Drogor nodded.
‘Do not be nervous, my prince,’ he whispered as he came close to strap on Snorri’s shield.
‘I am not,’ Snorri snapped. ‘I will end the war, claim my destiny. It is written.’
‘Yes, but perhaps you should wait for your cousin. No one would think less of you if you did, my prince.’
Snorri narrowed his eyes. ‘I’ve asked you before not to call me that,’ he said.
Drogor smiled but there was no warmth to it, no feeling at all. ‘But that is what you are, a prince.’
‘I…’ Something disturbing had just happened, a tiny seed of doubt had been planted that was already taking root.
Drogor was still smiling that deadened smile. It chilled Snorri like a winter’s breeze, but there was no time left to question it. Horns were blowing on both sides, the call to arms. The duel was about to begin.
Snorri stood, his armour clanking as it came to rest. It felt heavy all of a sudden, his axe haft greasy in his armoured fist.
‘My prince?’ asked Khazagrim.
Snorri was still looking at Drogor.
‘Go and meet your destiny, Snorri Halfhand,’ he said.
‘Come,’ the prince said to Khazagrim, trying to banish the malaise that had settled over him like a shroud. The elf king was already striding to the middle of the battlefield. Silence reigned, interrupted only by the wind and a distant summer storm.
‘Strange weather,’ Snorri remarked. Even his own voice sounded distant to him.
‘Aye,’ he heard Drogor answer, in a way that suggested he did not find it strange at all.
Eyeing the horizon behind the elf army, Snorri looked for his cousin as if just the sight of Morgrim would steady his inexplicable nerves. But Morgrim wasn’t there. Snorri was on his own.
The few hundred feet to the middle of the battlefield felt like leagues. Sweat lathered Snorri’s face. It dripped off the end of his nose, and made him want to remove his winged helmet. His heart was racing, faster than it should be, and he had to suppress a tremor in his injured hand as phantom pain he hadn’t experienced in years returned.
‘I call you forth to face grudgement, elfling,’ said Snorri, trying to bolster his fractured resolve. ‘Let it be known on this day that Prince Snorri Lunngrin did meet Caledor of the elgi in honourable combat to settle the misdeeds of his race and exact recompense in blood.’
Caledor was sheathing his sword after making a few practice swings. He had decided on his spear to open with and made a quick thrust before turning to the prince.
‘Were you speaking, little mud-dweller? I didn’t hear you all the way down there, I’m afraid.’ He settled into a ready stance, spear held in one hand. ‘Shall we begin?’
Snorri was incensed, his momentary fear eclipsed by rage, and he roared, ‘Elgi bast–’
The spear lashed out like quicksilver, ripping open a gash down Snorri’s face and splitting his war helm apart. Dazed, the prince half spun then staggered, almost losing his footing. A second blow, a downstroke with the haft, put the dwarf on his back.
The elves cheered, whilst the dwarfs were stunned into silence at the abrupt turn.
Snorri raised his shield, fending off a flurry of jabbing thrusts. The last went straight through, pinning his shoulder before the spear was withdrawn in a welter of his blood.
Crying out, Snorri punched back with the remains of his shield, swinging his axe wildly so he could regain his feet. Laboured breaths that felt like knives sheared from his mouth. His armoured chest heaved and ached. The elf king hadn’t even broken a sweat and stared coldly at his prey.
‘I knew you dwarfs were weak,’ he said. ‘You are diggers and labourers, not warriors. You have erred here, and you will die for it.’
Snorri charged, with a cry of ‘Grungni!’, but found a spear in his thigh arresting his forward momentum. He jerked to a halt, and felt the ground rush up to meet him, smacking into his back like a battering ram and pushing the air from his lungs. Snorri reached for his axe, but it was no longer in his hand, nor was his shield. As the elf king glowered over him, he was defenceless.
‘My father will–’ The words died as Caledor left his spear pinning Snorri to the ground and opened the prince up with his sword.
‘Sapherian steel,’ he told the dwarf, showing Snorri the bloodied blade. ‘Deadly.’
Numbing cold spread through the prince’s body, a deepening chill that would freeze him unto death. He thought of his father, of the destiny that would not be his, of Morgrim and Elmendrin. Until the very end, he fought, spitting blood and mouthing curses at the slowly fading figure of the elf king. It would do no good because Gazul had Snorri now and would take him to his gate.
Snorri Halfhand was dead.
Morgrim barrelled over the rise and saw Snorri fall.
‘No!’ Half rasp, half shout, the thane’s agony echoed across Angaz Baragdum. It incited a riot in the dwarfs, who came forwards to protect the body of their prince. Too late, though, for the elf king had cut Snorri’s arm from the elbow and brandished it like a trophy to his warriors.
Elven riders were already spurring their horses and beginning to charge. They had not yet seen Morgrim’s army.
‘Uzkul!’ he bellowed, consumed by wrathful grief. ‘Crush them!’
Led by Khazagrim, the hearthguard surged forwards to protect the prince. Several were cut down by Caledor before the elf king withdrew on a horse brought by his banner bearer.
Engaged by foes from behind, the knights’ charge failed to materialise and they faltered.
Laughing, and only pausing to cast Snorri’s severed arm into a deep, flooded quarry, the elf king signalled the retreat. In disarray from
