Killing the dwarfs now would be impossible, but then also hardly necessary given what they faced.
Kaitar was crouched beside him but seemed unmoved by the terrifying monster in their midst.
‘Was the fear siphoned out of you as an infant, Kaitar?’ asked Sevekai. ‘Or are you simply too dull-witted to realise how imminent all of our deaths are?’ He was about to withdraw, the dwarfs were good as dead anyway, when Kaitar put a hand on his chest.
Sevekai glared daggers at the elf but didn’t raise a hand against him.
‘A little hasty, I think,’ he hissed, nodding towards the dragon.
As the beast landed, its claws pulverising rock, it lowered its head, revealing an elven warrior mounted on its back.
Silver-helmed with lance in hand, he looked like a prince of the ancient days when Malekith and Snorri Whitebeard both still walked the earth. Behind the dragon visor concealing his face, the elf lord’s eyes glittered like emeralds.
Fastened to an ornate saddle of white wood and bone was a shield depicting an unsheathed sword. He bore the same device attached to the crown of his war helm.
He raised his hand, voice resonating through the mouth grille of his silver dragon mask. ‘Hail, dwarfs of Everpeak,’ he said, using rudimentary Khazalid and referring to Karaz-a-Karak by its common name.
Morgrim lowered his hammer, but not completely. Snorri was less keen to relent and maintained his belligerence before the monster.
The elf noble leaned forwards in the saddle and whispered to his beast, although his words carried on the storm.
‘Easy, Draukhain.’
‘State your business, elfling,’ Snorri demanded.
The elf lord stowed his lance, its crimson pennant flapping in the fierce wind. Bowing, he raised his visor. Despite his ostensible geniality, he still sounded imperious.
‘I am Imladrik of Caledor, Master of Dragons and Prince of Ulthuan, Lord of Oeragor. I bear you no ill-intent, lord dwarfs.’
Despite the offer of peace, Snorri was pugnacious. ‘Dragon master, eh? I slay dragons, elfling.’
Imladrik raised a gauntleted hand. The knuckles were fashioned as scales, the fingertips like talons.
‘I am an ally to you. I mean no harm,’ he assured them.
‘Be calm,’ Morgrim hissed to his cousin through clenched teeth, looking sidelong at the creature drooling sulphur and smoke.
Snorri hissed back, ‘I won’t be cowed by this elgi and his beast!’
‘No, but you may be eaten, cousin!’
‘A lot of titles for an elgi,’ Snorri scoffed. ‘I’m surprised you can remember them all. And you should be more concerned about who wants to harm who, elfling.’
Morgrim tried not to groan, but put a hand on his cousin’s arm until he lowered his axe.
‘You are far from Oeragor, Prince Imladrik,’ he said, eager to defuse the situation once he’d calmed Snorri down. ‘I am Morgrim, son of Bardum, thane of Karaz-a-Karak, and this–’
Snorri stepped forwards and thrust out his chest.
‘I am Prince Snorri Lunngrin of Karaz-a-Karak, heir to the dwarf kingdom. You are upon my sovereign soil, elgi.’
Imladrik bowed, betraying no hint of reaction to the goading Snorri was attempting.
‘I meant no offence, my lords. Through the storm, I saw travellers on the road. Once I realised you were dwarfs, I decided to descend and see if I could offer you a ride. It is a long way back to Everpeak, and since it is where I am bound…’
‘Indeed it is a long way,’ Morgrim agreed, thinking how his feet would ache after such a trek, and looked at his cousin who had yet to take his eyes off the dragon.
‘A ride, eh? On the back of that beast? Is that what you’re suggesting, prince?’
‘It is faster than going on foot,’ Imladrik replied without condescension.
The storm was dying out, the winds abating and the snows thinning until they were little more than errant drifts carried on the breeze. In the north-east, the sun was rising again, easing some warmth back into a cold winter’s morning.
‘It seems Kurnous favours us, my lords,’ the elf prince added, gesturing to the improving weather. ‘But I still think you’ll reach Everpeak faster on Draukhain’s back.’
Morgrim turned to his cousin and whispered, ‘I have never ridden on the back of a dragon.’
‘With good reason.’ Snorri looked askance at the beast. ‘They are fell and dangerous creatures. Not to be trusted, much like their masters.’
Elves were possessed of incredible hearing and Imladrik had heard every word exchanged between the dwarf nobles, but if he thought anything of it he did not show it. He merely smiled impassively and waited for them to make their decision.
Morgrim was insistent. ‘I have no desire to walk back to the hold when I can as easily fly.’
‘And I have no desire to be devoured by some beast of the lower deeps whilst my back is turned!’
Morgrim smiled.
‘You are afraid.’
‘I am not. I am scared of nothing. I am the son of the High King, a destined dragon slayer I might add.’
‘Then ride the dragon and we’ll be back in the hold hall before supper,’ said Morgrim. ‘I for one would like to get out of this thrice-damned cold and feel a fire on my skin, have meat in my belly.’
Snorri licked his lips at the prospect of meat. It had been a while since he tasted beef, smelled roast pork or elk. Stonebread was fortifying but it lacked flavour, in fact any taste at all.
‘And what of beer?’ Morgrim pressed. ‘I would drain the brewhouses dry with my thirst.’
At the mention of ale, Snorri began to salivate and had to wipe his mouth.
All the while, the elf prince looked on.
‘I’ve heard Jodri has uncasked a golden reserve and plans to serve it to the kings at the rinkkaz.’
‘Which is another matter, cousin,’ said Morgrim. ‘Your father is expecting you at the council of kings.’
Snorri’s expression darkened at mention of the High King. ‘Aye, isn’t he always.’ He turned to Prince Imladrik.
