Morgrim was getting worked up, his eyes burning and his movements agitated. He had been made to look a fool in front of his thanes, something Imladrik knew he could never forgive.
‘If you can’t control your beasts, then you are to blame,’ Morgrim went on. ‘I sacrificed much for you, but no longer. Enough talk. We are coming for you with axe and hammer now. We are doing what we came to do: raze your walls and destroy your city.’
Imladrik saw the mania in his eyes even through the distortions of the sending. Morgrim was in his full battle-rage now, fuelled by the burning sense of injustice his race took so much trouble to cultivate.
‘It was one dragon rider, Morgrim,’ said Imladrik quietly, though he knew it was almost certainly futile. ‘Just one. Can you vouch for all the warriors under your command?’
Morgrim nodded angrily. ‘I can. They are already marching, elgi. A blood-debt of a thousand gold ingots hangs around your neck. I plan to claim it myself: for Snorri, who was right about you from the start.’
Even as he finished speaking, the sending began to dissolve. Imladrik heard chanting from somewhere – the runelord, now working to banish the hated elgi magic from his presence.
‘This is the end, Morgrim!’ Imladrik cried. ‘You give Malekith what he wants!’
‘No, govandrakken,’ snarled Morgrim, his face fracturing into flame-like slivers as Salendor’s magic finally gave out. ‘It is what I want.’
Then the images gusted away, snuffed into curls of emerald smoke by Morek’s command of the runes.
After that, no one spoke. Salendor recovered his poise, breathing heavily. All in the chamber had heard the words. They stood still, waiting for Imladrik’s response.
Imladrik stared at the floor. Nothing but despair came to him. The hard truth, the one he had tried so hard to resist, had asserted itself once more.
This was the moment. This was when it all turned. No fellowship would exist between the two races again, not after this. He would be the last of his kind to gaze on the giant, rune-engraved images of Grimnir and Grungni, to peer into the gromril shafts and see the glittering metal hacked from the very base of the earth, to witness the ancient iron-bound tomes in the libraries of the runelords.
The world would be poorer for it. It would be colder, darker and less glorious. Even as he contemplated it, reflecting on a future bereft of harmony and riven with suspicion, he could feel the cold vice of hopelessness around his heart.
Imladrik lifted his head, looking first at Salendor.
‘We tried,’ he said, quietly. ‘When I stand before Asuryan I can at least say that.’
Salendor nodded perfunctorily, but it was clear his counsel had not changed. ‘And now, lord?’
‘The path is clear,’ Imladrik replied, his voice heavy. ‘Look to the walls. Ensure the bolt throwers are trained. Let us hope they withdraw when our strength becomes obvious.’
‘And if they do not?’
‘Then they will die, Salendor,’ said Imladrik coldly. ‘If they force me, to the last warrior I will kill them all.’
Chapter Eighteen
Thoriol ran up the steep stairway, taking the steps two at a time. Moving fast was difficult with bow in one hand and quiver in the other – the constant jostling from those around him made it even harder. The entire city was in motion, with troops rushing to their stations under the echoing blare of trumpets. The noise from the war-drums outside was deafening – a grinding, rolling hammer-beat that made the air shake.
The rest of Baelian’s company raced alongside him, Florean in the lead with Loeth close behind. The captain brought up the rear carrying his own bow, a heavy yew-shaft tipped with silver that he’d carried into battle for sixty years.
They ran up another winding stairwell, making the torches gutter as they swept past, before spilling out on to the east-facing outer wall. The ramparts were wide – over twelve feet – but were already filling with bodies.
‘Down here!’ cried Baelian, his voice impatient, directing the company to their allocated place. ‘Faster!’
Tor Alessi’s walls rose up in three concentric layers: an outer curtain that soared up from the plain for over a hundred feet, smooth and pale with only one land-facing gatehouse; then an inner sanctuary wall that rose even higher, ringing the inner city with its clustered spires and mage-towers; and finally the ultimate bastion, a truly cyclopean cliff of ice-white masonry that protected the mightiest central citadel.
The mages had been stationed up there, their bright-coloured cloaks rippling in the wind and their staffs already shimmering with power. Eagle-winged bolt throwers had been mounted on the next tier down. Some of those war machines were gigantic, carrying darts hewn from single tree trunks and bowcords the diameter of a clenched fist. The archers were stationed on the outer perimeter, thousands of them rammed close along the long, winding parapets.
It was a daunting sight, a majestic display of Ulthuan’s glory. The banners of the King and the many asur kingdoms blazed clear under the powerful evening sun, draping the walls in a garland of vivid runes. Thoriol knew thousands more warriors waited within the cover of the walls, ready to advance swiftly if the perimeter were breached. Many of those were regular spearmen detachments, but he’d seen more heavily armed companies waiting in reserve, all clad in high silver helms and wearing ithilmar-plate armour. The entire city was teeming with violence, suppressed for so long but ready, at last,
