‘Khazukhan!’ he cried, standing in the stirrups and flinging his cloak back. If a dart were aimed at him now, he’d stand no chance. ‘Imladriki a elgi tarum a grikhaz Morgrim Bargrum! Morgrim Bargrum! Imladriki a elgi!’
Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, a horn sounded from high up the valley slopes. It was an unearthly sound – a brazen dirge that made the ground vibrate.
The rain of quarrels stopped immediately. Some of the Caledorians responded with cries of victory, thinking their counter-charge had routed the attackers, but Feliadh was astute enough to see what was going on.
‘Hold fast!’ he ordered, hauling his own steed round and hastening over to Caradryel’s position. ‘Do not pursue! Pull back!’
The rest of the riders did likewise, drawing together again, their swords still drawn and their manner wary. Three did not return; several more carried wounds or dented armour plates.
For a long, terrible period, nothing happened. The dwarfs seemed to melt back into the earth. The wind moaned down the valley, the needles rustled in the pines.
‘What was that?’ whispered Feliadh, keeping his eyes on the forest around them.
‘Honest answer?’ replied Caradryel, his heart still beating hard. ‘I’m not exactly sure. Imladrik made me memorise it.’
Feliadh raised an eyebrow. ‘Well memorised, then.’
Another horn-note sounded, a fraction higher, still with the thrumming reverberation that seemed to lodge in the bones. All around them, from just a few paces away to a hundred yards up the wooded slopes, dwarfs rose from the undergrowth. There must have been over a hundred of them.
‘By the Flame,’ breathed Feliadh, gazing at them.
Caradryel felt slightly sick. The trap had been artfully laid. If the Caledorians had kept up the pursuit they would have been overwhelmed, however bravely they fought. He had never seen such a display of stealth.
The dwarfs said nothing. They stood like graven images amid the bracken. Caradryel found it hard to tell one from another: they were all stocky, broad-shouldered, bearded and clad in thick plates of armour that overlapped across their burly chests. Dark eyes glinted from under the brow of iron helms.
Now that he saw them in the flesh, Caradryel at last understood some of what Imladrik had told him in Tor Alessi. When the asur called them the ‘stunted folk’, that implied something missing, something unfinished. He saw how false that was: they were almost as broad as they were tall, as sturdy as tree-roots and as heavy as ingots of pig-iron. They stared back at him without the slightest shred of fear or wonder. No doubt existed in those dark stares, just disciplined, regimented hatred.
They will never forgive, he realised. They will never give in. They do not know how to.
Eventually, one of dawi made a move. The dwarf broke ranks and waded towards them through knee-high undergrowth that reached his waist. His beard was steel-grey, plaited and folded up in a baroque array of knots and tassels. His exposed biceps were a patchwork of scars, tattoos and iron studs. Unlike the crossbow-wielders, he carried a warhammer, the head of which was beautifully engraved with runes and dragon-head knotwork. His helm was open-faced and crowned with drake-wings just like the Caledorians, though his were bulky and blunt in comparison.
When he was a few paces away he rested the hammerhead on the ground before him, folded his hands over the hilt, and leaned on it. His eyes, sunk deep under bristling brows, surveyed Feliadh’s troops with calm disdain.
‘Who here speaks Khazalid?’ he demanded. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if clogged with coal-dust.
Caradryel swallowed. His usual self-assurance would not help him here. ‘None do,’ he said, edging his horse to the fore of the Caledorian group. ‘I was given the words by another.’
The dwarf chuckled. It sounded like loose stones tumbling down a ravine. ‘So I thought. You speak like a stupid child. We barely understood you.’
Caradryel bowed in apology. ‘Forgive me. I had little time to learn. I had hoped to speak in… other circumstances.’
‘No doubt,’ said the dwarf. ‘Thank your pale gods that we heard the name Imladrik – that is all that saved you.’
‘He wishes to pass a message to his friend, Morgrim Bargrum,’ said Caradryel. ‘We had hoped to find him here.’
The dwarf scowled. ‘If they were friends once, they are friends no longer. But if you carry terms of surrender we will hear them.’
Caradryel paused. This was difficult. ‘Imladrik’s tidings are for Lord Morgrim alone,’ he said, trying to sound authoritative without being haughty. ‘Unless, that is, it is he to whom I am speaking.’
The dwarfs broke into a barking, growling fit of laughter, filling the valley with their bizarre and guttural mirth. Caradryel could feel Feliadh’s annoyance, and placed a hand on his forearm to restrain him.
Laughter is good, he thought, studying the chortling dwarf before him carefully. I will endure a thousand insults if it gets us to where we need to be.
‘Your mind is as slow as your speech, elgi,’ mocked the dwarf. ‘You think we would risk Morgrim in the vanguard? You speak to Grondil of Zhufbar, slayer of your sickly kinfolk, and I ask you again: what are your tidings?’
Caradryel recalled what Imladrik had told him of the dawi.
‘They despise weakness, and they despise arrogance,’ Imladrik had told him. ‘Steer a path between the two: never show frailty, but never insult them. Everything they do is a challenge. Give in to it, and they will hold you in contempt; ignore it and they will assume you mock them. Remember: they kill anything that mocks them.’
Caradryel swallowed.
‘Grondil of Zhufbar,’ he said. ‘I am Caradryel of the House of Reveniol. I serve Imladrik of House Tor Caled. He commands me to speak only to Morgrim. You have us at your mercy and may slay us at your pleasure, but for all that none
