Imladrik was about to respond but knew she was right.
Perhaps he had lingered too long in the Old World with the dwarfs. His brother was calling him back. He had received several letters from the Phoenix King petitioning for his return. Standing there looking at Liandra, he also realised something else.
‘You hate them, don’t you.’
‘The druchii,’ she sneered, ‘yes. They killed my mother, there is much in that for me to hate.’
‘No, not just that. You hate the dwarfs too.’
She nodded without hesitation.
And just like that, Imladrik saw how far apart the two of them had become. He wanted harmony, a peaceful accord between their races; Liandra wanted war. Either against dark elves or dwarfs, it didn’t matter.
‘I did not notice it before,’ he admitted. ‘I think I was blind somehow, but you are a supremacist, Liandra. Whether from your bloodline or the horrors you have endured in the past, you have become intolerant of every race except for your own.’
‘I am my father’s daughter,’ she answered defiantly. Her face softened and she added, ‘You are leaving, aren’t you?’
Imladrik looked resigned. ‘Yes. With Malekith’s forces stirring in the north, my brother has need of me to marshal the warriors of the dragon peaks.’
‘I wish I could go back with you, but my father forbids it.’
‘Don’t be so eager for bloodshed, Liandra. It is not as glorious as you think it is.’
‘I only want to be by their side… my father’s and brothers’. But if there are druchii here, I will find them,’ she promised.
‘Don’t give in to hate, Liandra.’ Imladrik paused, unsure of how to ask his next question. He decided to be direct. ‘What did you see, when that palsy stole upon you?’
Her face paled a little at the memory.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Nothing born of Naggaroth?’
She shook her head, which only made the prince’s frown deepen. Their enemies were gathering, it seemed.
Though she was a little further up the rise, Imladrik was much taller than her and looked down on the princess. As their eyes met, they drew close enough to touch. She gently put her hand upon his cheek. The metal of her gauntlet was cold, but the warmth of the gesture was not.
‘You are such a noble man, Imladrik.’
The prince’s face darkened as he thought of those who waited for him back on Ulthuan, and the feelings stirring within him as he looked at Liandra despite everything.
‘No, I am not.’
‘Love is not love when the choice is made for us,’ she said, cradling his chin before leaning in to kiss him delicately on the cheek.
He didn’t stop her but didn’t know how to respond either. She did all the talking for him.
‘If this is to be farewell then I would have you know what I think of you, my prince.’
She touched his chest once, her armoured fingers lingering against his breastplate just where his heavy-beating heart was drumming. Then she carried on up the rise without another word.
Imladrik let her go. He didn’t return to the gorge but summoned Draukhain from the opposite ridge, leaping onto the dragon’s back as it flew beneath him.
He flew into the storm, his mind troubled. If the dark elves really were abroad in the Old World then the High King of the dwarfs must be told. Arriving at the gates of Everpeak on the back of a dragon after being banished would only create further discord. A subtler method was needed. Reining Draukhain, Imladrik headed west in the direction of his retainers. He needed a swift messenger, one the dwarfs would not try to kill or capture on sight. Praying to Isha, he only hoped he would not be too late.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Skulls
Bone fragments peppered Snorri’s armour as he shattered the goblin skull with a warhammer.
Kicking off the bone chips still littering the flat rock he was abusing, the dwarf prince went to grab another skull when he saw Morgrim watching him from the archway.
‘Quite an impressive collection you’ve got, cousin,’ he said, indicating the fifty or so flensed greenskin heads Snorri had piled up. Several days old, they were the gruesome leavings from the brodunk. The dwarf prince had severed the heads himself. Stuck in the earth next to them, nigh hilt-deep, was a broad-bladed knife. It was flecked with goblin blood. There was no sign of the skin or flesh.
‘Threw it over the edge for the screech hawks,’ said Snorri, as if reading his cousin’s mind. ‘I’ve heard they like the taste of grobi.’
Morgrim closed a heavy wooden door behind him, and stepped out onto a rocky plateau. Surrounded by a low wall punctuated by crenellations, it was one of the eagle gates of Karaz-a-Karak; just without its Gatekeeper, whom the prince had dismissed for some solitude.
Morgrim sucked in the mountain air, relishing its crispness.
‘Didn’t think you liked the outdoors,’ he said.
Snorri lined up another skull and smashed it with a heavy blow, like he was hewing timber for the hearth fire.
‘I’m learning to live with it. I’ll be seeing a lot of it in the coming months.’
‘You think we’ll go to war, then?’
Another skull capitulated noisily beneath Snorri’s hammer.
‘It’s inevitable. Every dawi knows it. It’s only my father that won’t acknowledge it.’
‘He doesn’t want a war.’
Snorri looked up from his bludgeoning. ‘You think I do?’
‘You’re out here smashing grobi skulls, venting your anger, cousin. I think you have some pent-up aggression.’
‘My father talks when he should be strapping on az and donning klad. I am frustrated, Morg. And I don’t understand why he cleaves to the elgi so much. What have they ever done for us but cause trouble?’ No longer in the mood, Snorri tossed the hammer down and sat on a different rock. He rubbed his shoulder to ease out the stiffness. ‘Every day brings news of more murder
