they couldn’t remain. There were too many dwarfs to fight. Other bolt throwers were being hurriedly wheeled into range. Once they were, they would bring Draukhain down in a concentrated attack.

  ‘Come, mighty one,’ Thoriol told the dragon. ‘We’ve done what we can for now. Let the dawi worry themselves over how we shall acquit ourselves later.’

  Sweeping his claws across a last clutch of dwarfs, Draukhain climbed back into the sky, uttering a fierce roar as it swung back towards the city. From the dragon’s back, Thoriol could see the vast army continuing its march. The dragons had massacred the vanguard regiment, but they represented only the smallest fraction of the whole, a speck of sand on the beach.

  Even with a dozen dragons, Thoriol wondered if the asur would be able to hold back such a horde.

  Sith Rionnasc rested against the shore of the northern sea on land the elves had laboriously reclaimed from the waves by means of clever spells and even more clever engineering. A wide crescent spread about the bay, circling the water on three sides. It was here that the storehouses, shops, homes and civic institutions had been raised. Out in the middle of the harbour a broad island stood, the only ground in Sith Rionnasc that didn’t naturally belong to the sea. Here, in the oldest part of the settlement, the towers of the nobility had been reared along with the temples in which the asur paid homage to their gods.

  The dawi assault against Sith Rionnasc had been exactingly prepared over the course of a hundred years. Ever since the siege of Barak Varr, the dwarfs had intended to make an example of the city that had once been the sea hold’s greatest trading partner. It wasn’t enough to simply take Sith Rionnasc; the city had to be obliterated, every trace of it smashed and destroyed.

  Inside the shelter afforded by a broken elgi keep, Morgrim studied the battlefield. The fire-breakers had claimed one of the drakk, a grand omen for any conflict. The others had returned to avenge the fallen wyrm, and Morgrim mourned the loss of so many brave warriors. Their na
mes would be recorded, entered among the grudges owed by both elgi and drakk. At the same time, they’d served a heroic purpose. They’d taught the dragons a lesson in humility. The monsters now knew they couldn’t run rampant against the dawi. Now they knew that the dawi could fight back – and bring them down.

  Archers on the walls took their toll from the dwarfs as the invaders closed upon the city. Elgi bolt throwers and catapults exacted their due as well. Thankfully there had been little contribution from their mages, a circumstance that caused Morgrim concern but one that he intended to exploit for as long as possible. He would almost feel happier seeing lightning flashing out from the towers or burning rocks shooting down at his warriors. It would mean that the mages hadn’t divined the real nature of this attack.

  Morgrim watched as the first of the bolt throwers loosed its missile at Sith Rionnasc’s walls. More than simply an oversized arrow, the weapon hurled a great steel grapnel at the fortification. A thick chain unspooled behind the grapnel, but it wasn’t there so that the dawi might climb up it and gain a presence on the wall. Instead, the moment the grapnel caught, a score of stout dwarf warriors began to work a great winch set behind the weapon. The chain soon became taut and then, as the strain steadily increased, the grapnel pulled down a section of the wall.

  In half a dozen places around the fortifications of Sith Rionnasc, similar grapnels were performing the same function. A score of the machines, slowly pulling down the city walls. The army made no move to force or expand any breaches. Catapults lobbed boulders into the city, crossbows loosed bolts from the platforms of great siege towers, but these were to keep the elgi away from the grapnels. That was the real thrust of the attack and every effort was being made to prevent the thrust from being repelled.

  ‘You sent for me, my lord?’