Coal pits provided warmth and light, for the arena was outdoors in order to better suit the elves, a concession which had earned favour from the visitors but not the more truculent dwarf kings. Grundin of Karak Kadrin had been particularly vociferous on this point. There were roasting pits in which boar and elk were prepared for feasting later. Shields describing the clans and warrior brotherhoods festooned the walls of the structure, which was based on a large central arena with several smaller ones attached to it via a series of open tunnels. Even when building an auditorium meant to be open to the elements, dwarfs could still not deny their natural instincts to be enclosed.
At first the elves had balked at the solidity of the auditorium, its stout walls, viewing towers and gates. To the elves it was not so different from a fortress. Certainly, the regal quarters afforded to the dwarf kings in particular were well fortified. Indeed, if attacked, it was highly likely the dwarfs could muster a garrison and defend it like one.
Yes, the clans of Everpeak had gone to great efforts to fashion a stage worthy of their king. It was a pity then that the first major contest upon it had ended in defeat for the dwarfs.
Through the brazier smoke at the edge of the mock battlefield, Morgrim could tell there were more elves than dwarfs rejoicing at the display. One in particular, a stern female wearing crimson scalloped armour, gave Imladrik a nod, which the prince returned. She didn’t linger, merely waited long enough to show her quiet applause for his victory before disappearing into the crowd. As was typical of their race, the elves were restrained in celebration but the sense of triumph they evinced was palpable.
It was like a slap in the face for Morgrim. Shame reddened his cheeks and he was glad his helm obscured them. Not daring to look towards the High King’s royal pavilion where Snorri and his father were watching, he kept his eyes on his hammer and pretended to tighten the leather straps around its haft.
Imladrik appeared to sense what the dwarf was thinking.
‘There’s no shame in this. If your shield hadn’t broken, if you’d have swung when you tried to dodge… Well,’ the elf admitted, ‘things could have turned out very differently. If it matters at all, you pushed me to the limit of my endurance, Morgrim.’
They clasped forearms in the warrior’s greeting, something not usual amongst elves but common in the dwarfs, resulting in another cheer. Over thirty dead greenskins and one troll, chained to a lump of stone, littered the arena. It was the warm-up act, according to the High King. From their faces, some of the elves had found such wanton butchery in the name of ‘entertainment’ distasteful.
‘You treat them with such disdain,’ said the prince, echoing the apparent mood of his kin.
They stood in the middle of the battlefield together, deciding to allow the more raucous spectators to calm before leaving the arena. Armourers from both sides were heading towards them to help them out of their trappings, take their weapons and ensure they were cleaned and readied for the next bout.
Morgrim shrugged, barely glancing at the disappointed faces of his own retinue. ‘They’re just vermin. Good sport for our axes.’
Imladrik nodded, but Morgrim saw in the elf’s eyes that he didn’t really understand.
‘Grobi are dangerous,’ the dwarf said, nudging one with his boot, ‘but only in large numbers. True, they have a certain low cunning that–’
A shout from behind the dwarf arrested his explanation. A moment later and a flash of metal glinted off the sun as it sped past the elf. Imladrik avoided the blade out of instinct but need not have bothered. It would have missed him, barely. Instead it struck the shoulder of a goblin that had played dead amongst the corpses. A broken spear tip slipped from the creature’s scrawny hands as it collapsed back into the heap of carcasses it had crawled from.
Striding towards them, breaking from the retinue of armourers he had accompanied, Snorri Halfhand’s grin was wide and slightly smug.
‘Should watch your back, elfling,’ he called to the prince, adjusting his weapons belt where a second throwing axe was attached by a leather loop. ‘I won’t always be there to save your skinny arse.’
He slapped Morgrim on the back, harder than he really needed to.
‘Wanted to make him feel better, eh, cousin?’
Snorri didn’t wait for an answer and stomped past them. Taking a knee down by the dying greenskin, he muttered with mild surprise, ‘Still some life in this one…’
Imladrik turned to the dwarf prince, bowing his head. ‘You have my gratitude, lord dwarf. If you had not–’
The schlukk of Snorri’s axe as it was wrenched from the goblin interrupted him.
‘Didn’t catch that,’ said the dwarf, half looking over his shoulder at the elf. ‘Busy getting my axe back.’ Looping it back onto his weapons belt, he regarded the greenskin again and thrust a gauntleted finger into the wound.
The wretched creature squealed and squirmed under the dwarf’s touch, which only made Snorri dig deeper, a half-snarl contorting his lips. He wasn’t dressed for battle, but carried his hand axes anyway. Instead of pauldrons, a regal blue cape armoured his shoulders. A tunic sat in place of a breastplate or suit of chain. His vambraces were supple leather. Morek’s mastercrafted gauntlet was the only piece of metal on his body.
Forbidden by his father as punishment for his defiance, Snorri would not be competing.
When the goblin shrieked and crimson geysered from its ugly mouth, Imladrik went to intercede and end the greenskin’s suffering
