Master of Dragons

Chapter Thirteen

The dwarfs on the march were like a slow avalanche battering its way down a mountainside. They made little effort to skirt around obstacles or difficult terrain — they ploughed through it, never changing pace, keeping their heads low and their arms swinging in unison. In their wake they left a wasteland of hacked stumps and trampled-down foliage, a scar on the forest as wide as fifty warriors marching shoulder to shoulder.

Behind those pioneers came the builders. Wooden bridges were thrown up over gorges; earthworks were hurriedly put up to shore the road’s margins; the stubbornest obstacles were simply demolished by a whole phalanx of bare-chested workers using axes, hammers, shovels and long-handled hods.

Caradryel had plenty of time to watch the dawi at work, and what he saw gave him plenty to think about. Even the lowliest worker applied himself with almost fanatical zeal. He saw dwarfs staggering under their own weight in rubble, shining with sweat, refusing any help until their portion of the labour was done. He saw others carrying atrocious wounds and still working on, shrugging off levels of pain that would have had him in bed for a week.

The dwarfs seemed consumed by a kind of low-level mania that drove them west, ever west, obliterating anything they came across on the way. He found their single-mindedness both repellent and admirable. An elf would have found a more elegant route, taking care to conserve strength for the battle ahead. Something about the dawi’s utter disregard for such considerations made him uneasy.

He had spoken to Morgrim on and off during the trek towards Tor Alessi. The dwarf lord was busy for most of the time with his thanes and warlords and spared himself as little as they did, marching to and fro amongst the armoured columns tirelessly, taking counsel and ruminating with them long into the night. Dwarf discussions seemed to involve an inordinate amount of beard-tugging, ale-drinking and low grunting — even about seemingly trivial matters.

Slowly Caradryel had come to realise why Morgrim kept himself so busy. The dwarf army, which was far, far bigger than he’d been led to believe, was composed of forces from many different holds. Each one was led by its own prince or thane, many of whom were older than Morgrim and had trenchant views of their own. Seniority was a powerful thing with them, and Morgrim had to work incessantly to keep the whole messy, fractious, temperamental caravan on the road.

Caradryel found himself admiring the dour warrior. Morgrim was driven and irascible, obviously haunted by the death of his cousin and the need for blood-vengeance, but he could keep his head when he needed to, cajoling and arguing with a deft mix of forcefulness and tact.

‘Does it make you nervous?’ Morgrim had asked Caradryel on one of their few conversations together.

‘What, lord?’

‘Being surrounded by those who wish to kill you.’

Caradryel thought for a moment. ‘In truth, I have never found myself to be universally popular,’ he said eventually. ‘So, no.’

Morgrim didn’t smile. It was rare to see him smile, and when he did it was a cynical gesture, bereft of warmth.

‘Morek tells me I am wasting my time with you,’ said Morgrim. ‘He says you should have been sent back to Tor Alessi with an iron collar round your neck.’

‘Morek is your counsellor?’

‘My runelord.’

‘I’m glad you didn’t listen to him.’

Morgrim picked his nose and flicked the results to the floor. ‘You know what I despise about you elgi?’

Caradryel didn’t offer a suggestion.

‘Your lack of seriousness,’ said Morgrim. He held up his axe. ‘This is Morek’s finest work. He spent decades crafting the symbols into this metal. He bent his neck over it, honing, tapping, seeking. He never smiled, never made an unworthy remark — he worked until it was done. Now the power within it almost scares me.’

Caradryel thought of all the wasted, half-finished endeavours he’d embarked upon in his life, only to discard them when something more appealing came his way.

‘This land rewards such work,’ Morgrim went on. ‘It is a serious land. You can carve a living here, if you work at it, but it will never repay sloth. I’ve seen the way you people look at the grime under the leaves and I know what you think of it, but we cherish every shadow, every pit. It is our place. You should not have come here.’

‘We have been in Elthin Arvan for a thousand years,’ countered Caradryel carefully. ‘There is room enough for both of us, is there not?’

