by Nick Kyme
The low rumble of cracking stone presaged the collapse of the gatehouse, leaving the entire city razed and brought to rubble. A cheer rose up from the dwarfs of Zhufbar who were presiding over the demolition. Morgrim tried hard not to despise them for it.
Bolt throwers cranked to the highest possible elevation, the master of engineers looked over expectantly at the prince.
‘The drakk!’ bellowed one of the engineers, his crew trembling with fear at the sight of the monster.
A bestial shriek, chasm deep and full of hatred, echoed across the sky. It was a challenge. If the dragon rider was Imladrik, he had seen the carnage by now and had chosen to attack. Morgrim unslung his hammer, the runes flaring bright across its head.
Snorri ran out into the open ground, snarling to match the beast.
‘Hold fast, let it come!’ He swung up his axe, brandishing it at the sky and the winged shadow rapidly closing. ‘Face me!’ he roared. ‘I am the dreng drakk. Taste this steel, for it will cleave you unto death!’
Morgrim ran after him, grabbing Snorri’s arm. ‘What are you doing?’
‘You wanted me to hold off the bolt throwers, that is what I am doing.’
‘Don’t be an idiot.’
Snorri glanced at Morgrim over his shoulder. ‘Still want to shake hands with the elgi?’
He looked back at Drogor, but the Karak Zorn dwarf hadn’t moved and was watching the sky. Morgrim scowled before standing at his cousin’s side.
‘Get back,’ Snorri warned. ‘I don’t need your arm in this fight.’
Morgrim was resolute. ‘I am your cousin, blood is blood. Here I will stand.’
‘Move! It comes for me.’ His gaze flicked between his cousin and the growing shadow in the sky. The beat of heavy wings resolved above the wind.
‘Then give the order to loose,’ said Morgrim. ‘That beast will burn us where we stand, unless you plan on slaying it with a single throw of your axe.’
Snorri looked like he was considering it.
‘Don’t be a stubborn fool. I don’t want to die here.’
Something redolent of ash and sulphur tainted the breeze.
‘Dragon’s breath.’ Morgrim readied his shield, knowing it was too late to retreat now.
So too did Snorri, but the prince had long embraced his fate.
‘Let it come!’ he shouted, hefting his battle axe. ‘I’ll kill it!’
The dragon dived, scales shimmering like fire in the sun. Like a red blade ripping through a bank of snow-shawled cloud, it angled towards the prince.
Shouts were coming from other parts of the field as more and more dwarfs heard and saw the beast.
A roar like a discordant bell pealed out of the heavens as dragon and rider cried in unison.
King Ironhandson was being barrelled away from danger by his warriors when he jabbed a finger towards the sky.
‘Loose!’ he cried. ‘Bring the monster down!’
Some dwarfs hid behind their shields, others scurried behind carts and wagons. A few drew their weapons and rushed to the prince’s side.
Fumbling their war machines, the engineers of Karak Varn unleashed a volley but by then the dragon had pulled out of its dive and climbed for higher skies. Every shaft went wide of the target.
Snorri raged.
‘No! Come back,’ he roared. ‘Come back and face me, beast!’
‘It’s gone, cousin,’ said Morgrim, pulling Snorri back.
‘I could have killed it,’ he spat, ‘and fulfilled my destiny.’
‘You will,’ said Drogor, his eyes on the sky following the departing figure of the dragon. His voice was calming, and the two cousins climbed down from their heightened emotions at once. Both regarded the Karak Zorn dwarf as he turned his gaze on them.
‘Not yet, but soon my prince. Now, we must march.’
Snorri shook his head as if coming out of a daze.
‘Yes…’ he murmured, blinking twice in close succession. ‘Gather the kalans, sound the horn. We march for Tor Alessi.’
Tears streamed down Liandra’s face, and Vranesh wailed in empathic anguish.
