Morgrim leaned forward. ‘And what is that? Enough hints – tell us what you suspect.’
‘Agrin Fireheart,’ said Imladrik. ‘The spark that started this. They killed him, not us. The trade caravans, the first attacks; we were not responsible.
That brought a change: Grondil shook his head angrily, Frei rolled his eyes. Morek leaned over to Morgrim and whispered something in his ear.
‘You’re telling me that these… druchii were to blame?’ Morgrim asked, pushing the runelord away. He pronounced the word awkwardly.
‘In the beginning, yes.’
‘There were a hundred skirmishes,’ said Morgrim sceptically. ‘Dozens of attacks in the first years. We know they came from your colonies.’
‘That did happen. Tempers flared, some lords were foolish.’
‘Foolish!’ snorted Grondil.
‘And we also were attacked by dwarfs,’ said Salendor, his eyes flat with hostility.
‘All suffered,’ admitted Imladrik, giving the Lord of Athel Maraya a sharp look. ‘All of us did.’ He turned to address Morgrim directly. ‘You remember how much your High King tried to restrain your warriors, how much I attempted to keep my own back, and how we both failed – could that have happened if other forces were not at work? Think back: were there no voices in the holds whispering from the start? Strangers, perhaps, who somehow gained the ears of the already-willing?’
He might have imagined it, but Imladrik thought he caught a flicker of recognition from Morek then – the briefest of sidelong glances.
‘I will not try to convince you we were not to blame,’ said Imladrik. ‘Believe me, I regret plenty, including things that happened before I went to Ulthuan. All I will say is this: other powers were active, powers that have wished to see us brought low ever since the Sundering. And if that is the case, should we not stand back, just for a moment, and consider what that means?’
His eyes remained fixed on Morgrim’s.
‘Warriors have died,’ Imladrik said. ‘Some fights have been without honour, and I understand the need for grudgement, but the Dammaz Kron makes provision for deception, does it not? This is my case, lords. Deception has taken place, poisoning the way between us. We can restore it, if we choose – it requires patient work, a little more understanding.’
Imladrik sat back, waiting for the response. He hardly dared to breathe. It would have been in character for the dawi to flatly refuse any further discussion – the information was new to them and they did not like tidings they could not personally verify.
The runesmith leaned over to Morgrim and they conferred for a few moments in whispers. They needn’t have lowered their voices – even Imladrik could not understand much of the Khazalid they used. After that, Morgrim took views from the three other thanes. They took their time, grumbling and muttering in their guttural tongue with stabbing gestures from armoured fingers.
Imladrik watched all the while. None of his companions said anything; they sat erect in their seats, their faces calm. Of all of them, Caerwal looked the most uneasy, which surprised him. Salendor’s hostility, for the moment, had been replaced by curiosity.
Eventually Morgrim leaned forward again. His expression, as much of it as could be read under the ironwork of his helm, had not changed.
‘We are not stupid,’ he said. ‘Nor are we blind. We know that you have your divisions. Perhaps we did not appreciate how deep they ran.’
Morgrim didn’t bother looking at or addressing the others; he spoke to Imladrik alone.
‘But you cannot think this is enough. Halfhand was slain by your own Phoenix King. The blood has been bad for too long to wave away with half-truths.’
Imladrik bristled. ‘They are not half-truths.’
‘Then prove them.’
Imladrik was about to ask, wearily, what would satisfy him when Morgrim shot him a rare look, one almost reminiscent of the way he used to be before, free of the patina of bitterness that now clouded his every move.
‘But neither let it be said that the dawi do not know their own laws,’ he said. ‘You are right about the Dammaz Kron.’
He still didn’t smile, though. Perhaps he was no longer capable of it.
‘So tell us more about the druchii.’
Drutheira brought Bloodfang around for another pass, thundering towards the devastation that had once been Kor Vanaeth. The dragon had exceeded her expectations – once given a channel for its misery it had poured the full measure of woe on to its target, ravaging the asur settlement as if the place were somehow responsible for its life of torment.
The defenders had done their best. Some had even managed to loose a few bolts from eagle-shaped launchers atop the citadel’s central tower. One had sheered close, nearly punching a fresh hole in Bloodfang’s already ragged wings, but that was the best they had managed before the dragon had razed the rooftops, sweeping the whole rabble of artillery pieces from their places in a single, scything run.
After that the battle was ludicrously one-sided, something Drutheira took an exquisite pleasure in. The dragon’s columns of flame ripped roofs clean from walls; its raking claws tore deep into towers and bulwarks, collapsing masonry into clouds of spiralling rubble. Arrows clattered uselessly from its armoured hide, igniting as they shot through the waves of flame that swathed the beast.
Drutheira hung on tight throughout, clutching the bone-spur before her one-handed and enjoying the violent swerve of the plunging attack. Her other hand brandished her staff, but aside from adding a few aesthetic touches she left the destruction to the dragon.
Magnificent, she thought, lurching to one side as Bloodfang shouldered aside another watchtower, crushing it into clouds of flaming dust. Truly magnificent.
By then little remained of Kor Vanaeth aside from its crudely fashioned central citadel. Shattered walls and dwellings lay smouldering and stinking. Whole streets had been demolished in the rush of claws and
