East, Vranesh sang.
Liandra twisted around, feeling the pain intensify. Only slowly did she recognise the cause: echoes of agony in the aethyr, souls shrieking in pain, all wrapped in the poisonous embrace of Dhar magic.
‘Kor Vanaeth,’ she breathed, her heart suddenly chilling. ‘Blood of Isha – my people.’
By then Vranesh was already flying hard, thrusting east, picking up speed with every powerful wingbeat.
Liandra reeled, clutching her breast as more waves of misery impacted.
She had always had a sympathetic link with her adopted home, but this was different. The pain was being shouted out across the aethyr like a beacon in the night. Someone wanted her to feel it.
Abomination, snarled Vranesh. The dragon’s voice was twisted in fury. I sense it.
Find it, gasped Liandra, trying to shake off the sickening pain and summon up her own anger. Find it, run it down. By Isha’s tears, you shall have the bloodshed you seek.
The tent’s canvas walls swayed in the wind, buffeted by gusts that came off the western ocean and straight across the plain. It was an elaborate construction, a storeyed collection of fabric-walled chambers erected around a scaffold of thick wooden poles and taut hemp ropes. Imladrik had had it prepared weeks ago, hoping that it would be used for such a purpose; erecting it had taken just a few hours.
The site was equidistant between the dwarf camp and the city walls. No more than a hundred delegates were permitted within half a mile of it, fifty from each opposing force. Despite the precautions, the atmosphere of tense antagonism was palpable. Dwarfs glowered at their elgi counterparts; the asur glared back at them with equal suspicion.
Imladrik didn’t like to see it, but he wasn’t surprised.
So are the dreams of our fathers diminished.
He sat at the centre of a long table covered in white linen. He had come in his ceremonial robes rather than armour as a gesture of trust. Aelis, Gelthar, Caerwal and Salendor sat on either side of him, all similarly garbed.
There was still no sign of Liandra. He had sent messages to her quarters. She might, of course, have been unaware that the dawi had finally arrived, but he doubted it. Whatever her feelings about remaining in his presence, she should not have stayed away.
Perhaps that vindicated everything he had done. He wished he could feel surer.
Opposite them, sitting at a similar table, were the dwarfs. Three lords, in addition to the runesmith, sat with Morgrim. Imladrik didn’t know them or recognise their livery; they had been introduced as Frei of Karak Drazh, Grondil of Zhufbar and Eldig of Karak Varn. They were neither princes nor kings, but thanes, advisers to their hold-master. Each looked ancient, as knotted and weathered as oak-stumps.
For all of their grandeur, there could be no doubt who dominated the chamber. Morgrim brooded in the midst of them, his countenance hanging like a funeral pall over the proceedings. He still wore his fabulously ornate battle plate with its swirling curves of knotwork decoration and bronze-limned detail, looking ready to unclasp his axe at any moment.
Still, he was there. That was something.
‘So,’ Imladrik said, inclining his head toward Morgrim, who made no move in return. ‘Three sieges have taken place here. It is my hope we may avoid a fourth.’
Grondil grunted, Eldig looked bored, but none of them spoke. From either side of him Imladrik could sense the wariness of his own side: Salendor disdainful, Gelthar wary, Caerwal silently hostile.
‘We came here for vengeance,’ replied Morgrim. ‘It will not be halted by words we have heard before.’
‘Things have changed,’ said Imladrik. ‘I suspect much.’
‘Suspect?’ Morgrim’s tone was dismissive.
‘More than suspect.’ Imladrik motioned to one of the servants standing in the margins of the chamber, who unfurled a long sheet of parchment and held it aloft.
‘This is a map of our homeland,’ said Imladrik. ‘I had it drawn with every detail. You can see the extent of Ulthuan here. Note the scarcity of land between the mountains and the sea. So it was that the asur first came to Elthin Arvan, to escape the boundaries that fate had enclosed us in.’
Morgrim’s eyes flickered over the parchment, taking in the detail quickly.
‘Observe the land to the north-west,’ Imladrik went on. ‘The race who live there we name the druchii, the dark ones. They are driven by a pleasure creed which turns their minds, blighting them with sadism. For seven centuries we have warred with them. For more than a generation we have kept this war secret, shamed by it even as we strive to end it. Over the years it has changed us: we have become a harder people. We remember our fight against the daemons with pride, but this secret war has caused us nothing but shame.’
Morgrim looked back at him doubtfully. ‘What is shameful about war?’
‘Because the druchii were once one with us,’ said Imladrik. Admitting it, even after so long, was still painful. ‘Their master was our greatest captain. He will be known to you in your annals. His name is Malekith.’
The runesmith Morek grunted in recognition. ‘We do remember. He was a friend of the dawi.’
‘He was once,’ said Imladrik. ‘He was many things, once.’
Morgrim placed his gauntlets on the table before him with a soft clunk. ‘This is your business, elgi. We have no concern what battles you make for yourselves.’
‘So it would be, had the war not spread to Elthin Arvan. We have always tried to prevent it. Even in times of peace we maintained a watch on the seas, knowing that the Witch King would covet our cities here just as he covets those in Ulthuan. Athel Toralien was his once, and he is jealous over what he believes has been taken from him.’
As he spoke, Imladrik kept a wary eye on the dwarfs before him. They made very few gestures and gave away almost nothing, though they were still listening, which was good.
‘Druchii can pass as asur with some ease; even my