Kor Vanaeth was gone, sundered to ruins, and Fendaril was surely dead. She had failed her people, obsessing over vengeance and a desire to punish all druchii for what they had done. Her father knew she was volatile. Only now did she realise why Lord Athinol had sent her to the Old World. Soaring into the high skies, she welcomed the loneliness and the chill in her bones. It numbed her from feeling.
She had seen an army outside her city. Others would come, compelled by greed. Though her desire to return and take out her anger on the dwarfs was strong, she resisted. The other cities would need to be warned.
Tor Alessi was the greatest of them, so she would go there first.
Urging Vranesh, she tried to push the images of Kor Vanaeth from her mind but they burned, just as the city had burned, and would not fade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A Shaming
They were ugly creatures, the king decided.
Bulbous noses, ruddy cheeks, their jutting foreheads and brutish feet. Every cobble-booted step as they walked down the long aisle towards the throne put his teeth on edge. And the smell… Caledor held a pomander up to his nose to smother the worst of it. Sadly, it could not hide the dirt or hair of the beasts.
Caledor could easily believe they lived in holes in the ground.
So incongruous in his pristine hall, amongst the fluted archways and pale stone. The throne room of the palace at Lothern was so smooth and perfect. These dwarfs – even the name was lumpen – were just… gnarled.
He leaned over in his throne.
‘They seem humbled,’ he remarked, considering the sober expression of the one in front. Like the rest, he had a long plaited beard which was no doubt crawling with lice and other vermin. ‘Do they seem humbled to you, brother?’
Imladrik was standing beside the throne, one hand on the hilt of Ifulvin, the other behind his armoured back. Though he wasn’t wearing a helmet, his face was hard as steel as if masked by one.
‘They look proud to me. Defiant.’
Caledor shook his head. He wore robes, white as swan feather with a gold trim, and reclined like a dilettante. No effort had been made to adopt the mantle of the warrior king. In fact, since the dwarf vessel had found its way into the harbour of Lothern, little effort had been made at all.
Ushered from the city to the Phoenix King’s court, few words beyond those which were necessary had been exchanged. A cohort of spearmen had shadowed the dwarf ambassador and his small retinue, the rest of the dwarfs staying behind with their crude-looking ship.
Word had come from the High King, brought by eagle riders, that he wished to parley. Amused, Caledor had granted his request. Less than two weeks later, the dwarfs had arrived. A fast crossing across the Great Ocean. Apparently, they had navigated its many perils through the efforts of their veteran captain and a dwarf wizard of some description. His mages had dismissed the feat as hedge magic, or some baser sorcery, but the fact remained that they had penetrated the veils and reached Ulthuan as swiftly as any elf vessel.
‘I think they looked humbled,’ Caledor reasserted, ‘even grovelling.’ He reached for his goblet, supping deeply and regarding the approaching dwarfs over its gilded rim.
There were six in total. Five were warriors, armed and armoured despite Imladrik’s protests to the contrary, but one carried no weapon and wore a tunic and cloak. Obviously, this was their ambassador. He clutched a letter in his grubby little hands.
As the dwarf delegation came to within ten feet of the throne, Imladrik raised his hand and a line of spearmen stepped between them.
‘That’s far enough,’ he said.
Caledor waved him down.
‘Nonsense!’ he cried. ‘Let them come closer. Is this any way to tre
at guests of our court?’
If the dwarfs understood his mocking tone, none of them showed it.
Pausing in his theatre for a moment, Caledor looked to Hulviar who was standing on the opposite side to Imladrik.
‘They can understand us, can’t they, Hulviar?’ he muttered.
‘My lord,’ one of the dwarfs spoke up.
The ambassador stepped forwards as the line of spearmen parted. He bowed.
‘I can speak elven, if only rudimentarily.’
Caledor snorted, laughed. His eyebrows arched incredulously.
‘Then you are a clever pig, aren’t you?’
The ambassador became indignant. ‘I am no pig, my lord.’
