‘Again, I cannot see how this is of import to Ulthuan. We have our own problems to deal with.’
‘There are over eighty thousand elves in the dwarf realm, with more arriving every day. Trade has been completely suspended by their High King.’
‘And still I do not see the imperative here,’ said Caledor. ‘Malekith has been beaten. Sorely. But he is not vanquished. Did you not hear what I said about our borders, brother?’
‘I did hear it, but I am talking about the prospect of a full scale war on foreign soil.’
‘With the mud-dwellers,’ Caledor laughed, loudly and derisively. ‘Let them return to their holes and tunnels. Our lands here in Ulthuan are threatened and I have need of generals to protect them.’ He nodded to Imladrik. ‘You, dear brother.’
‘I do not think this problem should be ignored.’
Caledor rose to his feet, shedding the leather armour for a close-fitting tunic of blue velvet. ‘And so why did you return if matters are so dire?’
Though he found it hard to admit, Imladrik was jaded. He thought his years spent in the Old World, living amongst and trading with the dwarfs, had fostered a culture of understanding. That assumption had been dashed when the High King had refused his aid, expelled the elves from his lands and shut his gates.
‘My presence there was not helping the situation.’ It was a half-truth.
Caledor seemed not to notice or care.
‘Let the colonies look after themselves. We have other vassals better suited to that task, do we not?
‘There is Lord Salendor of Athel Maraya and Lady Athinol of Kor Vanaeth, amongst others. In them I pledge my trust and confidence, but they do not share my temperance.’
At this remark, Caledor smirked. ‘And how is the Caledorian princess?’
‘Well, but belligerent as ever.’
‘Much like her father then,’ Caledor added by way of an aside. ‘Tell me, brother, have you seen your wife or have you yet to divest yourself of your army?’
‘Yethanial awaits me in Cothique.’
Swilling the last of his wine around the chalice, Caledor tried to appear nonchalant. ‘How many did you bring back with you, brother?’
‘Ten thousand warriors and a head of fifty dragons,’ Imladrik stated flatly.
‘Quite a host. And Oeragor, it flourishes?’
‘Less well without my presence, but yes.’
‘A pity, but the needs of Ulthuan must come first.’
‘Of course, brother.’
‘What is it they call you again?’ Caledor asked, feigning interest in his empty chalice. ‘Ah yes, that was it… Master of Dragons. Such a curious little honorific and one I have never really understood.’
‘It’s ceremonial, and a tad archaic. I am the last Master of Dragons.’
Caledor sniffed, mildly amused. ‘And they should be mastered, shouldn’t they?’
‘Our bond with the drakes is a harmonious one, forged of mutual respect.’
‘Indeed,’ Caledor replied, though he did not sound convinced. His disdain for dragons was well known, his opinion of their servitude to the elves a matter of some consternation amongst the older drakes. Fortunately, it was also one that had yet to be debated.
Imladrik got the sense that Caledor had discovered what he needed to and was rapidly losing interest in their conversation. This was confirmed when he changed subject.
‘I want to show you something, Imladrik,’ said Caledor, turning his attention to his retainers. ‘Hulviar.’
The retainer nodded, evidently prepared for his king’s theatrics as he tossed a scabbarded blade which Caledor caught and drew with ease.
‘It’s a sword, brother,’ observed Imladrik, nonplussed.
Caledor showed him the edge, the runes upon the flat of the blade and how it shone in the dappled sunlight coming through the forest canopy overhead.
‘Sapherian steel,’ he said. ‘As light as goose down but deadlier than a Chracian’s axe blade. I had it made.’
Caledor turned the weapon in a series of intricate moves, rolling it over in half-swings and switching from hand to hand in a dazzling, but vainglorious display of swordsmanship.
‘Impressive,’ said Imladrik without much enthusiasm. ‘You dropped your scabbard,’ he added, stooping to pick up the scabbard from where Caledor had carelessly discarded it.
The king took it and sheathed the sword, obviously upset with his brother’s apathy.
‘You have had a long journey,’ he said, ‘and must be tired, which explains your mood, Imladrik. Return to Cothique, see your wife and then come to Lothern and my court. We have much to discuss.’ He was already turning his back when he added, ‘You have six days.’
Imladrik bowed, albeit curtly and lacking in deference. His brother the king had measured the threat he posed to his rule and had positioned him here to neutralise it. Imladrik cared not for the trappings of rulership. He didn’t lust for power or standing and so was happy to oblige.
Mounting his horse at the edge of the deeper forest, his thoughts were troubled nonetheless, but not by that. The maps and charts strewn upon the war table showed the dark elves had made extensive inroads into Ulthuan. Attacks were obviously increasing and together with that, he suspected, was dark elf involvement in the Old World. Imladrik wondered just how spent a force Malekith really was.
A war with the dwarfs would decimate the high elves, take them to the brink of destruction. After that, it wouldn’t take much to push them over the edge and into oblivion.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The Gathering Throng
A vast force of dwarf warriors had gathered on the shores of the Black Water.
Early morning brought with it a dense fog that rolled off the mirror-dark sheen of the lake-filled crater in a grey pall. Cloth banners, topped by icons of bronze and copper, fluttered in the wind. The standards of the brotherhoods were metal only, forged from gold and silver, and sat apart from the clans. The debris of over two hundred extinguished campfires littered the high-sided gorge where the dwarfs had sung songs, supped ale and eaten roast beef and pork, elk and goat the night before. What began as bawdy drinking ditties, the lyrical mottos of the clans and the sombre litanies of the brotherhoods, became
