Gotrek looked away, searching his heart and his conscience.
‘I must do everything to prevent a war. It will destroy us both. The elgi are not as weak as some suppose them to be, though that is no reason not to fight them. They have been friends to the dawi. I will not cast that aside cheaply.’
‘And we have precious few allies in the world when our enemies are amassed around us above and below. You are rare, Gotrek Starbreaker.’
Gotrek raised an eyebrow questioningly.
‘We are changing, all of us, dawi and elgi both. You, like me, are hewn from elder rock. Less prone to change. I have seen another who is of similar stock. Stone and steel. He shall become king when you are dead, the slayer of the drakk.’
‘I don’t understand, old one.’ Gotrek frowned. ‘My son will be king when I am gone. It is his legacy.’
Ranuld said nothing further, and returned to his vigil.
‘Will it be ready soon?’ Gotrek asked, listening to the anvil, aghast at the lightning strikes cutting the air with every blow against it.
‘He works the magic,’ said Ranuld, gesturing proudly with his pipe. ‘It will take time, but with patience anything is possible.’
‘And should I show patience now?’
‘That is something a king must answer for himself.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The King of Elves
Oeragor was a fading memory, as was his urgent flight across the Great Ocean, through the veils and on to the verdant pastures of his home. His army had gone ahead, led by the dragons but ensconced in a great fleet of elven galleons. Alone, it had been a hard journey for the prince through a succession of unearthly storms. Something unnatural persisted about the blackened clouds and the roar of the wind. He had hoped to find his warriors again, catch up to them before they reached home but the storm was all consuming. Though it was difficult to tell for certain, shadows lurked within those clouds. Bestial faces, the visages of the daemonic and the monstrous, loomed over Imladrik during his flight. They mocked and cajoled, raged and encouraged. The elf prince shut his eyes and tried to close off the rest of his senses to them.
More than once, Imladrik had faltered until a growl from Draukhain steeled him against the voices. He chanted the names of Isha, Asuryan, Kurnous, invoking the blessings of the elven gods to ward him against the unnatural tempest that had set about them.
It grew angry, and Imladrik had been forced below the clouds to keep from being struck by lightning or ripped out of the saddle by hurricane winds. He reached the veils surrounding the island with his nerves hanging by a thread. Never had he undertaken such a perilous journey, but after almost two weeks he had reached his ancestral lands alive and intact. And like a dream, the memory of the faces in the storm faded to nothing but a wisp of remembrance that Imladrik would only recall in his deepest nightmares.
Sorcerous mist, the ancient veils of Caledor Dragontamer that still protected his land, parted to reveal an island of verdant pastures, soaring mountains and crystalline rivers. Ports and fleets of ships resolved through the mist, together with sprawling forests and glittering towers. It shimmered, like an image half seen through a haze of heat, though the air was cool and refreshing. Imladrik breathed deep.
At last, he was home.
Ulthuan.
It had been years since he had last set foot upon the magical isle.
He had travelled south borne by Draukhain, across the harbours of Cothique where doughty merchantmen and sailors aboard catamarans pointed up at the sky at the passing of the dragon. From there Imladrik went east, skirting the Chracian mountains and letting Draukhain have his head amidst the cloud-wreathed peaks. Though he couldn’t see them from so high up, he knew the vigilant woodsmen of that land would be abroad in the dense forests and narrow passes through the cliffs, ever watchful for invasion.
Imladrik’s thoughts had strayed to Liandra and he had to banish them at once. His mind also wandered back to the carrier-hawk, soaring into the mountain fastness of the dwarfs, bringing his message to the High King. He hoped the words would hold some meaning, that a chance yet remained to avert a war. If it brought the dwarfs to the negotiating table then that at least would be something. Perhaps if they were willing to treat, he might be allowed to return to the Old World again and heal two rifts at once.
First he flew over the Phoenix Gate, the great bastion wall that sat on the borders of Chrace and Avelorn, its purpose to defend against invasion from the north across the hills of Nagarythe. It was a monolithic structure of pale stone and encrusted with jewels. The gilded image of the rising phoenix was emblazoned upon its vast and towering gate, a bulwark against attack. Silent guardians patrolled its battlements, grim-faced and clutching their halberds with fierce intent. Its neighbour, the Dragon Gate, was equally magnificent. Bordering Avelorn and Nagarythe, it was well garrisoned by spearmen and archers. The buttressed walls were scaled in keeping with its draconian aesthetic and the effigy of a soaring drake of Caledor was engraved upon the gate itself.
Even seen from high above, the gates were impressive. To Imladrik they looked nigh-on impregnable, which was just as well given the enemy they had been erected to repel. Many were the battles fought against the dark elves beyond their borders.
Once across the Phoenix and Dragon Gates, Imladrik was reunited with his army as he had set down on the plains of Ellyrion where his host were making ready for the next stage of their journey. He didn’t stay, for he
