The constant exertion helped Morgrim forget. While he was moving, his breathing heavy and his arms swinging, he could consign the memory of Tor Alessi to forgetfulness. Only in the few hours of sleep he allowed himself did the images come back – the flaming fields, the stink of burning flesh, the cries of alarm. He would awake in the cold dawn, his eyes already staring, his fists clenched with anguish.
‘Onward,’ he would growl, and all those around him would drag themselves to their feet once again.
Dwarfs could cover a phenomenal amount of ground when the occasion demanded. They were not quick in their movements but they were relentless. No other race of the earth had such endurance, such capacity to drive onwards into the night and start again before first light. Freed of the straggling demands of his huge army, Morgrim’s warband had made good progress, led from the front and hauled onwards by his indomitable will.
Morek kept pace just as well as the others. He swayed as he strode, his cheeks red and puffing, his brows lowered in a permanent scowl of concentration.
‘How many miles?’ he asked, several days into the march, the road still thickly overlooked by foliage. His hauberk was thick with mud, his cloak ripped and sodden.
‘No idea,’ replied Morgrim, maintaining pace to the hammer of the drum. ‘Why do you ask?’
Morek snorted. ‘Because Tor Alessi is at one end of the world and Oeragor is at the other. I do not mind the exertion, but was there not a closer prize?’
Morgrim hawked up phlegm and spat it noisily into the verge. ‘There are many closer prizes. Soon they will all be burning.’
‘That is not an answer.’
‘Then because it is his.’ Morgrim’s voice shook with vehemence. He was tempted to stop then, to call the march to a halt and remonstrate with the runelord, but resisted. Every minute was vital. ‘It is his place, the one he built. It will hurt him.’ He glared at Morek. ‘Enough of a reason?’
Morek nodded, his breathing getting a little more snatched. ‘So it is a private war with you now.’
‘It is, and if you have issue with that there are other warbands you could join.’
Morek shook his head wearily. ‘Gods, no. I made an oath.’
Morgrim looked ahead again. ‘Good. While we march, recite your rune-craft. I will need it.’
He knew he spoke harshly; the runelord deserved more. His mood was dark, though. He could feel Snorri’s casket rattling against his jerkin, bound to his chest with chains of iron. Imladrik had no doubt intended the return of Halfhand’s remains as a gesture of goodwill. Now, in the aftermath of what had been unleashed, it felt like an insult.
‘I sent word to every thane under the mountains,’ he muttered. ‘They are all marching. Frei has taken half his hold to Sith Rionnasc. Others are heading through the forest. Others are marching under Brynnoth of Barak Varr. His army is the one we will join. He will support the new way of war – he was ever a wily soul and he knows how best to skin the elgi.’
Morgrim didn’t mention the other reason he wished to join forces with Brynnoth’s armies. Rumours had been whispered through the candlelit corridors of Karaz-a-Karak for months, sometimes with scorn, though often with interest. Brynnoth had done something interesting in Barak Varr, something that held greater promise of taking on the elgi than the campaign of scorched earth he now advocated. He’d heard stories of airborne machines, held aloft only by sacks of air and carrying weapons of fiendish invention. That was interesting. The two of them needed to talk, and to accomplish that he needed to get to Brynnoth.
For now, though, retaliation needed to be decisive, extensive, and, above all, swift.
‘You think we will be in time?’ asked Morek. ‘Last I heard he was close to his muster weeks ago.’
‘We will be in time,’ said Morgrim dismissively. ‘We will make rafts for the river and drive up against the current. We will march into the Ungdrin when we find it again. I will burn myself into the ground if need be, but we will be there.’
Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. Anger was only ever a finger’s breadth under the surface with him, ever ready to erupt. The axe weighed heavily on his back at such times, as if daring him to draw it.
Morek scratched the back of his neck, still marching, looking as if he had his doubts but was too prudent to voice them.
‘The runes,’ he said, glancing at the axe. ‘Do they still answer?’
Morgrim nodded. Azdrakghar had felt alive since Tor Alessi, resonating through his armour in its strapping. ‘It growls like a caged wolf.’
‘The drakk woke it,’ said Morek. ‘Snorri thought–’
‘Do not mention him,’ snapped Morgrim sharply. ‘I grow tired of hearing his name. For too long we have used it, making it stoke our anger. Do we not have enough reasons of our own to hate them?’
Morek stared at him. ‘I only meant–’
‘It is my blade. Snorri was wrong, it was forged for me. It was forged for the drakk. You knew this when you made it.’
Morek shook his grizzled head, puffing hard. ‘I don’t know. Even Ranuld didn’t know. If it has a destiny, I cannot see it.’
‘I can,’ said Morgrim, his grey eyes narrow. He kept marching. ‘I see it as clear as moonlight.’
‘So here we are again.’
Imladrik sat in his throne at the summit of the Tower of Winds. Three of the other thrones were occupied.
Caerwal was no longer there. Neither was Liandra, whose whereabouts had still not been established. Word had come in regarding the fate of her fortress: Kor Vanaeth lay in ruins, its surviving people heading towards Tor Alessi. A dwarf column nearby had also been destroyed. Both sites, Imladrik had been told, bore the marks of dragonfire.
He
