A gust of cold air ghosted from Snorri’s mouth as he exhaled.
‘Because they are.’ Like many dwarf kings, a vein of greed as thick and beguiling as any motherlode ran through Ironhandson. He licked his lips as he imagined the plunder inside the elf city that would swell his coffers.
Snorri didn’t feel it. He only wanted to show his father he was wrong and that the elves were a threat in need of ousting from their lands.
Thagdor certainly thought so.
He regarded the lines of battered but defiant spearmen, the rows of dishevelled elven archers upon the wall with disdain.
Their horse guard were all dead, the silver-helmed riders smashed against a bulwark of dwarf shields. The King of Zhufbar had revelled in this, for they were his shields.
‘Aye, as bloody weak and feeble as I thought. We should’ve done this years ago.’
Why then, thought Snorri, do I not feel it?
He expected satisfaction, a sense of righteous vengeance, but all that filled him was a terrible emptiness, which he could fill with neither gold or violence.
He had gathered the kings together, standing behind the serried shield walls of almost forty thousand dwarfs, to plan the assault. It only occurred to him now that the battle required little in way of strategy. The dwarfs possessed an overwhelming advantage in terms of their numbers. They could simply march on Kor Vanaeth and not stop until it was rubble under their stomping boots.
The left flank contained the bulk of Karak Varn’s war engines. Ironhandson was particularly proud of them, a battery of fifty stone throwers and half that again in ballistae. Untouched in the pitched battle, his engineers and journeymen made ready to unleash them now.
Brynnoth said nothing. He had come to the council as requested, but cared not for tactics. Like most of the clans of Barak Varr, he just wanted revenge. Dwarfs are patient creatures, but eight years had begun to seem a long time coming for Agrin Fireheart’s retribution.
Snorri recognised the merchant Nadri Copperfist amongst the king’s retinue. Doubtless, his place there was because he had found the runelord and desired vengeance of his own. A merchant no longer, he had left the name Gildtongue behind and become a warrior. Before it was over, Snorri suspected many more would have to do the same. Rope makers, lantern-bearers, barrel-wrights, muleskinners, gold-shapers, rock-cutters, brew-hands, all the dwarfs of the clans would set down the tools of their various trades and take up their axes in this cause.
His father had seen that. After eight years, Snorri was only just beginning to see.
‘We should let the elgi surrender,’ said Morgrim. His mail hauberk was chipped in places, some of the rings split and dented from elven lances. A worn shield hung over his back and a hammer, stained dark crimson, was looped in his belt. Pleading eyes regarded Snorri from beneath the mantle of his horned helmet as his cousin sought to end the fight.
Snorri held his gaze for a moment before casting it over the city. Every one of the elves had retreated behind its walls. His rangers had estimated somewhere in the region of eight thousand warriors still lived and were able to fight. Mainly spearmen and archers; the cavalry were either dead or would be no use during a siege. There were bound to be sorcerers too, but the prince was unconcerned. Both Brynnoth and Thagdor had brought their runesmiths.
‘They won’t surrender, cousin,’ said Snorri. His burnished breastplate shone dully in the sun as if lacking some of its former lustre. It came with a winged helm that the prince kept in the crook of his arm, and had a shirt of mail beneath it. His axe was unsullied and sat upon his back in its sheath. His iron gauntlet flexed. ‘And nor would we let them. We must send a message. Elgi are not wanted in these lands. They are trespassers and interlopers, and won’t be tolerated any more.’
Morgrim lowered his voice. ‘You think it will end here? You’ve made your point, cousin. Let them go.’
He half glanced at Drogor who was standing stock still beside his cousin, eyes front.
Snorri shook his head.
‘Can’t do that, Morg. The elgi have enjoyed our mercy long enough. Agrin Fireheart lies eight years dead and that must be accounted for. There are entire chapters of grudges devoted to the acts of murder and sabotage perpetrated by these thagging pointy-ears. Have you forgotten Zakbar Varf?’
‘That was a trading settlement, this is a city!’ Morgrim bit his tongue, struggling to rein in his exasperation. He urged, ‘Please don’t do this.’
Snorri paused, betraying the slightest chink in his resolve.
Drogor’s grip tightened on his axe haft, and the prince hardened again.
‘It’s already done,’ he said, thinking about the elven corpses littering the battlefield behind them. He signalled to King Ironhandson. ‘Bring it down,’ he told him. ‘By Grimnir, bring it all down.’
Greed lighting his eyes like a bonfire, the King of Karak Varn raised his fist.
Horns blared, drums beat, warriors clattered their shields.
‘Khazuk!’
Hurled stones and flung bolts thickened the air, whistling in a murderous clamour.
The inevitable war had finally begun.
Fighting outside the gate to Kor Vanaeth was fierce.
Nadri hacked his blade into the elven wood, finding it much more unyielding than he would have first believed.
In their eagerness to kill elves, and their greed, the dwarf army had not bothered to hew down the trees for battering rams. Instead they would use their axes to cut the city gate down, for surely an elven gate would be easy to breach?
The last hour had proven the falsehood of that, but even as the arrow storm raining down on them from above claimed yet more of Grungni’s sons, the gate was slowly beginning to buckle.
Wrenching his axe loose, Nadri saw and heard a crack split its length all the way to the keystone above.
‘It yields!’ roared King Brynnoth, shielded by his doughty hearthguard.
Within
