‘But we needed the dragon,’ said Ashniel. ‘To get home.’
Drutheira smiled acidly. ‘A shame it died, then.’
‘It didn’t take much art to blend in once we got to Oeragor,’ said Malchior, rather pompously. ‘Their minds were on other things.’
‘By then you knew the dragon had gone,’ said Drutheira. ‘Why did you still come for me?’
Malchior shrugged. ‘We missed your company.’
‘We needed you,’ said Ashniel, more seriously. ‘We know nothing of this land.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Drutheira.
‘You must do. You were in Malekith’s circle.’
Drutheira winced. ‘Don’t assume that means very much.’
Malchior exhaled irritably. ‘We need to get away from this Khaine-damned place.’ He looked at Drutheira reluctantly. ‘You studied the maps longest.’
Drutheira enjoyed the admission, wrung from him like sweat from his headdress. ‘That, of course, is true.’
Ashniel looked like she was going to collapse. ‘Do we have to do this now? And where are we going?’
Malchior’s mouth twisted in scorn. ‘South,’ he said. ‘Everywhere else is crawling with dawi.’ He glanced at Drutheira. ‘You agree?’
Drutheira nodded.
‘Nowhere else to go,’ she said. As she spoke, she tried to remember the charts she’d seen so long ago. Naggaroth seemed almost like a dream. ‘There was a river marked. There must be one, sooner or later. Vitae, was that it? Some arcane language. Malekith knew something about it.’
‘How far?’ asked Malchior.
‘A long way. We can’t walk. We’ll need to find somewhere to recover, or try to get to the coast. A boat – that would be useful.’
Malchior snorted derisively and turned away. ‘I’ll keep an eye out.’
Drutheira looked briefly north again, over to where Oeragor smouldered. The evidence of its ruin was like a premonition, a harbinger of what was to come for all Elthin Arvan. Soon there would be nothing in the colonies but fire, a blaze she had helped to start.
Who would know it, though? Would anyone ever whisper her name with reverence in the hallowed courts of Naggaroth? Drutheira, the destroyer of empires. If she couldn’t find a way back, then no one would, and that silence would be worse than death.
Malchior started to walk again. Haltingly, Ashniel followed him. Drutheira took a sip of water before falling in behind them, trying to ignore the residual pain in her joints.
But I am alive, she thought to herself, remembering the malice in the eyes of the red mage, the certainty that she had finally run her down. To be breathing still, to be free, that was more than improbable. Despite it all, my heart still beats.
She kept walking. The southern horizon stretched away from them, shaking in the heat. The emptiness looked like it went on forever.
Morgrim hobbled through the streets of Oeragor. He could feel blood sloshing in his boots. His ribs were cracked, his shoulder-blade fractured. When he breathed it felt like dry grass was being shoved down his throat.
Everywhere he went, his warriors saluted him. They raised their fists and bowed their heads. Some of the younger ones shouted Khazuk! They all knew what had been achieved. His name would go into the records, carved into the stone tablets buried in the vaults of Karaz-a-Karak. Starbreaker would summon him to the throne. The runelords would honour him. The pall of disgrace that had hung over his bloodline since Snorri’s death would lift.
It should have made him fiercely proud. Part of him was. He could still see the carnage caused by the drakes. It felt good to have repaid some measure of pain. Morek’s rune-artistry had answered at last, and Azdrakghar had tasted blood.
It was, at least, a beginning.
But beyond that he felt removed from all that had transpired. The long marches had battered his body into submission. He knew when he peeled his armour off, all he would see would be calluses, bruises and blisters. His flesh was now a carpet of them, weeping blood and pus under the hard shell of his battle plate.
He could cope with the pain. It was the other things he found difficult.
Imladrik had been an obstacle. No other elgi commanded such respect. His removal had been necessary, and not just for the satisfaction of grudgement. Morgrim could not have returned to the Everpeak with the Master of Dragons un-defeated and still claimed the title of elgidum.
Yet, for all that, his heart remained uneasy. He had tried to speak to Imladrik at the end, though he doubted the elgi had heard him.
‘You did not need to fight here,’ he had said, almost angrily. ‘You did not need to come.’
Then the mage had arrived, bursting into the courtyard with her anger and her witch’s fire. The order to release the body had almost been an afterthought. It would certainly not placate any of the asur. In a war that had already seen atrocity unleashed, it would do nothing to restore restraint.
He reached again for the casket at his breast, the one containing Snorri’s remains.
All it had been was an exchange. A barter. The dawi understood such things.
‘Tromm, Morgrim!’
Brynnoth’s gruff voice rang out. He was walking towards Morgrim, his armour in terrible shape. An elgi arrow still protruded from his pauldron, the shaft snapped. His grizzled face spread in a wide grin.
‘We have broken them!’ Brynnoth roared, embracing Morgrim roughly. ‘And the dragon! Wings torn to ribbons. That was a mighty feat.’
Morgrim nodded weakly. ‘They can be beaten. We know that now.’
‘They can, and they will.’ Brynnoth’s blood was up. He looked ready to march off again that instant.
Morgrim couldn’t share his ebullience. ‘We should secure the city.’
‘Secure it?’ Brynnoth laughed. ‘From what?’
Morgrim felt like collapsing but kept his feet. He would have to do so for hours. The ale had not even been hauled into the city yet, ready for the hours of ritual drinking and oath-taking to come. ‘From ourselves. Let there be no mindless slaughter.’
‘Of course not.’ Brynnoth looked at him hard. ‘Are you all right?’
Morgrim knew he would be. Dawn would come, and he would remember the sacred runes he had sworn over. He would remember his hatred and