‘You dig holes in mud where you then live, and protest you are not swine?’ Caledor smiled haughtily. ‘Intriguing. What do you make of my court?’ he asked, gesturing expansively to the columns of white marble decorated with statues of griffons rampant, brooding dragons and majestic eagles. Banners and tapestries hung along the walls, which were punctuated by fist-sized rubies and sapphires. It was austere, but it was also magnificent.
‘A fine antechamber, my lord.’
A nerve trembled in Caledor’s cheek, the king unable to tell if the dwarf was now mocking him.
‘Is your sty so much grander then?’
‘I am no pig,’ the ambassador repeated. ‘I am Forek Grimbok, dawi of Karaz-a-Karak and representative of the High King.’ He brandished the letter. ‘And I bring his terms in this missive.’
Caledor arched an eyebrow, half distracted by drinking his wine. He drained the goblet and gestured to a nearby servant to bring another.
‘Terms?’ he said, focusing his full attention back on the dwarf.
‘Yes,’ said the ambassador. ‘For peace. That is why we are here. That is why we have travelled across the Great Ocean from the Old World.’
Caledor smiled, nodded. ‘Peace, is it? Where was this peace when Kor Vanaeth was attacked? Does your king have an answer for that in his letter?’
The ambassador struggled to hide his surprise. News about Kor Vanaeth had arrived only that morning, sent by Liandra Athinol, the city’s custodian.
‘It does not,’ admitted the dwarf. ‘Nor have I heard of such an attack.’
‘Burned to the very stone,’ said the king, dangerously.
Some of the other dwarfs shifted uncomfortably at the obvious change in mood. Several of their hands strayed to the hilts of their axes.
Imladrik hissed through clenched teeth, ‘You should have let me disarm them.’
‘Don’t be silly, brother,’ Caledor admonished. ‘Forek, here… that is your name, isn’t it? Yes, that’s what you said. Forek, here, has said he knew nothing about it. Nor, apparently, did his king. It seems his subjects are roaming his lands killing and sacking cities according to whim. Is that about right, Forek?’
The ambassador’s jaw hardened. He eyed the spearmen either side of them, caught the gaze of another dwarf who merely shook his head.
‘I have said I know nothing of that.’ He showed the letter again. ‘Again I say, here are my High King’s terms.’
Caledor leaned back in his throne.
‘High king? Seems an odd turn of phrase for such a diminutive race.’
‘He is lord of the Karaz Ankor, greatest dawi of the realm!’
‘Yes, yes, I understand.’ Caledor waved away the impassioned protests of the ambassador. ‘Well then, you had better read these terms before more cities are put to the torch, hadn’t you?’
The ambassador looked momentarily confused, but then cleared his throat and was about to read when Imladrik stepped from the throne’s dais and took the letter.
‘Tromm,’ he muttered under his breath with a nod to the dwarf, who replied in the same way.
He glared at Caledor, who seemed disinterested but there was a glint of something unpleasant in his eye, an idea forming that Imladrik hoped would not come to fruition.
The Master of Dragons read swiftly. His expression darkened further when he was done.
‘Well then,’ asked Caledor, ‘what are the dwarf king’s terms?’
Imladrik met his gaze, knowing the response before it was given.
‘He asks for recompense and apology for the hostilities directed at his people. Furthermore, he demands a cessation to all further violence against the dwarfs.’
‘A long letter for such a short list of terms,’ said Caledor.
‘There is more, which you would not be interested in, my king.’
‘You are right about that, brother. The griping and posturing of these mud-dwellers is not my concern.’
He nodded to Hulviar.
‘Seize them!’ snarled the seneschal.
Twenty spearmen levelled their weapons at the dwarfs, but the warriors were ready with axes drawn and smashed several of the tips aside.
One dwarf was pierced in the back and side before he could swing. Another was brought to heel with three points at his neck. A third was pinioned in the leg and couldn’t move. A fourth was similarly trapped. The fifth, their leader, rolled beneath the jabbing spears and came up to bury his axe in an elf’s shield. The blow split it in two, breaking the elf’s arm and drawing blood.
