‘But what about the brodunk? Surely it will help salve whatever wounds these troubles have caused between our peoples.’
‘Weak mortar to mask the cracks, sister. Nothing more.’
Remembering the other priestesses moving quietly around the healing tent, Elmendrin whispered, ‘I had no idea it was this bad.’
‘Few do. My every effort is bent towards urging the clans not to retaliate unless they know for certain who the bandits responsible for this perfidy are.’
‘Surely the High King can restrain them.’
‘Not for much longer. Relations with the elgi are worse than ever.’
She pursed her lips, unsure how to ask her next question. ‘And what do you think? About the elgi, I mean?’
Forek looked down at his boots, worry lines deepening the shadows on his forehead. ‘I think the world is darkening, sister.’
Elmendrin rubbed her brother’s back and held his hand.
‘They will be caught. This will stop and the bloodshed will end,’ she assured him. ‘Elgi do not want to kill dawi, nor dawi kill elgi. It is madness.’
‘And yet the killing does not stop. Only the other day, a band of rangers from Karak Varn slew a band of elgi traders bound for Kagaz Thar. Aside from hunting bows, they were unarmed but did not speak much Khazalid and could not explain why they had blundered onto the sovereign territory of the Varn. With all that has happened, what else could they do but kill them?’
Elmendrin rubbed his back harder, fighting back her tears. ‘It will pass. It has to. You always see the worst, Forek, but that is just how Grungni made you.’
Forek gripped her hand and she embraced him warmly.
‘Not this time, sister.’
He let her go, and her eyes followed him all the way to the flap of the tent. Forek turned just before he left. ‘I need to return to the king.’ He smiled, but it was far from convincing. ‘You’re right, sister. All will be well again soon.’
Elmendrin watched him go and the silence of the healing tent became as deafening as a battlefield in her ears.
CHAPTER twenty
A Herald of Doom
As Snorri watched the fight unfold he began to recognise some of the differences between elf and dwarf in the way that they fought. Despite his obvious disdain for the elves, he had always studied them in war, what little he had been able to garner in these times of peace anyway. Salendor was an odd exemplar of their method.
He fought more like a dancer than a warrior, but with a brutal edge that many elves lacked. His face was an impenetrable mask of concentration. It betrayed no weakness, nor did it show intent. Every blade thrust was measured and disguised, fast as quicksilver and deadly as a hurled spear with the same amount of force.
Goblins fell apart against Salendor’s onslaught. Heads, limbs and torsos rained down around him in a grisly flood of expelled blood and viscera. He weaved through the bodies, never slowing, always on the move. No knife touched him. No cudgel wielded by greasy greenskin hands could come close. He was like a cleaving wind whipping through the horde, and wherever he blew death was left in his wake.
Where Imladrik fought with precision, a swordmaster in every regard, Salendor improvised, broke expected patterns and unleashed such fury that many of the goblins simply fled at the sight of him advancing upon them.
The hill dwarf was a different prospect altogether. He brutalised like a battering ram, gladly taking hits on his armour, wearing the savage little cuts of the greenskins like badges of honour. As well as his axe, he fought with elbow and forehead, knee and fist. Rundin reminded the prince of a pugilist, wading into the thick of battle. Utterly fearless, his axe was pendulum-like in the way it hewed goblin bodies. Never faltering, rhythmic and inexorable, it carved ruin into their ranks. Where the elf used as much effort as was needed, the hill dwarf gave everything in every swing. His stamina was incredible.
From what he knew of the son of Norgil, Rundin was not given to histrionics, yet he flung his axe end over end to crack open a fleeing goblin’s skull and earn the adulation of the crowd. It was indulgent, and Snorri suspected that Grum had instructed him to entertain with this obvious theatre. It left the dwarf vulnerable but he used a long left-handed gauntlet to parry then bludgeon until he seized his axe and began the killing anew.
Seeing the artifice of the gauntlet reminded Snorri of his own finely-crafted glove. Through it, he recalled the pain of his wounding by the rats beneath the ruins of Karak Krum and of Ranuld Silverthumb’s prophecy. Scowling at the memory, he wondered how he was supposed to fulfil his great destiny watching other people fight.
Flowing like a stream, Salendor moved through a clutch of goblins. He cut them open with his longsword, spilling entrails, then sheathed the blade and drew the bow from his back in the same fluid motion.
It appeared that Rundin was not the only one told to put on a show.
Arrows seemed to materialise in the elf’s hand, nocked and released in the time it took for Snorri to blink. One goblin about to be felled by the hill dwarf’s axe spun away from the blow with a white pine shaft embedded in its eye.
At the edges of the arena, a dwarf loremaster announced the kill for the elf. Tallymen racked the count and held up stone placards decorated with the Klinkerhun to describe the score.
It was close, but Salendor had the edge by one.
Only six goblins remained.
Beside the prince, the High King shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
‘It is tight…’ he murmured.
‘What does it matter who wins?’ said Snorri. ‘Elgi
