‘For an elgi he has a strong arm, I suppose.’
‘You underestimate him, cousin.’
‘No, Morg.’ Snorri fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘He overcommits when he thinks he has victory, looking for a quick finish. He has no patience, not like a dawi. You should’ve used that against him, found an opening just before his killing thrust. Then you would not have been beaten.’ He shook his head slowly, impressing the import of what he was going to say next. ‘He would not have defeated me. I would have broken him apart.’
The two dwarfs parted ways, an uneasy silence between them.
Morgrim’s armour needed tending, so did his wounds and battered pride. It was a pity there was no salve in the tent for his unease at his cousin’s demeanour. To some it would appear as if the prince believed they were already at war.
As he gave one last look towards the royal pavilion, he noticed Drogor seated within amongst the high thanes and masters. Snorri must have invited him. They had been spending much time together of late, but Morgrim thought no more of it as he headed for the forge.
Liandra’s face was a mask of displeasure when Imladrik parted the door of the tent wider and descended into what was known as the ‘rookery’. It was dark inside and the air smelled of earth. Though the shadows were thick, they suggested a vastness belied by the apparent closeness of the tent’s confines. The ceiling also was incredibly high, even with the sunken floor. Guttering candles did little to lift the gloom, but then elves did not need light to see and nor did the creatures the rookery harboured. It had to be this way, drenched in shadow, to placate these denizens and keep them quiescent.
Imladrik heard their snorting, the hiss of their breath and the reek of sulphur that came with it. Like an itch beneath his skin, a heat behind the eyes, he felt their frustration and impatience, the desire to soar. Only through sheer will, born of years of practice and dedication, could the prince shake off his malaise. Otherwise, it would have consumed him as it had consumed lesser elves before him.
Armourers had removed his breastplate, tasset and rerebraces. A servant had also left two missives on the table beside him.
‘Letters from home,’ said Liandra without looking down. ‘I received word from my father, also.’
She glanced at an elf standing nearby clad in silver armour, half cloaked in darkness. He went unhooded, carrying a helmet with a purple feather at its tip under his arm. This was Fendaril, one of her father’s seneschals. Bowing to them both, Fendaril left the tent.
‘There was no need to dismiss him.’
‘Fendaril has other business. Because I’m occupied by this farce, I need him to return to Kor Vanaeth. He has fought in his bout.’
‘Very well.’
They were alone.
Setting down his dragon helm on a nearby stool that was altogether too low for an elf’s needs, Imladrik silently began to read.
‘My brother sends word from Ulthuan,’ he said. ‘Druchii raids continue.’
‘Lord Athinol brings similar tidings.’
Imladrik read the second letter more quickly, before tucking them both into his vambrace. Trying to occupy himself, he started to unbuckle his leg greaves.
‘Your son, he is well?’ asked Liandra, and Imladrik saw a slight nerve tremor in her cheek as she guessed at the second sender.
‘He is.’
‘And her also.’
‘Yes, her as well.’
Imladrik’s scabbard, which contained the sword Ifulvin, was placed reverently on a weapons rack nearby. Lances were mounted on the rack and each of them had names too, etched in elven runes upon their shining hafts.
‘Are you going to stare at them all afternoon, Liandra?’ the prince asked, changing the subject to ease the tension. Pulling off a boot, he relished the kiss of cool spring water on his bare skin as a servant poured some from a silver ewer.
‘I am glad you bested that dwarf,’ she said, eager to turn the conversation to more comfortable ground too. Her eyes did not move to regard Imladrik. She lingered at the entrance to the rookery, at the summit of a short set of earthen steps, and peered through a narrow slit in the heavy leather flap. She was fixated on the royal pavilion at the opposite end of the field, the king and all his retainers looking on.
She sneered, ‘He was a crass little creature, all dirt and hair. When I first heard that dwarfs live in caves under the ground I scoffed, but now I see the truth of it.’
‘I fought a warrior, Liandra. A noble one possessed of a fine spirit. Morgrim Bargrum is a thane of vaunted heritage – you should not be so disparaging.’
‘You obviously see something which I do not.’ She glanced at him, ‘Anyway, I salute your victory, Imladrik.’ Liandra raised her sword, which the prince noted was unsheathed.
Despite her caustic demeanour, even in the darkness of the rookery Liandra’s stark beauty shone like a flame. Her hair was golden but not akin to anything as prosaic or ephemeral as precious metal – such a thing would fade and give in to the ravages of entropy in time. Rather, it was eternal and shimmered with an unearthly lustre. Threaded with bands of copper like streaks of fire, she had it scraped back and fastened it in place with a scalp lock. Pale as moonlight, her skin was near silvern and her eyes were like sapphires captured from the raging waters of the Arduil.
She was beautiful.
Imladrik had always thought so and the very fact spoke to his poetic soul, much as he tried to deny it. His desires were not for war and battle, though he possessed great martial skill and as brother to the Phoenix King of Ulthuan, it was almost expected. Imladrik wanted peace, which he had. Only it felt like his hands were an hourglass and the fragile accord between the elves and dwarfs grains of sand slipping through it. No matter how