The ambassador cried out, ‘Gilias!’ as the dwarf advanced on another spearman, barging into him and bearing the elf down.
‘They mean to kill us!’ cried Gilias.
Caledor was up and out of his throne in an eyeblink. His sword, by his side until that moment, was now drawn and sunk halfway up the long blade into Gilias’s chest.
The dwarf grunted once, unable to comprehend what had happened at first, then he spat a stream of blood and collapsed.
Caledor turned to his spearmen, who had completely subdued the dwarfs.
‘Hold them,’ he said.
They were chewing and tugging their beards, moaning in their crude language and glaring first at the King and then at their fallen kinsman, his life pooling beneath him.
‘Thagi!’ shouted the ambassador. He’d balled his fists but with a spear tip at his neck was powerless to do anything.
Caledor rounded on him.
‘Brother, wait…’ Imladrik tried to intercede but the king pushed him aside.
‘You burn my cities,’ he said to the dwarf, ‘and come here expecting apology and recompense? I do not give apologies, pig, I grant pleas. You and your kind are worthy of neither.’
‘Let us go,’ the ambassador warned. ‘And allow us to bear Gilias Thunderbrow’s body back to his kalan, you thagging pointy-eared bastard.’
Sneering, Caledor looked Forek up and down. He reached out to seize his beard, pulled it hard until the dwarf ambassador winced.
‘You are an uncouth creature,’ he told him, smiling cruelly.
‘I cannot be a party to this,’ said Imladrik, shaking his head, and went to leave before his brother’s command rooted him to the spot.
‘You’ll stay and witness this,’ he said. ‘I want you to see what your lassitude has bred in these pigs.’
Imldrik glowered, but he obeyed.
‘Let us go,’ said Forek. ‘What are you going to do?’ There was fear in his voice that warred with the anger.
Caledor released the fistful of hair in his grasp.
‘You know, I am not ignorant of your ways,’ he said, backing off.
Hulviar had drawn a long dagger from his belt. So had several of the spearmen who were otherwise unencumbered by pinning down the dwarfs.
‘I understand you place great importance in your beards, is that right?’
‘Brother, no,’ Imladrik warned.
‘Stand fast!’ snapped Caledor, whirling around to glare at him before returning his attention to the dwarfs.
Forek glowered, tears of rage welling in his eyes.
&
nbsp; His voice was barely above a whisper as he pleaded, ‘Do not do this. I beg of you.’
‘Now, he pleads. Now, he begs,’ said Caledor. ‘Too late, pig. My brother was right. You are proud and defiant.’ He raised his finger as if finding the answer to a question that had so far eluded him. ‘But I know how to humble you.’
‘Please…’
‘Caledor…’ Imladrik warned him again.
‘Silence, brother. I am your king, now do as bidden.’
‘Please,’ said Forek. ‘Dreng tromm, it is our legacy, our ancestry. It will bring great shame on my clan, on all our clans.’
Caledor’s eyes were cold and pitiless as the stone of his hall as he regarded the ambassador.
‘Shave them. Every lice-infested inch.’
Hulviar and the other elves that had drawn their daggers came forwards.
The dwarfs struggled, but were held by the spearmen.
‘Dreng tromm, dreng tromm,’ wailed the ambassador, and he and his retinue broke out in a raft of curses in their native tongue.
Caledor returned to his throne to watch.
The elves were not kind in their ministrations. Skin was cut, punches thrown and blood shed on the pristine white of the Phoenix Court.
The dwarfs fought, they gnawed and kicked and scratched, but to no avail. The elves held them and did not let them up until every bruised and savaged inch of their faces was shorn.
Throughout the shaming, Caledor looked on impassively.
‘See, brother,’ he said, watching the dwarfs squirm and quail, ‘I said they were humbled.’
He turned to Imladrik, but the Master of Dragons was already walking away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The Runes Fail
In the deeps below Everpeak the clang of hammer hitting anvil resounded. For the last eight years and more it had done so with barely more than a moment’s respite.