No one needs to know but you and me.
Thoriol clammed up.
‘Are you all right, Silent?’ asked Florean. ‘You’ve gone pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ replied Thoriol. ‘Gods, but my arms are sore.’
They could believe that, and so the moment passed. The archers gathered up their arrows into quivers and checked their strings for damage. Loeth reached for a pot of beeswax and began to rub at a splintered section of his longbow – it would need to be replaced, but the bowyers were already working flat out and spares were hard to come by.
As the company fell into its familiar routines Baelian drew Thoriol to one side.
‘You’ve made a place for yourself here, lad,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Don’t do anything foolish.’
Thoriol didn’t know how to reply. Thoughts of escape had faded days ago, replaced by the enjoyment of – for the first time – actually doing something worthwhile well. The fact that his father was in the city, no doubt preoccupied with the enormous task of organising its defences, shouldn’t have made a difference to anything.
But it did, of course. It tarnished the whole exercise, putting into relief just how incongruous it was that he, the son of the King’s brother, had ended up serving in the rank and file of his armies.
He was about to mumble something inconsequential when his attention was broken for a second time. Clarions, whole groups of them, began to sound from the tops of the highest towers. A rustle of movement followed, then the rising clamour of voices raised all along the battlements.
Thoriol looked out across the plain just in time to see the collectors hurrying back to the gates, escorted by spear-carrying riders who hadn’t been there a moment ago. The clarions continued to sound, joined soon afterwards by ringing blasts from the city’s huge central keep.
His gaze snapped up to the edge of the forest, only a few miles distant but hazy in the strong sun. He saw nothing moving there, but the sight nevertheless filled him with foreboding.
‘So they’ve been sighted,’ Thoriol said quietly.
Baelian stared out in the same direction, eyes fixed on the horizon.
‘Sounds like it,’ he agreed. ‘Better get those arms limber again, lad. Looks like you’ll be using them soon.’
Chapter Thirteen
The dwarfs on the march were like a slow avalanche battering its way down a mountainside. They made little effort to skirt around obstacles or difficult terrain – they ploughed through it, never changing pace, keeping their heads low and their arms swinging in unison. In their wake they left a wasteland of hacked stumps and trampled-down foliage, a scar on the forest as wide as fifty warriors marching shoulder to shoulder.
Behind those pioneers came the builders. Wooden bridges were thrown up over gorges; earthworks were hurriedly put up to shore the road’s margins; the stubbornest obstacles were simply demolished by a whole phalanx of bare-chested workers using axes, hammers, shovels and long-handled hods.
Caradryel had plenty of time to watch the dawi at work, and what he saw gave him plenty to think about. Even the lowliest worker applied himself with almost fanatical zeal. He saw dwarfs staggering under their own weight in rubble, shining with sweat, refusing any help until their portion of the labour was done. He saw others carrying atrocious wounds and still working on, shrugging off levels of pain that would have had him in bed for a week.
The dwarfs seemed consumed by a kind of low-level mania that drove them west, ever west, obliterating anything they came across on the way. He found their single-mindedness both repellent and admirable. An elf would have found a more elegant route, taking care to conserve strength for the battle ahead. Something about the dawi’s utter disregard for such considerations made him uneasy.
He had spoken to Morgrim on and off during the trek towards Tor Alessi. The dwarf lord was busy for most of the time with his thanes and warlords and spared himself as little as they did, marching to and fro amongst the armoured columns tirelessly, taking counsel and ruminating with them long into the night. Dwarf discussions seemed to involve an inordinate amount of beard-tugging, ale-drinking and low grunting – even about seemingly trivial matters.
Slowly Caradryel had come to realise why Morgrim kept himself so busy. The dwarf army, which was far, far bigger than he’d been led to believe, was composed of forces from many different holds. Each one was led by its own prince or thane, many of whom were older than Morgrim and had trenchant views of their own. Seniority was a powerful thing with them, and Morgrim had to work incessantly to keep the whole messy, fractious, temperamental caravan on the road.
Caradryel found himself admiring the dour warrior. Morgrim was driven and irascible, obviously haunted by the death of his cousin and the need for blood-vengeance, but he could keep his head when he needed to, cajoling and arguing with a deft mix of forcefulness and tact.
‘Does it make you nervous?’ Morgrim had asked Caradryel on one of their few conversations together.
‘What, lord?’
‘Being surrounded by those who wish to kill you.’
Caradryel thought for a moment. ‘In truth, I have never found myself to be universally popular,’ he said eventually. ‘So, no.’
Morgrim didn’t smile. It was rare to see him smile, and when he did it was a cynical gesture, bereft of warmth.
‘Morek tells me I am wasting my time with you,’ said Morgrim. ‘He says you should have been sent back to Tor Alessi with an iron collar round your neck.’
‘Morek is your counsellor?’
‘My runelord.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t listen to him.’
Morgrim picked his nose and flicked the results to the floor. ‘You know what I despise about you elgi?’
Caradryel didn’t offer a suggestion.
‘Your lack of seriousness,’ said Morgrim. He held up his axe. ‘This is Morek’s finest work. He spent decades crafting the symbols into this metal. He bent his neck over
