Morgrim had gone south to bring reinforcement, and turned back the elf army camped on Azul’s doorstep so its clans could return to their forges and fashion the engines and armour the dwarf war effort so badly needed. Snorri had greeted him warmly upon his return, but couldn’t entirely conceal his jealousy at his cousin’s success.
Now, it seemed he was just glad to have him back at his side.
‘What did she say to you in the field of the dead, Morg?’ he asked.
Morgrim snorted with amusement. ‘She asked me to try and keep you alive.’
Snorri clapped him on the back. ‘Well, you’ve done your task well then.’ He laughed. ‘Do you ever wish we were back in the ruins of Karak Krum chasing talking rats, eh?’
Morgrim laughed too but stopped when he saw the seriousness in his cousin’s eyes. ‘Every day,’ he muttered soberly.
Snorri slowly nodded.
‘Lords,’ Drogor interrupted. ‘The Angaz Baragdum is over the next hill. We should be able to see the elgi throng arrayed.’
‘And they us,’ noted Snorri, signalling a halt. He turned to one of his rangers, who was outriding at the edge of the army. ‘Any sign?’ he called.
‘The skies are clear, Prince Snorri.’
‘No eagles, that’s a good thing,’ Snorri said to himself.
Morgrim drew close to him as the dwarf column ground to a halt with a clattering of armour. ‘Are you certain of this plan?’
‘Arrogance has brought the elgi king to this place. He must be made to realise the folly of that, and when he does he cannot be allowed to escape. For the same reason we strike now and do not wait, you must do what I’ve asked you to next.’ Snorri smiled, gripping Morgrim’s armoured shoulder with his gauntleted hand. ‘Do not fear, cousin. Drogor is by my side. Neither I nor the banner will fall this day.’
Not entirely convinced, Morgrim summoned his warriors. He gave Drogor a parting glance but could find no clue as to the Karak Zorn dwarf’s thoughts. His own were fraught with concern that he would not be there to temper the prince’s eagerness. Certainly, Drogor would not do it.
Half the army would go with Morgrim. Sheltered by the foothills, they would take the wide and rugged path east, come around the back of the enemy and close off any route of escape. Dwarfs knew the mountains better than anyone; they could sneak up on elves easily enough. It would leave Snorri with only ten thousand to face whatever host the elf king had amassed. According to their scouts, it was considerable.
Before he left, he said to Snorri, ‘Hold them until I get there, cousin. Hold them and only then engage the king.’
‘Aye.’ Snorri grinned. ‘I’ll cut off his pointy-eared little head.’
CHAPTER FORTY
The Spilling of Noble Blood
No ceremony, no celebration of any kind had greeted the army of Barak Varr when it had returned to the Sea Hold. Led by Brynnoth, a battered and brutalised king, the dwarfs were a returning tide, washing up on the borders of the great fastness with all the detritus that had survived the siege of the elven city.
No, as Heglan remembered that day, just as he had remembered it every day since, it was more like a funeral procession. All along the Merman Pass, trailing back down to the shipyards many miles behind, were dour-looking clanners shouldering biers of shields the colour of the ocean. Upon them were their fallen brothers. And there had been a great many. At first, Heglan had hoped some of the warriors had remained with the High King to garrison the lesser citadels but the mood was too sombre, too withdrawn and bereft of hope for that to be true. A defeated force had returned to Barak Varr, carrying its dead. But they clung to something else too, a very familiar emotion to Heglan now – vengeance.
That sight, the returning dwarfs, the warriors lain in silent repose upon their shields, had stayed with him for over twenty years. It was his waking thought, his last memory at night, at least when he managed sleep. During the dark hours, Heglan’s workshop became his refuge. He laboured until exhaustion claimed him and sent his mind into an agonised hell of remembrance. Running down to the Merman Pass, barging the gathered crowds from his path, ignoring their curses. Watching the procession pass, listening to the weeping, the declarations of revenge, the wailing of the women. An impenetrable line of hearthguard prevented the crowd from approaching closer than the edge of the road. With every bier that passed by, Heglan’s hope grew, until he saw the eighty-first shield and the dwarf dead upon it.
Unmarked by war, no wound to be seen, Nadri Lodrison was a cold corpse.
Heglan had lost his brother, and in that fateful moment of realisation became the last of his line. Few of the clan Copperfist returned, and though some spoke words of conciliation, Heglan heard not of it. Instead, a tiny fire grew into being inside his stomach. Quickly it became a fist of flame then a blaze, until the conflagration of his hate and desire for retribution was born.
Sheltered in his workshop, bent towards dreams of invention and prosperity, he had been untouched by the war. With Nadri’s death, it had gouged him and left a gaping wound behind. From the sky and the sun, Heglan retreated downwards to the earth and the desolation of his brother’s tomb.
Cold stone pressed against his forehead. Heglan opened his eyes, returning to the present. He could smell grave dust and dank, though whether this was real or a trick of his grief-stricken conscience he could no longer tell. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a doleful tolling announced the dead.
‘Copperfist…’ a gruff voice intruded on the funerary bell.
Heglan looked up