Morgrim hawked up a gobbet of phlegm and spat it messily. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

Caradryel paused before speaking again. ‘If I may, then, lord — a question.’

Morgrim grunted his assent.

‘Why are you not sending me back to Imladrik? Why are you entertaining his proposal at all?’

‘Because of who he is.’ Morgrim drew in a long breath. The leather-tough skin around his eyes creased as he remembered. ‘He never looked down on us. He did not scorn our food, nor our caverns, nor call us stunted. When I showed him the vaults of the Everpeak he remained silent. He bowed before the great image of Grimnir, and for a moment I could not tell whether it was elgi or dawi who stood there.’

When Morgrim spoke of Imladrik, his harsh voice softened a little, losing its cold edge of disdain.

‘I looked at him and I saw one of us,’ Morgrim said. ‘A soul that understood the path of duty.’ Morgrim glanced at Caradryel. ‘He learned Khazalid. He spoke it well, for an elgi. It took him twenty years, he told me, to master the greeting-forms, but he did it. I know of no others of your kind who have even tried, let alone succeeded.’

As Morgrim spoke, Caradryel remembered the ephemera of Yethanial’s patient scholarship at Tor Vael. He had wondered at the relationship between the two of them back then, struck by how pale and grey she seemed next to his vigorous dynamism, but perhaps there was something more profound there than appearances.

‘His brother is a fool and my people will rejoice when his neck is cut,’ continued Morgrim. ‘But my cousin was not wise-tempered either.’ The dwarf’s nose crinkled as he attempted what passed with him for a smile. ‘What might have been, if Imladrik and I had been the heirs? Perhaps none of this foolishness.’

He looked sidelong at Caradryel.

‘But all we have are the things set before us, and I will tell you this: I respect him for the reason I do not respect you. He is serious.’

Caradryel remembered how, despite himself, that accusation had wounded him. Alone among all the insults and contempt he’d faced from that dawi, that one had somehow struck home.

Perhaps, he thought, if I somehow make it out of here alive, I will have to address this. Perhaps I have been playing at life for too long.

Now though, days later, the march was coming to an end. Caradryel had taken his place beside Feliadh again. He and the other Caledorians walked by his side, leading their horses, looking dishevelled from the long trek but otherwise unharmed. For the last few hours the trees had been thinning out around them, gradually giving way to a bleak country of grass, sea-wind and loamy earth.

The dwarf vanguard pulled together, forming up into squares of impeccably ordered warriors. Morgrim and his bazan-khazakrum hearthguard had forged their way to the forefront, taking the combined standards of the army with them — a heavy-set collection of banners bearing stylised images of forges, hammers, flames and mountains.

‘Now we see where this game has led us,’ whispered Feliadh to Caradryel.

Caradryel nodded, keeping a careful watch on Morgrim’s progress ahead.

‘We will indeed.’

They crested a low tussock of tufted grass and sucking mud, beyond which the plains running down the sea suddenly opened out before them. Caradryel breathed in deeply, relishing the brine on the brisk air.

The sun was low in the east behind them, still pulling clear of the morning mists over the forest. Elthin Arvan’s coastline was visible in the distance, a line of barred silver crowned with piled seaborne clouds. The huge, proud outline of Tor Alessi broke its emptiness, jutting up from the plain in a mass of spear-sharp towers and soaring walls. Runes on its walls could be made out even from such a distance, picked out in gold and emerald, glowing warmly as the waxing sun caught the gilt tapestry.

Caradryel saw the city then as the dwarfs around him must have seen it — huge, bristling with arms and magic, a fastness unrivalled by any the elves had built in all their colonial lands. It looked indomitable, as solid as the Phoenix Throne itself.

If Caradryel had been one of those dour-faced, iron-clad warriors his spirits might have faltered then. Somehow, he doubted theirs would.

‘So what do we do now?’ asked Feliadh. The Caledorian had started treating him with a good deal more respect since the events of the ambush.

‘The Doom of the Elves has made his arrival,’ Caradryel said dryly. ‘Now we wait for the Master of Dragons to make his.’

