After a few words of incantation, a silent rite performed in the air, the runes of the hammer glowed and were still again.
‘What are you doing here, runesmith? Surely the karak has enough metalworkers and foundry dwarfs to run the forges for the brodunk?’
It was true. There were several other dwarf smiths roaming the gloomy confines of the forge, working the bellows and hammering out the dents from the armour and blades of all the combatants. Morek Furrowbrow was the only runesmith.
‘I am here at my master’s behest to deliver the gauntlet to Prince Snorri and ensure its fit was a good one.’
‘I saw it earlier. A fine piece of craftsmanship indeed, but why do you linger now?’ Morgrim sat down on a stone bench and began to take off his armour. It was a slow process, made slower by the fact that every piece coming off his body was accompanied by renewed pain at the battering Imladrik had given him.
‘I merely wanted to watch some of the bouts. Seemed wasteful not to lend my skill in the forge tent. Master Silver-thumb will summon me as soon as he is ready. Then I shall commence my master work.’
Morgrim nodded, satisfied with the runesmith’s explanation.
Morek gripped the hammer’s haft to test the leather bindings, swung it around his wrist a few times gauging its balance and heft. His deftness surprised Morgrim. There was not only forge-skill in the runesmith’s hand. He had the hammercraft of a warrior too.
‘All is well?’ asked Morgrim.
Through the tent flap, the clash of arms sounded again as the next bout began.
‘Solid as ever, the rhuns on the blade potent as the day they were wrought.’
‘You wield it better than I.’
‘I doubt that.’ Morek set the hammer down. ‘But I’ve spent my entire life around weapons. I know something about how to use them.’
‘Indeed you do.’
Morgrim was removing his war helm. Stinging sweat made him blink and he ran a gnarled hand through his soaked hair. Summoned from the healing tent, a priestess of Valaya had entered the forge and waited nearby to provide ministration. Once he was done smoothing his scalp, he beckoned her.
‘It availed me little though, I’m afraid,’ Morgrim told the runesmith as the priestess dabbed his facial cuts with a damp cloth from a bowl of water. ‘I hope I did not dishonour its craft.’
Morek shook his head. ‘Not at all. I saw you fight. The elgi is a fine warrior.’
‘You are one of few other dawi at this brodunk that thinks so.’
‘I know metal and flame, and nothing of the politics surrounding elgi and dawi,’ the runesmith confessed. ‘I saw a little of the rinkkaz but much of it was beyond my grasp to negotiate. Certainly, I do not envy the High King in his task. As dawi, we pride ourselves on tradition and heritage. It is one of the cornerstones of our culture. Tradition it seems must be eased if we are to maintain peace, but many of the lords are stubborn. My master is concerned with legacy and what is left behind for others when he and his kind are gone. I think perhaps that the High King is too.’
Morgrim eyed him shrewdly. ‘You understand more than you think, runesmith.’
Looking up from tending a piece of battered armour, Morek was about to try and mend Morgrim’s shield but discarded it as scrap.
‘You’ll need a fresh shield.’
‘With a shoulder and arm to go with it,’ Morgrim replied, wincing as his pauldron was removed along with the padding and chainmail beneath, an ugly purple bruise revealed beneath all three. ‘He hits like a hammer.’
Once he was no longer armoured, the priestess approached with a bottle of rubbing alcohol to ease Morgrim’s suffering. He stopped her before she could apply it.
‘Waste of grog that, milady,’ he said, and gently took the bottle from her. ‘Use salts instead.’
She did.
Grunting as he eased the stiffness from his back, Morgrim drank a belt of the dirty liquor and grimaced at the taste.
‘Packs a kick like a mule.’
‘You are as unrefined as that ale, Morgrim Bargrum,’ Morek informed him.
‘I am.’
The bruise on Morgrim’s shoulder was ripening nicely as the priestess applied the salts.
‘Do you have another bout?’ asked Morek.
‘Anvil lifting.’
‘Not even the sense you were born with.’ He laughed. It was an all too rare expression in the runesmith that lifted the furrows of his countenance.
Outside the forge tent, a resonant shrieking rent the air as the dragons took flight. Morgrim watched them ascend, fear and awe warring for emotional dominance within him. Through the peeled-back leather flap, it was difficult to see much but he fancied he could make out Imladrik’s beast and the prince saddled on its back. He was like a glittering arrow of silver fire, behind the flight of dragons at first but quickly gaining on the leader before overtaking her and assuming the tip of their formation.
Though he had humbled him in front of his king and peers, Morgrim bore no grudge against Imladrik. The elf had fought fairly and honourably. Again, as he had so many times in recent days, he found Imladrik to be even tempered and moral. Unlike many elves who could be haughty and arrogant, even disdainful, there was much to like about him. It was just a pity that Snorri could not see it.
‘An anvil lifting an anvil, eh?’ he said to Morek, reaching for happier thoughts and looking back over his shoulder.
The runesmith wasn’t listening. Something else, or rather someone else, had got his attention. The frown returned to his brow as his face clouded over.
‘Is that your old friend?’
‘Who?’
‘The dawi from Karak Zorn.’
Morgrim looked but couldn’t see Drogor amongst the crowds.
‘Possibly, though he’s been spending more time with my cousin of late.’
Morek turned to him. ‘With the
