‘And I listened!’ roared Morgrim. ‘By my beard, I listened! That is now my shame.’
Imladrik held his ground, digging in. The blades locked again. This time Morgrim gave ground first. Even his mighty arms, it seemed, were capable of exhaustion.
‘Your shame is right here,’ panted Imladrik. ‘You wanted blood-debt for your cousin, and now you have it.’
‘Do not mention him.’
Imladrik parried a fresh thrust and returned a low strike. ‘Why not? He blinds you still?’
Morgrim was wheezing now, rolling into contact like a drunken prize-fighter. He said nothing more but worked his axe harder, probing for the way through Imladrik’s defence.
‘You stubborn soul!’ spat Imladrik. ‘Snorri has gone. He was a fool, just as his killer was a fool.’
They rocked back and forth, trading more blows. Imladrik had to marvel at Morgrim’s endurance. Ifulvin nearly buckled under one spiteful lunge, the steel bending under the force of it.
‘We had a chance,’ Imladrik said, breathing hard. ‘We could have done better. I told you the truth.’
Morgrim fell back, gasping, his axe held low. ‘I watched what your animals did,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘You were riding one, so do not preach to me about restraint.’
Then he ploughed into the attack again. The blows were brutal, hurried, devastating. Imladrik fell away, working hard not to be overwhelmed.
‘This land is death for you now, elgi,’ Morgrim grunted. ‘All of you. It will never stop.’
The duel stepped up in intensity. The twin weapons whirled around one another – the axe-blade cumbersome but crushing, the sword-edge rapid but lighter. None intervened, and still Draukhain did not stir, though the city continued to burn around them – a funeral pyre of old hopes.
Imladrik pressed the attack again, his blade blurring with speed. He hammered Morgrim back again, rocking the dwarf on to his heels.
‘Caledor will never surrender,’ he warned, his voice strained with effort. ‘Do you truly think you can kill a Phoenix King?’
Morgrim shorted his disdain. ‘His death will end this. Nothing else.’
‘And mine?’
‘I kill you because I have to. I will kill Caledor for pleasure.’
Imladrik smiled coldly. ‘You will have neither.’
He pivoted on his heel, building momentum for a savage crossways swipe. At the last moment he adjusted the trajectory, ducking his blade under Morgrim’s lifting guard. Ifulvin cut deep into the dwarf’s armour, catching on the chainmail between shifting plates.
Morgrim staggered, and his axe fell by a hand’s width. Imladrik hammered another blow in, denting a gromril plate. Ifulvin whirled, moving now with terrible velocity and smashing Morgrim back by another pace. The dwarf’s breathing worsened, his head lowered. More strikes scythed down, bludgeoning him back through the dust, nearly causing him to sprawl on his back. Blood splattered across the stone, thick as tar.
It was merciless. None of the assembled dawi moved a muscle – they watched, stony-faced, as their lord was driven across the courtyard. Imladrik kept up the pressure, fighting with peerless artistry, the sun flashing from his helm.
He smashed Morgrim’s defence aside with a brutal side-stroke, then rotated his glittering blade on its length, hoisting it over Morgrim’s reeling body and holding it point-down. He angled it at the dwarf’s shoulder, both hands on the hilt, ready to drive.
As he did so, Draukhain stirred at last, his bloodied head lifting from the rubble of the wall. A wave of hot, bitter air rolled out from his tangled body as he shook his neck, his great eyes cloudy.
The runes of Morgrim’s axe suddenly flared. The angular grooves in the metal blazed red-hot amid the bloody patina of the blade. His whole armour surged with power, as if kindled by the awakening of the dragonsoul.
Imladrik plunged Ifulvin down, powering it with all his strength. Morgrim thrust in return, shoving Azdrakghar upwards with both hands, and flames licked along the edge of the blade.
The twin weapons met in a crash of light. A ripple of force shot out from the impact, stirring the dust from the flags. With a crack like ice breaking, Ifulvin shattered. Imladrik felt the force of it radiate up his arms, hard as a hammer on an anvil. He pulled back, amazed, his hands shaking from the impact.
Morgrim roared back at him, heedless, his axe still intact and glowing blood-red. The runes burned like torches. Imladrik saw the blow coming in and desperately jabbed his broken blade in its path, but Ifulvin was swatted aside, its power broken. Morgrim’s whole body shook with raw heat-shimmer, a vision of rune-magic unlocked.
Somewhere close by, Draukhain was roaring in thunderous frustration, his coiled body still pinned by wreckage. Imladrik felt the dragon’s anger and pain and could have wept from it.
Weaponless, all he could do was watch the axe-head sweep around again, propelled by Morgrim’s blind savagery. Its curved edge punched deep into Imladrik’s midriff, cutting through the silver armour with a flash of rune-energy. The bite was deep. A wash of pain crashed through him, numbing his limbs. Morgrim pushed the blade in deeper, tearing through muscle.
Imladrik’s vision went blurry. He heard Draukhain’s strangled roaring behind him even as he sank to his knees. The broken hilt-shards fell from his hand, clattering in the dust.
Morgrim pulled his axe free, dragging a long sluice of blood with it. Imladrik fell forwards, catching himself with his hands.
That brought him level with Morgrim’s helm-hidden face. They looked at one another. Imladrik could feel the blood pumping out of him, draining his life away. Morgrim stared back, frozen rigid, as if suddenly shocked by what he had done. He could hear cries of alarm, the discharge of magefire and the groggy snarling of the dragon, still locked in the tangled detritus of its agony.
It was all strangely detached. All he truly saw was Morgrim. Everything else faded into grey.
He wanted to say something. He tried to blurt words out, but none came. Life ebbed from him
