Imladrik leapt to his feet and spun around, his sword in hand. He twisted his head to see where Draukhain had landed, and saw with horror the half-buried outline of dragon flesh amid a landslide of rubble.
Ahead of him, their formation steadily recovering in the wake of the dragon’s ruinous descent, stood the dwarfs. They shook themselves down. They gazed up at the beast, now crippled and in their midst. They saw the lone elf standing before him.
They drew their blades.
Draukhain barely moved – perhaps stunned, maybe mortally wounded. His presence in Imladrik’s mind was almost imperceptible. Being without it was terrible, even amid all else, like having his memories excised.
He turned to face the enemy. More than a hundred limped towards him, and others were entering the courtyard. Recovering their poise, they spread out, hemming him in. Some of them started to murmur words in Khazalid – battle-curses, old grudges.
Imladrik gripped his sword tight. Ifulvin was ancient, encrusted with runes of power and forged in the age of legend before the coming of the daemons. The ithilmar felt heavy in his gauntlets; he would have to find a way to make it dance.
‘Do not approach him,’ came a thick, battle-weary voice from the midst of the advancing dwarfs.
They instantly fell back. The speaker emerged from among them, alone. Imladrik recognised him at once – the heavy-set arms, the embellished armour, the dour air of sullen hatred. He carried his huge axe two-handed, and runes showed darkly on the metal.
The two of them faced one another, just yards apart. The remaining dwarfs fanned out, forming a wide semicircle of closed steel around them. Imladrik could hear Draukhain’s broken breathing behind him, moist with congealed blood.
‘You,’ said Imladrik, gazing at Morgrim and wondering if he was some kind of horrific mirage. ‘How are you here?’
‘Do not worry about that,’ Morgrim replied, swinging his axe around him and striding forwards. ‘Worry about this.’
The dragon changed everything. Liandra sensed it coming just before she saw it, magnificent and beautiful, tearing in from the west. For a moment she dared to hope that the others were with him – six dragons would have turned the tide, shattering the dwarf advance and giving them a chance. Even one, though – just one – toppled everything on its head.
Then it disappeared, plunging into the mass of spires at the city’s heart.
‘We have to reach it,’ she said, turning from the tower’s window and heading for the door. She felt invigorated.
The swordsmen around her stared back in almost comical surprise.
‘Lady, do you mean–’
‘Do not protest.’ She glared at them all, daring one to voice an objection. Only a few dozen remained, plus the archers on the lower levels. They would be lucky to make it half way before being overwhelmed, but that changed nothing. ‘Stay with me – I will do what I can to protect you.’
Her staff was already humming with energy. The short respite, combined with Imladrik’s presence in Oeragor, gave her fresh hope.
It could be done. They could resist, if only their scattered forces could be given fresh impetus. It wasn’t over.
She pushed the door back and jogged down the stairs. The swordsmen came behind her, hastily adjusting their helms. As she descended, Liandra heard the hammering on the outer doors rise in volume. She smelled the musty stink of the dawi on the far side, their ale-heavy sweat and their foul leather jerkins, and felt the thrill of incipient combat burn in her again.
This would be recompense. This would be retribution.
She halted before the doors, watching the timbers vibrate from the impact of the ram. The asur soldiers clustered in her wake, weapons drawn, faces torn between duty and doubt.
Liandra had no doubt. For the first time in a long time she knew exactly what to do.
‘Ravallamora telias heraneth!’ she cried, raising her staff high.
The doors exploded into a welter of light and heat, blasting the shards back and sending the dwarfs on the far side tumbling down the stairway. Sunlight flooded in, dazzling after the shade of the tower.
Liandra charged out, her staff ringing with power, her eyes shining. Behind her came the rest of the troops.
She looked out over Oeragor’s ruined towers, and smiled.
‘Fighting together, you and I,’ she breathed. ‘It was always meant to be.’
Imladrik leapt back as Morgrim swung his axe. The swipe was barely controlled – a vicious lunge that nearly sent the dwarf stumbling forwards.
Imladrik backed away warily. For all the hours of flying he felt fresh and in control. Morgrim looked exhausted. To reach Oeragor after the fighting at Tor Alessi he must have marched without pause for days. He had already endured heavy fighting under the punishing heat. Yet, somehow, he was still on his feet.
‘You want the honour of killing me yourself,’ he said, watching Morgrim come at him again. ‘Is that it?’
Morgrim grunted, breathing heavily. ‘It is not about honour any more.’
He swung again, moving surprisingly quickly, getting the axe-edge within a few inches of Imladrik’s body.
‘It is always about honour,’ said Imladrik, sidestepping easily. He kept his feet moving fluidly, letting his opponent do the work. ‘That is the one thing we share.’
‘We share nothing!’ raged Morgrim, breaking into a charge and switching his axe back suddenly.
Imladrik was forced into a parry, the impact nearly making him gasp. The strength in Morgrim’s blows was incredible.
‘You are sure about that?’ asked Imladrik, pulling his blade away before pressing in close, trusting to the speed of his movements. He battered a few blows across Morgrim’s armour before the dwarf pulled away, head lowered.
‘You ride those creatures,’ Morgrim spat. ‘You goad them to war. They’re vermin. Their minds are poison.’
Imladrik held guard watchfully. Getting through Morgrim’s armour would be a challenge – it was all-encompassing, a masterpiece of craftsmanship.
‘You should have listened at Tor Alessi,’ he said. ‘I warned you. Damn you, Morgrim, I warned you.’
Morgrim growled, and broke back into a lumbering charge. The two of them exchanged furious blows,