Alviar walked along Kor Vanaeth’s main thoroughfare. Loose soil and straw clung to his boots — the stone paving that had once made the roads a pleasure to walk on had long since been ripped up for repairs to the walls and citadel. Everything that had any military use had been taken, including ornamental stone lintels, bronze statues, even articles from the temples.

Alviar had disapproved of that at the time, as had most of the citizens. Liandra had been most insistent, though. She always was.

If he was honest, Alviar had never truly agreed with the decision to repopulate Kor Vanaeth. It was too small, too isolated, too enclosed by the forest. He would have been happy enough to follow Liandra to Tor Alessi or Athel Toralien, to start a new life in one of the truly big fortresses, the only places where a modicum of safety was still preserved.

He smiled as he remembered how Liandra had replied when he’d first suggested that, years ago. He’d never been able to repeat what she said in front of his four children, but the sight of her with eyes blazing, cheeks scarlet and spittle flying remained seared on his memory. She hadn’t agreed.

Given all of that, it had been a disappointment when she’d accepted the summons at last to go to Tor Alessi. Right up until the end he had hoped she’d find a way to ignore it, but then Alviar supposed that it was hard to resist the Council for long.

She’d been torn about it, at least, which boded well for her return.

‘I will come back,’ she had promised him.

‘I know you will, lady,’ he had replied.

‘And I will bring reinforcements too. It’s long past time Tor Alessi released some of its defenders — they can hardly house the troops they’ve got.’

‘That would be good, my lady.’

Then she had gone, taking wing on that flame-red dragon of hers. Alviar had watched her go, wondering if anything she’d promised would be delivered.

Since then, nothing. Vague reports had reached them of dwarf armies on the move again, but all had been from the north. Alviar had done what he could in the meantime: overseeing the last of the repairs to the walls, ensuring the soldiers he did possess were in a good state of readiness for whatever might come. They knew that attack was likely, particularly if the dwarf forces started to splinter as they had done so many times in the past, so he’d sent messages to Tor Alessi warning of the imminent danger, despite little faith they would be received.

He looked up at the citadel ahead of him. It rose from the patchwork of houses like a tree-stump from the soil, streaked black from old fires. If all failed, the entire population could retreat to that redoubt, the only part of the old fortress that had remained intact after the dwarf attacks.

Alviar narrowed his eyes, running his gaze along the battle-ments. He thought he should really send someone up to ensure the ballistae were all in perfect condition and safely stowed before the next storm came in.

He was about to turn away, making a note to himself to have a word with the watch commander, when something else caught his eye. It was high up in the eastern sky — a lone bird with a strange, halting flight.

He paused, wondering for a moment what it was. Then, as the speck of darkness grew larger, his heart missed a beat. For all its ungainliness it was coming at them fast. Far, far too fast.

‘Sound the alarm!’ he shouted, breaking into a run. ‘Man the walls!’

He made it as far as the citadel gates before it hit them. The stench was incredible — a rolling wash of hot putrescence, like a boiled corpse. He staggered, losing his footing and colliding heavily with the stone doorframe. From behind him he heard screams as others looked up into the skies and saw what was bearing down on them.

Hands trembling, Alviar pushed his way through the citadel doors and scrambled up the spiral stairway beyond. As he raced up the steps they seemed to shiver underneath him.

He reached the bell tower and caught hold of the long chain, yanking it frantically. That was the signal — it should bring the soldiers to their stations on the walls and summon everyone else to the sanctuary of the citadel.

Alviar rang it furiously for a few seconds longer, his heart pounding and his pulse racing.

It had been huge. Huge, and… wrong.

Then he tore out of the chamber and up to the citadel’s summit. As he ran he started praying that the ballistae were manned and that they’d managed to get a few bolts away. He didn’t know whether anything they had would do much against that monster, but they should at least attempt a defence.

He burst out into the open at the top of the stairwell, slamming the wooden door back on its hinges as he emerged on to the wide, flat rooftop. He was instantly reassured — several dozen guards were already there on the ramparts, hauling the heavy ballistae and bolt throwers into firing angles and shouting furiously at one another. The wind whipped across him, as hot as a desert sandstorm and flecked with eerie snarls of flame.

