Suddenly, with a jerk of speed, the dwarf grabbed Caradryel’s long blond hair and yanked him down to his knees.
‘Shall I rip these golden locks from your head?’ he hissed, pushing his face towards Caradryel’s in a snarl. ‘Shall I shave your head and send you limping back to Tor Alessi?’
Caradryel grimaced, feeling his scalp flex, hoping Feliadh had remained completely still. The dwarf twisted his fist further, half-pulling a clump free, making Caradryel gasp.
Then the pressure released. The dwarf let him go, shaking a few loose tresses from his gauntlet in disgust.
‘We do not do such things,’ he muttered. ‘We leave that to savages.’
Caradryel caught his breath, still on his knees.
The dwarf lord glared at him coldly. ‘So what do you have to say to me?’
Caradryel looked up. ‘You are Morgrim?’
‘I am.’
‘Then I am instructed to tell you this. Imladrik knows of the wrongs done to your people. He laments the death of Snorri Halfhand. He grieves for the loss of trust between our peoples, and understands that much blood has been shed on both sides, but still believes that an unwinnable war between us may be averted. He wishes to speak to you, as he once did, to explain what we know of this conflict’s origins.’
Morgrim looked at him wearily, as if he’d hoped for something better, but did not interrupt.
‘There are things about my race you do not know,’ Caradryel went on. ‘We are divided. This war is part of that.’
Morgrim laughed harshly. ‘You say this now, when your cities are besieged. You say this now, when our strength is revealed and you realise the folly of shaming us.’
Caradryel wanted to stop him there, to point out that however strong the dwarf legions were they had nothing to compare with the flights of dragons, and that Imladrik’s embassy was sent not from weakness but from strength, and that Tor Alessi had been turned into an anvil on which even the mightiest of hosts would break like foaming surf.
But he said none of that – it would have done no good.
‘So what can Imladrik offer?’ demanded Morgrim, his eyes flashing with anger. ‘My cousin lies dead. Some of my people now live only to see the elgi driven into the sea – what shall I say to them?’
Caradryel clambered back to his feet, brushing the soil from his robes. Just as he had done before, he aimed to find the balance – not craven, not arrogant, not supine, not threatening.
‘Imladrik knows you will march on the city. He knows your people demand vengeance and knows you are sworn to deliver it. All he asks is that, for the sake of your old friendship, you speak to him once before giving the final order. He will meet you, under flag of truce. He requests nothing more – no assurances, no treaties – just the chance to speak.’
Morgrim’s grey eyes flickered, for the first time, with less than certainty.
‘That’s all?’ he asked.
Caradryel risked a nod. ‘If he has any further tidings, he has not shared them with me.’
Morgrim shook his head and turned away. ‘This army is drawn from all the holds,’ he muttered. ‘There is no dam capable of holding it back now.’ He snapped his gaze back to Caradryel. ‘It is too late. It cannot be stopped.’
Caradryel met his glare evenly. ‘He told me you would say that, and so told me to reply thus: The runes never lie, but nor do they compel. Nothing is fated.’
That held Morgrim’s attention. The dwarf pondered the words for what seemed like an age.
Caradryel watched him, saying nothing. He had heard it said that dawi minds were slow, like those of simpletons or children, but he saw the lie in that immediately. Morgrim was no fool, and if his thoughts worked with more deliberation than an elf’s then perhaps that was to his credit. Caledor had a quick tongue and a ready wit, but it had not made him a wise king.
Finally Morgrim’s face lifted again.
‘The march continues,’ he announced. ‘I swore an oath to bring this army to Tor Alessi and I will not break it.’
He drew close to Caradryel again, the familiar breath-stink of meat and ale wafting over him.
‘But I will think on your words,’ Morgrim said, making it sound more like a threat. ‘By the time you smell sea-salt, you will know my answer to them.’
Final preparations had been made. The great hawkships of the fleet put to sea again, packed with ballistae and Sea Guard units to keep the supply routes open. The last repairs were made to the city’s battlements and bulwarks. Standards bearing the runes of war – Charoi, Ceyl, Minaith, Urithair – were slung from every parapet and balcony, rippling down the pale stone in a riot of blues, reds and emeralds. Tor Alessi’s many walls stood proudly against the desolation of the land about them, rising up like spars of dirty bone from the scorched and scoured earth below.
They will drown in their own blood, observed Draukhain, wheeling high above the tallest of the towers. The city is impregnable.
Imladrik gazed down at the sprawling fortress below, not sharing the dragon’s assessment. To be sure, the defences were awe-inspiring – taller, thicker and more heavily manned than at any time since the city’s foundation – but he’d seen what the dwarfs could do when their blood was raging.
Our strength is not in the walls, he sang. I hope, though, that they will prove enough of a deterrent.
Draukhain laughed, pulling hard round and swinging over the sea. The long, maundering coasts extended far into the north, their smooth strands broken by rocky dune country.
So restrained, the drake mocked. You really are not much sport.
The sun blazed strongly, making the sea sparkle and lifting
