‘Here at last,’ said Kelemar as she arrived. It took Liandra a moment to realise he was referring to the dawi, not her.
‘Are they ready for battle?’ she asked.
Celian nodded. ‘Very much so.’
That was the final confirmation. ‘Then it has all been for nothing,’ said Liandra wearily. ‘Salendor told him the dwarfs would not listen to reason.’
Kelemar reached up to wipe a line of sweat from his brow. ‘Maybe this army has not heeded its commands – there is more than one dwarf lord under the mountains.’
‘Maybe,’ said Liandra grimly, unconvinced.
She felt sweat on her hands as she gripped her staff. Facing the enemy without her dragon would be a new experience, and not one she relished. Even to use magefire without Vranesh alongside her felt… wrong.
‘Any numbers yet?’ she asked, screwing her eyes up against the glare.
‘Twenty thousand,’ said Celian flatly.
‘Really?’
The captain nodded. ‘At least.’
Liandra smiled wanly. ‘Perhaps I should not have asked.’
‘You could leave,’ said Kelemar. ‘No oath of fealty compels you.’
Liandra turned on him, incredulous. ‘Are you jesting?’
‘I merely–’
‘Well, do not. Never again.’ Her face hardened. ‘I have never run from battle.’
Celian leaned out over the balcony railing, shading his eyes. ‘And there they are.’
Liandra and Kelemar turned, following his outstretched hand. There was very little to see – just a faint plume of dust on the north-western horizon. It looked strangely innocuous, a wisp of wind gusting across the powdered earth.
It would grow. Steadily, slowly, just as it had been at Tor Alessi, the dawi would tramp out of the wilderness, their armour caked in filth from the road, their standards hanging heavily in the air.
Liandra thought then of the vast armies that Vranesh had shown her from afar, crawling in the shadow of the peaks, pouring out of the ground like tar sliding up from a well.
‘So it starts again,’ she said grimly.
Brynnoth, King of Barak Varr, was both irritated and intrigued. The orders had been given, the front ranks of warriors were already within sight of the elven fortress.
He had been looking forward to the fighting. Taking Oeragor would eliminate the elvish presence on his southern flank, freeing up forces for the more serious campaigns in the west. Oeragor might not have had the prestige of Tor Alessi, but it was an important step nonetheless. Brynnoth wanted his name in the book of victories, and he wanted Barak Varr taken seriously alongside the larger holds of the mountains.
He wouldn’t have held up the advance if the name he’d been given had been anyone else’s. A part of him remained sceptical – Tor Alessi was a long way away. When he finally saw the incoming party hove into view, though, he saw it to be true. Morgrim Elgidum stood before him, sweltering in the heat.
Brynnoth laughed, partly from disbelief.
‘You are lost, lord?’ he asked.
Morgrim didn’t smile. ‘You are already attacking?’
‘The advance has begun.’
‘Then I will fight with you.’
‘I thought you were–’
‘Things have changed.’
Brynnoth puffed his cheeks out thoughtfully. Morgrim looked fatigued. His whole troop looked fatigued. If they truly had come all the way from the coast… well, he’d have been fatigued too.
‘So I see,’ Brynnoth said. ‘Your axe with mine, then; it will be an honour.’
Morgrim limped closer. ‘Do you have the new machines?’
‘New machines?’
‘The ones that fly.’
Brynnoth smiled. ‘Ah, Copperfist’s devices. So you’ve heard about those. No, they’re not ready. May never be.’
Morgrim grunted. ‘When this is over I need to speak to him.’
Brynnoth decided he didn’t like the way he was being addressed. Morgrim was a prince, one held high in the runelords’ estimation, but Brynnoth was lord of an entire hold.
‘I’ll decide that,’ he said. ‘You could tell me why you wish to. You could also tell me why you’re here at all.’
Morgrim looked at him sourly. ‘Drakk. The elgi are using drakk.’
Brynnoth snorted. ‘And?’
‘They kill faster than anything I’ve ever seen. What war machines do you have?’
‘Ballistae. Bolt throwers. They’re being rolled up towards the city.’
‘Keep them back. Angle them steeply and save them for the skies. We weren’t prepared for them – you should be.’
Brynnoth narrowed his eyes. ‘What happened?’
‘They tore us apart.’
Morgrim’s expression was thunderous. Brynnoth decided not to press the matter. ‘I’ll heed the warning then,’ he said, ‘but there are no drakk here.’
‘For now.’
Morgrim’s own soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder around him, as grim-faced and battered as their master. A runelord leaned on his staff some way distant, looking nearly at the end of his strength.
They didn’t look capable of adding much to his own forces, all of whom were in prime condition for the fight. Adding a few hundred exhausted refugees from a failed campaign didn’t seem like much of an asset.
Still, it was Morgrim.
‘Then we should march,’ said Brynnoth. ‘Or do you need rest?’
Morgrim gestured to his warriors, all of whom took up their weapons and fell into formation.
‘Just show me the elgi,’ he growled.
Caradryel raced up the stairs to Imladrik’s arming chamber. The news had reached him late that Imladrik was leaving the city; he hoped not too late.
He pushed his way past the guards at the doors and entered the chamber breathlessly. Imladrik was still there, fixing the last silver pauldron in place, his tall helm placed beside him on a stool.
‘My lord,’ he said, bowing.
Imladrik acknowledged his presence with a curt nod. ‘You’re out of breath.’
‘I didn’t know you were leaving so soon.’
Imladrik reached for his long cloak and draped it over his shoulders. ‘The dawi are moving. We should too.’
Caradryel sat down heavily on a chest made from varnished Lustrian hardwood. His breathing took a while to return to normal.
‘I have news,’ he said.
Imladrik looked at him coolly. ‘More reliable than your last?’
Caradryel flushed. He would not be allowed to forget about Salendor any time soon. ‘I trust so. It concerns Liandra.’
Imladrik turned on him, suddenly interested.
‘Refugees from Kor Vanaeth have got here,’ said Caradryel. ‘They told me she was in combat with a black dragon and pursued it
