Morgrim glared up at him suspiciously for a moment. Then he opened the catch. A withered hand lay within, cushioned on silk and bound with fine linen. Its fingers had been severed at the first knuckle.
Morgrim stared at it for a long time. When he next spoke, his voice was thick.
‘I would have brought our armies to Ulthuan to retrieve this.’
‘I know.’
‘And you think you can buy my goodwill with it?’
‘It was not intended to buy anything,’ said Imladrik, knowing the danger of mortal insult. ‘I give it to you now before fighting makes it impossible, so it may be returned to his father in Karaz-a-Karak and interred with the grondaz rites. I would have it known that Snorri Halfhand, greatest of dawi princes, can still grasp an axe in the afterlife.’
Morgrim nodded slowly. ‘Aye,’ he said grimly. ‘It would be fitting.’
Then he glared up at Imladrik again.
‘It can never go back to how it was,’ he said. ‘My army will remain on these plains, preparing for battle. But I will listen. Perhaps you can tell me something new, perhaps not: I make no promises.’
Imladrik bowed, feeling a surge of relief wash over him. He felt like thanking Morgrim, knowing the risks the dwarf lord ran to make such a concession, but that would have been fatal – dwarfs cared nothing for gratitude, only debts, loyalty and payment.
So instead he rose to his full height and withdrew slowly, never taking his eyes off Morgrim’s conflicted face.
‘So be it,’ he said. ‘The last chance to end this madness. By Asuryan, let us not waste it.’
Chapter Fourteen
Liandra drove Vranesh hard, pushing her towards the far-off peaks of the Arluii. Her steed was happy to comply. As ever, their moods were intertwined, amplified and echoed in one another’s minds with every movement and gesture.
She knew she should turn back. Her foray out over Loren Lacoi had given her a hawk’s eye view of dawi columns moving close to Tor Alessi’s hinterland – the vanguard of the main force would not be far behind it. On another day, she might have ordered Vranesh down, raking the slow-moving formations with a burst of dragonfire. She would have enjoyed that – it would have been a release after so long holding back.
Imladrik, of course, wouldn’t have allowed it. His restraint was maddening. Liandra knew what he was capable of if he chose to unlock the power coiled tight within that proud, buttoned-up exterior. She had seen it for herself, and the memory still burned within her.
But she had made herself weary now telling others of his potential, even Salendor had stopped believing her.
‘It doesn’t matter how much you tell me this,’ he’d complained, smarting after her rejection of him. ‘Weak elves tell good stories.’
Salendor was within his rights to be sceptical – very few had ever seen dragon riders in action. The drakes were rare and majestic beasts, kept away from the battlefield by their riders unless the need was great. Salendor could have no idea what would happen when they were let loose. He could have no idea how contemptuously Draukhain or Vranesh could carve through the mightiest of defences, leaving nothing but molten armour fragments in their wake.
The dawi did not understand it either. It was centuries since dragons had gone to war in Elthin Arvan – no dwarfs now lived who would have witnessed them unleashed to the full. They had only ever hunted miserable cave-dwelling wyrms of the eastern mountains – the colossally powerful Star Dragons of the Annulii were another proposition entirely.
It was all so frustrating.
He is a fool, sang Vranesh in sympathy.
Liandra laughed bitterly. You’ve changed your tune.
Who but a fool would spurn the chance to mate with you?
It is not about mating, she sang back, affronted. Gods, you can be crude sometimes.
Then what is it? Vranesh sounded genuinely interested.
I see the things we could accomplish together. It was hard to conceal emotions from the dragons – they sniffed them out like prey. He sees it too, but holds back.
Because he is promised to another?
That is not all. Liandra’s mind-voice was hesitant; she didn’t like thinking of Imladrik’s motivations. He has his father’s example to think of.
Imrik, sang Vranesh with approval.
Indeed. Think on the lesson of Imrik, and you will understand both his sons.
Vranesh dipped a little lower, pulling clear of a long grey cloudbank. Ahead of them, still many leagues distant, the grey profile of the Arluii pocked the southern horizon.
His father refused to draw the Sword of Khaine, even though it would have ended the war, sang Liandra. Caledor believes this was weak, and has spent his life trying to erase the shame of it. He would go to war with his own shadow if it offended him.
And kalamn-talaen?
He thinks otherwise. Liandra looked out at the vast spread of Elthin Arvan, regarding it with the mix of hatred and devotion that she had always felt. He thinks we carry the seeds of our destruction within us. He yearns for nothing more than to give free rein to the dragon, but dreads what it will do to him. He does not want to become another Aenarion.
Liandra gripped her staff tightly. I am his Sword of Khaine, she sang. That is the problem.
Vranesh snorted her contempt. Foolish.
Liandra nodded slowly. It is. We are a foolish race.
Vranesh angled steeply, pulling closer to the land below. Liandra peered over the creature’s shoulder, scouring the unbroken forest for signs of movement.
When will you order me back to the city? sang Vranesh. Not that I am in a hurry – I enjoy the chance to stretch my pinions.
Liandra was about to reply, to begin the long journey back, when something suddenly struck at her soul: a sharp pain, like a dagger-thrust. She winced, tensing in the saddle.
‘What is that?’ she asked aloud, voice tight with pain.
Vranesh had felt it too – the dragon instantly gained altitude, powering aloft with