‘Where is it?’ he yelled, twisting around as he ran, his neck craned up into the skies.

It was a superfluous question. The black dragon headed straight at them, less than a hundred feet away and tearing towards the citadel’s summit. Green and purple energies laced around it, dripping like molten metal from its outstretched maw. Alviar caught a blurred impression of massive jaws pulled wide and a pair of silver eyes blazing with madness before he threw himself on to the stone and covered his head with his hands.

He heard a throttling roar that made the stone beneath his chest judder, then felt a sudden rush of air being inhaled into massive lungs. The stink intensified — a foul mix of mortuary scraps and magic. Amid all the roaring and the terror he thought he caught a woman’s voice, screaming out words that he couldn’t understand but that somehow amplified the paralysing dread that gripped him tight.

That, though, was the last of Alviar’s fear-fractured impressions. A second later the jets of flame came, tempests of addled fire that crashed across the citadel’s battlements like breakers against a prow, immolating everything like the vengeance of Khaine and sealing, for a second time, the doom of Kor Vanaeth.

The doors were barred with spiked iron bands and weighed the same as a fully laden trade cutter. Somewhere within the cavernous gatehouse, chains the width of wine barrels clanked taut around wheels, then pulled.

Imladrik watched them draw to the full — first a slit, then a window of daylight, then the wide vista of the plains beyond.

His mount was skittish under him. The horse could smell dragon, and that always unsettled them. He placed a reassuring hand on its neck and whispered the calming words that Yethanial had taught him.

Twenty ceremonial riders passed through the archway ahead of him, each decked in dazzling ithilmar and carrying pennants with the emblems of Ulthuan and Caledor. Aelis rode on his left side, Salendor on his right. Gelthar and Caerwal came behind, along with three battle-mages.

Liandra had still not returned from wherever Vranesh had taken her. Imladrik could have remained preoccupied, but the time had passed for that.

One battle at a time.

They rode out. Ahead of them, a mile from the walls, the dwarfs had taken up positions. Their army stretched across the eastern limit of the plain in a long arc. Imladrik could see regiments digging in: some carrying huge warhammers two-handed, others with axes or stubby crossbows. Their armour glinted dully in the sun, exposing intricate knotwork engraving on the helms and pauldron plates.

He tried to estimate numbers. Fifty thousand? Sixty? There might be more still marching through the forest to join them. In any case, it was a brutally large muster.

Thin columns of smoke were already rising from the dwarf encampment, marking the fires that they would drink and eat around, working one another up into battle-readiness with old tales of heroism and grudgement. Once those tales might have concerned Malekith and Snorri Whitebeard, though they would do so no longer, and for that Imladrik was thankful.

The Sundering was largely unknown to the dwarfs. If they had ever been curious about the affairs of Ulthuan they would no doubt have uncovered the truth soon enough, but they were an insular race with little concern for internal elgi politics. For their part the asur had never made reference to it. In the early days many assumed Malekith would be defeated quickly. Only slowly had the dreadful truth become apparent — that the split would linger for as long as any could foresee, and that the Witch King was far too powerful to be reliably defended against, let alone destroyed.

After that the asur kept the truth from the outside world, guarding their shame like an oil lantern in the wind, sheltering it from prying eyes and hoping that, somehow, it could be contained. When the strife in Elthin Arvan had first come, Imladrik had sent Gotrek letters, hinting at the truth, still constrained by the need for secrecy and veiled with vagueness. Perhaps he should have been more explicit.

Ahead of him the dawi banners hung limply. Everything about them was blunt, grim, heavy. As the elves approached the dwarf lines, crossbow-bearing guards stomped out to greet them. Behind them came a company of foot soldiers wearing thick plates over chainmail, their helms carved into grotesque representations of dragon-faces. Imladrik pulled the reins gently, and the party came to a halt.

The dwarfs assembled, crossbows levelled, saying nothing. An uneasy silence descended, broken only by the distant sounds of campfires crackling and supply wagons being unloaded.

