Imladrik watched them draw to the full – first a slit, then a window of daylight, then the wide vista of the plains beyond.
His mount was skittish under him. The horse could smell dragon, and that always unsettled them. He placed a reassuring hand on its neck and whispered the calming words that Yethanial had taught him.
Twenty ceremonial riders passed through the archway ahead of him, each decked in dazzling ithilmar and carrying pennants with the emblems of Ulthuan and Caledor. Aelis rode on his left side, Salendor on his right. Gelthar and Caerwal came behind, along with three battle-mages.
Liandra had still not returned from wherever Vranesh had taken her. Imladrik could have remained preoccupied, but the time had passed for that.
One battle at a time.
They rode out. Ahead of them, a mile from the walls, the dwarfs had taken up positions. Their army stretched across the eastern limit of the plain in a long arc. Imladrik could see regiments digging in: some carrying huge warhammers two-handed, others with axes or stubby crossbows. Their armour glinted dully in the sun, exposing intricate knotwork engraving on the helms and pauldron plates.
He tried to estimate numbers. Fifty thousand? Sixty? There might be more still marching through the forest to join them. In any case, it was a brutally large muster.
Thin columns of smoke were already rising from the dwarf encampment, marking the fires that they would drink and eat around, working one another up into battle-readiness with old tales of heroism and grudgement. Once those tales might have concerned Malekith and Snorri Whitebeard, though they would do so no longer, and for that Imladrik was thankful.
The Sundering was largely unknown to the dwarfs. If they had ever been curious about the affairs of Ulthuan they would no doubt have uncovered the truth soon enough, but they were an insular race with little concern for internal elgi politics. For their part the asur had never made reference to it. In the early days many assumed Malekith would be defeated quickly. Only slowly had the dreadful truth become apparent – that the split would linger for as long as any could foresee, and that the Witch King was far too powerful to be reliably defended against, let alone destroyed.
After that the asur kept the truth from the outside world, guarding their shame like an oil lantern in the wind, sheltering it from prying eyes and hoping that, somehow, it could be contained. When the strife in Elthin Arvan had first come, Imladrik had sent Gotrek letters, hinting at the truth, still constrained by the need for secrecy and veiled with vagueness. Perhaps he should have been more explicit.
Ahead of him the dawi banners hung limply. Everything about them was blunt, grim, heavy. As the elves approached the dwarf lines, crossbow-bearing guards stomped out to greet them. Behind them came a company of foot soldiers wearing thick plates over chainmail, their helms carved into grotesque representations of dragon-faces. Imladrik pulled the reins gently, and the party came to a halt.
The dwarfs assembled, crossbows levelled, saying nothing. An uneasy silence descended, broken only by the distant sounds of campfires crackling and supply wagons being unloaded.
Imladrik removed his high helm, exposing his face to the enemy.
‘Tromm, dawinarri,’ he said, bowing respectfully. ‘Ka ghurraz Imladriki na Kaledor.’
The wind whistled. For many heartbeats, no one spoke.
‘Your accent has got worse.’
The voice came from behind the lines, hidden by the grim wall of steel and iron. Imladrik thought it sounded harsher than it had once done; back then, Snorri had always been the angry one, his cousin the voice of calm.
‘I have not had much time to practise,’ Imladrik called out, resisting the urge to scan along the lines to see where Morgrim was hidden.
He did not have to wait for long. The guards shuffled to one side, and the iron-clad hearthguard replaced them. Then their ranks parted, exposing two figures standing within their midst.
One was grizzled with age, his long beard flecked grey and his stance hunched. He carried a thick-shafted stave crowned with an iron anvil, the head of which seemed to shimmer as if in a heat-haze. Imladrik did not recognise him, though he knew well enough the marks of a runesmith.
The other one he certainly knew, though time had not been kind to the memory. Morgrim’s helm and armour were smeared with blood, daubed in ritual marks of vengeance. His eyes had darkened and his previously open face had withdrawn into a scarred, tight visage of distrust. His boots and cloak were travel-worn, his fine armour splattered with the mud of the road. He carried an ornate axe, studded with runes. It looked new-forged.
Imladrik dismounted, though even on foot he still towered over the dwarf lord.
Morgrim did not bow. ‘You sent me a fool,’ he said.
‘He came to me recommended,’ said Imladrik.
‘By whom?’
‘Someone I trust.’
Morgrim grunted. ‘We did not harm him,’ he said, in a voice that indicated he regretted the fact.
‘Then what of his tidings? Do we have leave to talk?’
‘My thanes counsel against it. They are hungry to see your walls in rubble. They ask me what you can tell us that we haven’t heard before.’
‘Little, perhaps,’ admitted Imladrik. ‘But not nothing. We used to speak often, you and I. Back then your cousin was the one who wouldn’t listen.’
A shadow fell across Morgrim’s face. ‘His death is the cause of this.’
‘He should have been buried in the Everpeak with honour. He should have taken his place beside Grimnir, and should have done so intact.’
As Imladrik spoke, one of his guards dismounted and bore him a rosewood box inlaid with silver renditions of the dwarfen runes of kingship. Imladrik passed it to Morgrim, stooping as he delivered it.
‘I brought this from Lothern, where it should never have been taken. It is presented to you in reverence, in the hope that it may
