‘Is that wise?’
‘No, but I’ll not have that pointy-ears show me up on dawi ground. Khazagrim, you’re with me.’ He turned to Drogor. ‘Throng holds here, but be ready.’
‘Tromm,’ said Drogor, bowing.
Snorri stomped off with Khazagrim.
The elves had been waiting for several minutes by the time the dwarfs reached them.
King Caledor muttered something in elvish to his protector who smiled and nodded back.
‘Something amuses you, elgi?’ Snorri snapped, his half-hand resting on the haft of his rune axe. ‘A joke to lighten the mood, is it?’
The banner bearer leaned forwards in his saddle to look down on the diminutive dwarf retinue.
‘The Phoenix King remarks on your stature, and how it must take interminably long to get anywhere and do anything. He wonders if you are faster at digging than you are walking?’
Snorri bit his tongue. He could feel Khazagrim trembling with anger next to him, his leather gauntlets creaking into fists.
The elf king was sneering, but despite his levity his blue eyes were like chips of ice. He had the look of a hunter about him, and carried a long spear as well as sword and bow. Tendrils of golden hair slipped from beneath his helm and here Snorri paused. For the war helm sitting upon Caledor’s brow was shaped to resemble a dragon. His entire armoured body was fashioned thusly, wrought in fire-red plate and silver scale akin to the hide of such a beast. Edged in gold, the king’s armoured skirts carried further effigies firmly establishing the aspect he wanted to promote.
Words spoken what seemed like an age ago now returned to the young prince.
Snorri’s lip curled into a snarl. ‘Drakk…’ he breathed, and felt the touch of destiny upon him. It was no beast at all that Ranuld’s prophecy spoke of, but an elf, the elf. All thoughts of negotiation evaporated.
The elf banner bearer looked confused at this declaration, turning to his liege-lord. His comment elicited another bout of sarcastic humour.
For his part, Snorri jabbed his finger in the elf king’s direction.
‘You,’ he said, before turning to prod at his own chest, ‘and me.’
Smiling, King Caledor trotted forwards on his steed.
‘Are you challenging me, mud-dweller?’ he asked in perfect Khazalid. ‘Do you mean to say I have brought all these warriors and only you and I will get to fight? Seems a pity.’
Snorri was taken aback. ‘You speak our tongue?’
‘When I must.’ He scoffed, apparently amused at the prince’s boldness. ‘I came to answer your plea for surrender, but it seems dwarf stupidity really is without limit.’
‘Aye, and elgi arrogance is boundless too. By Grungni, you will meet me on the field of battle and we’ll settle this honourably.’
Looking Snorri up and down, the elf king frowned. ‘Are you certain you want to do this? I am the Phoenix King of Ulthuan, greatest warrior of this age.’
Now it was Snorri’s turn to smile. ‘We have many names for you, elgi, but king is not amongst them. The Coward, the Friendless, He Who is Frightened of Loud Noises. My favourite is the Goat Worrier, for you have the hunter’s eye.’ Jabbing a finger back at the elf king, Snorri bared his teeth in a mocking grin and bleated at him.
Caledor’s expression hardened at once to chiselled stone.
‘Have your shovels ready,’ he told the prince, ‘for they will soon be needed.’ Turning his horse around, Caledor rode off to prepare for the duel and took his scowling retainers with them.
Snorri nodded as he watched them go.
‘Well,’ he said to Khazagrim. ‘I thought that went well.’
As they rode back to the army, King Caledor turned in the saddle towards his seneschal.
‘Hulviar,’ he said, ‘as soon as I have cut that imp down signal the attack. Every dwarf on this field shall die today.’
‘All of them, my king?’
‘Every last one. They attack my cities with impunity, a message must be sent. It’s why we are here and why I must miss the beginning of the hunting season. Soon as it’s done, we return and these dwarfs will go back to their holes in the ground. See them dead, Hulviar.’
Hulviar nodded grimly and went to ready the Silver Helms.
Rain battered at Morgrim’s forces as they slogged through the foothills in an ever-thickening mire. The summer storm had come from nowhere, splitting the sky with dry lightning in the east and hammering them with a downpour in the west.
‘Have you ever seen the like of this?’ Morgrim remarked as rain teemed off the nose guard of his war helm, trickling down his face and beard.
Tarni, his banner bearer, shook his head, spitting out a mouthful of the sudden deluge.
Ahead in the road, Morgrim saw one of the rangers had returned and was beckoning them onwards. The dwarf pointed to a high cliff of rock that hung over the trail and would grant some respite from the storm.
Morgrim nodded, though he had no idea if the ranger had seen him or not. He waved his army on. ‘Forward, to the crag,’ he yelled, and horns blared down the ranks to relay his order. Their clarion was answered a moment later by a peal of thunder that shook the earth underfoot. From the sky there came a jag of pearlescent lightning. Bright as magnesium, Morgrim had to shield his eyes from it, and when he looked back the bolt had struck the cliff face, shearing off a chunk that had collapsed across the road and buried the poor ranger with it. There was no sign of the dwarf and no sign of the trail either. The way ahead was cut off.
‘Should we go around?’ asked Tarni, shouting to be heard.
Harsh sunlight was blazing through the sheeting rain, making it shimmer and flash. Morgrim nodded, and with little choice the dwarfs trudged back. All the while they were delayed Snorri fought alone.
Snorri rotated his shoulder to loosen the muscles and hefted his rune axe one-handed, gauging the weight.
‘Shield or hand axe?’ asked Drogor, proffering both.
Snorri was sitting on