Imladrik removed his high helm, exposing his face to the enemy.

‘Tromm, dawinarri,’ he said, bowing respectfully. ‘Ka ghurraz Imladriki na Kaledor.’

The wind whistled. For many heartbeats, no one spoke.

‘Your accent has got worse.’

The voice came from behind the lines, hidden by the grim wall of steel and iron. Imladrik thought it sounded harsher than it had once done; back then, Snorri had always been the angry one, his cousin the voice of calm.

‘I have not had much time to practise,’ Imladrik called out, resisting the urge to scan along the lines to see where Morgrim was hidden.

He did not have to wait for long. The guards shuffled to one side, and the iron-clad hearthguard replaced them. Then their ranks parted, exposing two figures standing within their midst.

One was grizzled with age, his long beard flecked grey and his stance hunched. He carried a thick-shafted stave crowned with an iron anvil, the head of which seemed to shimmer as if in a heat-haze. Imladrik did not recognise him, though he knew well enough the marks of a runesmith.

The other one he certainly knew, though time had not been kind to the memory. Morgrim’s helm and armour were smeared with blood, daubed in ritual marks of vengeance. His eyes had darkened and his previously open face had withdrawn into a scarred, tight visage of distrust. His boots and cloak were travel-worn, his fine armour splattered with the mud of the road. He carried an ornate axe, studded with runes. It looked new-forged.

Imladrik dismounted, though even on foot he still towered over the dwarf lord.

Morgrim did not bow. ‘You sent me a fool,’ he said.

‘He came to me recommended,’ said Imladrik.

‘By whom?’

‘Someone I trust.’

Morgrim grunted. ‘We did not harm him,’ he said, in a voice that indicated he regretted the fact.

‘Then what of his tidings? Do we have leave to talk?’

‘My thanes counsel against it. They are hungry to see your walls in rubble. They ask me what you can tell us that we haven’t heard before.’

‘Little, perhaps,’ admitted Imladrik. ‘But not nothing. We used to speak often, you and I. Back then your cousin was the one who wouldn’t listen.’

A shadow fell across Morgrim’s face. ‘His death is the cause of this.’

‘He should have been buried in the Everpeak with honour. He should have taken his place beside Grimnir, and should have done so intact.’

As Imladrik spoke, one of his guards dismounted and bore him a rosewood box inlaid with silver renditions of the dwarfen runes of kingship. Imladrik passed it to Morgrim, stooping as he delivered it.

‘I brought this from Lothern, where it should never have been taken. It is presented to you in reverence, in the hope that it may be returned to where it belongs.’

Morgrim glared up at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he opened the catch. A withered hand lay within, cushioned on silk and bound with fine linen. Its fingers had been severed at the first knuckle.

Morgrim stared at it for a long time. When he next spoke, his voice was thick.

‘I would have brought our armies to Ulthuan to retrieve this.’

‘I know.’

‘And you think you can buy my goodwill with it?’

‘It was not intended to buy anything,’ said Imladrik, knowing the danger of mortal insult. ‘I give it to you now before fighting makes it impossible, so it may be returned to his father in Karaz-a-Karak and interred with the grondaz rites. I would have it known that Snorri Halfhand, greatest of dawi princes, can still grasp an axe in the afterlife.’

Morgrim nodded slowly. ‘Aye,’ he said grimly. ‘It would be fitting.’

Then he glared up at Imladrik again.

‘It can never go back to how it was,’ he said. ‘My army will remain on these plains, preparing for battle. But I will listen. Perhaps you can tell me something new, perhaps not: I make no promises.’

Imladrik bowed, feeling a surge of relief wash over him. He felt like thanking Morgrim, knowing the risks the dwarf lord ran to make such a concession, but that would have been fatal — dwarfs cared nothing for gratitude, only debts, loyalty and payment.

So instead he rose to his full height and withdrew slowly, never taking his eyes off Morgrim’s conflicted face.

‘So be it,’ he said. ‘The last chance to end this madness. By Asuryan, let us not waste it.’