Gotrek was a wise king. Unlike some, he realised the stark differences between elves and dwarfs would always result in a difficult peace, but unlike others he wasn’t willing to go to war with them over it. Fighting the elves for the Old World would harm both races. It was foolish. Despite all of that, he was deeply troubled by everything he had seen and heard.
He pointed to the map with his pipe.
‘How many elgi do you think are in my realm, Thurbad?’
‘Too many to count easily, my king.’
From the sheer number of settlements, outposts, even cities, Gotrek knew it must rival the dwarf clans. Though he would not speak it to Thurbad, for the briefest moment he wondered if he had made a grievous error in being so genial to the elves. He wondered if he had allowed an enemy to creep into his hold halls invited and now that enemy was unsheathing his dagger to plunge it into the king’s back.
Releasing a long plume of smoke that obscured the crude depictions of holds and cities on the map with an all-consuming fog, he said, ‘Have the guildmasters instruct our forges to begin stockpiling weapons and armour.’
‘Are we headed for war, my king?’
It was a reasonable question, but one Gotrek chose to answer with flippancy so as not to alarm his captain of the hearthguard unduly.
‘Don’t be an ufdi, Thurbad. There will be no war between elgi and dawi. There must be no war, but I will have our armouries full anyway.’
Slamming his clenched fist against his breastplate, Thurbad left to make his preparations.
The High King was alone.
Gotrek traced a gnarled finger along the sketched trade routes on the map and then the roads and byways to and from the elven settlements.
‘Too many to count,’ he murmured, echoing Thurbad’s words. He prayed to Grungni. ‘Let it not be war, noble ancestor. Let it not.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Clash of Arms
Sweat soaked his eyes but he dared not blink. A roar filled his ears, muffled by plate, so loud he could barely hear his heavy-beating heart. Steel clashing against steel was a constant drone. The stink of blood, of piss and dung lingered in his nostrils, unfettered by his nose guard. Heat like a second skin cleaved to his body, stealing away breath. Fire burned nearby, the acerbic tang of it on his tongue, the reek of smoke and soot, the crackle and snap as the flames went about their purifying work.
This was battle against a hardened foe, with limbs already numb from the killing that lay around him in chopped-up heaps. Greenskins by the score, too many to tell, too few to matter. But this was no goblin or orc before him with blade aimed at his chest.
When an attack came, it came like lightning on a clear day. Fast and utterly by surprise. Morgrim snarled in pain, the force of the blow’s impact against his shield so hard it jerked his shoulder.
No time to think, just time enough to hurt.
A second strike, overhead and two-handed, kept him on the defensive back foot as he used the haft of his warhammer to parry.
Weather it, endure.
Battered relentlessly, though there was precision and skill to each carefully crafted attack, the dwarf knew he would soon run out of battlefield in which to retreat.
He is stronger than he looks…
So did Prince Imladrik.
The elf was a blur of silver, every thrust and lunge, slash and cut choreographed in a deadly dance for which Morgrim was his unwilling partner. In the brief exchange, several blows had already penetrated the dwarf’s armour. A gash below his eye throbbed. His breath was forced and ragged.
The elf was winning.
Corpses lay all about them, putrid and stinking, their spilt blood just as dangerous underfoot as any blade. Broken spear hafts jutted from the earth like bones reaching from the grave. Each was deadly as a lance if fallen upon. Smashed shields added to the general battlefield detritus. Through his dimming view, Morgrim saw the silhouettes of other figures moving in the battle fog but they couldn’t help him.
The dwarf was alone in this.
It was a mercy the elf was not riding his dragon. Should the beast have been involved, it would be a much shorter contest. As it was, Morgrim was hardly making a decent fight of it. Defeat looked all but certain.
He lashed out, caught the elf just below his knee and drew a cry of pain from the prince’s mouth. Fevered shouting around the battlefield intensified. Though muffled through his helm, the sound of the elf’s discomfort brought a smile to the dwarf’s lips. Morgrim roared his defiance, tried to press the slim advantage fate had provided, but Imladrik was a consummate swordmaster and recovered quickly. A dazzling series of ripostes aimed against the dwarf’s left side made him overcompensate with the shield, left him exposed on the right. Morgrim narrowly avoided being disarmed as the elf swept his longsword in under the dwarf’s guard and tried to hook the hammer away. Twisting his wrist, Morgrim barely caught the blade against his hammer’s haft. Shavings of wood and metal cascaded where the elf’s weapon bit. He fashioned his resistance into a shoulder barge that caught Imladrik in the chest and drew out a grunt. A hard shove to follow up pushed the combatants apart, and they regarded each other across the charnel field through the eye-slits of their war helms.
Morgrim’s, horned and wrought of dwarf bronze, was not only lower but was also bowed compared to the elf’s upraised helmet of glittering silver ithilmar.
‘If you wish to concede,’ gasped the dwarf between breaths, ‘then I’ll ensure your honour remains intact when my hammer falls.’
Though he hid it well, Imladrik’s breathing was laboured too. He lifted the dragon visor of his helmet with a gauntleted hand.
It
