No elf would ever be invited to the rinkkaz. Even in the pursuit of peace his father wouldn’t break that sacred oath. Imladrik’s presence in the hold halls must be for some other reason. Whatever the cause, Snorri found he resented it just as he resented the prince. After the dragon had turned on him, Snorri felt ridiculed and secretly blamed the elf for what happened. It only affirmed what he had always suspected, that you could never trust an elf or its beast.
Though he walked the hold halls unarmed, Imladrik had several retainers who were waiting for him at the threshold of Everpeak. Each was fully armoured, helmed and wore a long sword scabbarded at the waist. Short cloaks of dragon hide hung from their backs, not trophies but rather the honourable leavings of shed scales from the oldest and mightiest of the drakes.
The retinue reminded Snorri of elves masquerading as dragons, hoping perhaps to yoke some element of their obvious power. It drew a sneer to his lips at the sheer hubris of the notion.
Master of dragons and dragon lackeys, thought Snorri, allowing the bitter curl to grow for the prince’s benefit. Heading towards the Great Hall, the elf was obviously here to meet with his father. More talk of peace and harmony, no doubt. Snorri’s fists clenched.
‘We meet again, Prince Lunngrin.’
Snorri didn’t return the nod of greeting, nor did he dawdle to exchange pleasantries.
‘You will find him in a foul mood, elfling.’
One of the guards stiffened at the flagrant disrespect but Imladrik quietened her with a glance.
‘I hope to bear news that will improve it, then.’ Imladrik’s reply was diplomatic, but fashioned so that he wouldn’t seem to be cowed in front of his warriors.
‘Doubtful,’ Snorri replied, hiding well his desire to know the elf’s business. ‘He is a curmudgeonly bastard, slow to calm down.’
‘I see you possess his fiery spirit too.’
Snorri ignored the comment as they passed each other. ‘You’ll have to leave your entourage outside,’ the dwarf said, thumbing over his shoulder at the formidable hearthguard standing sentinel before the doors.
Imladrik stopped as Snorri walked on. A light clanking refrain from his warriors sounded as they did the same, circling the prince protectively.
‘Tell me something, lord dwarf,’ he said, ‘what is it exactly that I have done which offends you?’
Snorri considered walking further. In the end he stopped too but left his back to the elf.
‘You left your island and came here.’
‘Your father wants peace, so do we,’ he called to the dwarf’s slowly departing figure.
Snorri’s reply echoed back. ‘My father wants many things. And not all of your kind desire peace. That’s what concerns me, dragon master. You’re squatters, nothing more. The Old World belongs to the dwarfs and will do always.’
The elf didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say, though it took all of his resolve not to rise to anger as the dwarf wanted. Instead he carried on in silence, ruminating on all he had heard.
‘I will not be the last dwarf to speak it, either,’ said Snorri to himself, and went to find Morgrim.
Alehouses were sombre places, more akin to temples than bawdy drinking holes. Sitting by the roaring hearth, the air thick with the reek of hops and wheat, dwarfs came here to worship. For aside from gold, there were few things the sons of Grungni vaunted as highly as beer. But they were also discerning creatures, and would not put up with swill or any brew which they deemed weak or unworthy of their palate. Grudges, bloody ones, had been made for less than a brewmaster who served another dwarf a poor beer.
As Snorri entered the hall, a dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him, glittering like jewels. Several of the dwarfs acknowledged the prince, uttering a sombre ‘tromm’ in Snorri’s direction. Others were too lost in grim reverie to notice.
A strange gloom pervaded in the drinking hall where scores of dwarfs clasped gnarled fingers around foaming tankards of clay and pewter. It was a half-light, a gloaming that settled upon patrons and furnishings alike. Long rectangular tables filled the main hall, surrounded by stout three-legged stools and broad benches. An antechamber, the brew store, fed off one side of the expansive drinking hall and was festooned with wide, iron-bound barrels. Every barrel was seared with a rune describing the beer’s name and potency. Only the ones behind the bar and the alehouse’s brewmaster were tapped.
Brorn Stoutnose was cleaning his tankards with a thick cloth behind a low wooden bar. Deliberate, exact, there was ritual to the task he performed and he muttered oaths to the ancestors as he did it. Several other cloths, one for drying, one for polishing, another for wringing, sat snugly beneath a thick belt girdling an impressive girth nurtured by many years of dedicated quaffing. Nodding at the prince of Karaz-a-Karak, he gestured with raised chin to one of the low tables where two dwarfs were in hushed conversation.
‘Of all the brew halls in the karak, you managed to find the soberest,’ said Snorri.
Morgrim looked up sternly from his tankard, which he’d only half drained, but couldn’t suppress a wry grin. ‘I see you escaped your father’s wrath more or less intact.’
At mention of the High King, Snorri’s face darkened. ‘Words were exchanged,’ he said, and read from his cousin’s face that Morgrim knew some of those words were regretful.
‘Did you tell him about the rats of the underdeep?’
‘The elgi sit at the forefront of his mind, and the precious peace he has fought so hard to win. I even saw that elfling prince on his way to the Great Hall.’
‘Imladrik?’
‘Yes, but not his drakk. I cannot even imagine where he would have stabled such a creature.’
‘Likely it nests in one of the peaks. He must have business with your father.’
‘Indeed, but what?’ Glancing over to the other stool, Snorri addressed the dwarf sitting opposite his cousin. ‘And who might you be?’ He took in the
