‘It’s a myth.’ Snorri put the spyglass away, braced his hands against the wall. Apart from the hearthguard manning the watchtowers, they were alone.
‘Perhaps,’ admitted Morgrim, blowing out a plume of grey-blue smoke. ‘But we have become greedy.’
‘Is it greed then that brings thirty thousand of the kalans to Kazad Kolzharr?’
‘Some, yes. For you, cousin, I do not think so.’
‘I have a score to settle with my father then, do I?’
‘Do you deny it?’
Snorri turned to face him. ‘Why are you here, Morg? You claim it is to watch my back, but is that all?’
Morgrim slapped the battlements with the flat of his gauntleted hand. ‘You are as cold as this stone, Snorri. The last few years have hardened you. I am here because I am hoping to catch a glimpse of the dawi I once knew…’ Morgrim met his gaze. ‘My cousin and friend.’
For a moment, Snorri’s tough, weather-beaten face softened. Since the garrisoning of the fortress at Black Fire Pass they had seen the musters of the elves, their horse guard and warriors scouting as far as they dared in dwarf territory. The pointy-ears did not believe in peace. Just as the dwarfs did, they knew that war was inevitable. It merely remained to see who would cast the first spear.
After eight years, after honouring his promise to Elmendrin and suffering the oathmaking of King Brynnoth and Thagdor, Snorri had decided it would be him. Regardless of what his father wanted, he would march on Kor Vanaeth and destroy it.
Word had reached the fastness that the High King would attempt one last act of diplomacy before committing to war. In his heart and his head, Snorri knew this would fail.
‘The dawi you knew, he stands before you, cousin. But if I am to accept the mantle of High King one day, I must seize destiny for myself. I must slay the drakk of which Ranuld Silverthumb spoke. I must defeat the elgi.’
‘Is there nothing I can say to keep you here behind these walls? If not for your father’s wishes, what of Elmendrin?’
‘My father chases a foolish dream, one that ended long ago. And as for her… She…’ Snorri faltered, looking down. ‘She is–’
‘My prince,’ uttered a voice from the other end of the wall.
To Morgrim’s ears it seemed to be closer, but Drogor had barely mounted the battlements and was striding towards them.
Like the cousins, he wore full armour, plate over mail with a thick furred cloak to ward off the cold. He wore his battle helm from Karak Zorn, the one with the saurian crest, and lifted the faceguard to speak further.
‘Our runners have returned,’ he said, with a small nod of acknowledgement for Morgrim who reciprocated reluctantly.
Drogor was clutching a piece of parchment and presented it to the prince. Snorri read it silently, his expression hardening with every line.
‘The elgi have mustered a large force on the outskirts of Kor Vanaeth.’
‘Apparently, their spies have discovered your intention to attack them and are making ready their defences,’ said Drogor. ‘It’s possible they will ride out against the kazad, my prince.’
Snorri snapped at him, ‘Do not call me that, Drogor. How many times must I tell you?’
Drogor bowed. ‘Apologies, Snorri. I am your thane, you are my prince, one day to be High King. It feels dishonourable to address you any other way.’
Snorri returned to the letter.
‘Rangers have been attacked on the road and a band of reckoners put to flight.’ His eyes widened in shock, quickly narrowing to anger. ‘Priestesses of Valaya were amongst their number.’
‘What?’ asked Morgrim. ‘What were priestesses doing this far from the hold? It makes no sense.’
Snorri glared at his cousin. ‘Eight years ago they came forth from their temple, did they not?’
‘Elmendrin was not amongst them?’ Morgrim betrayed more than mere concern.
Snorri gave him a wary glance before reading on.
‘No, she is back at Everpeak, but they would undoubtedly be her maidens.’
Morgrim frowned, unconvinced. ‘Valayan priestesses abroad on the road? It makes no sense. Let me see that letter.’
Snorri handed it over but it broke apart in his metal fist, fragmenting like ash.
‘Odd,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen parchment do that before.’ He looked at it for a moment then cast it over the wall, where it was caught by the wind and borne away.
Morgrim turned to Drogor, who was waiting patiently for the prince’s orders.
‘Where is this runner now? I would speak with him.’
Drogor grew solemn, though his eyes remained cold and lifeless. ‘He is dead, shot with elgi arrows.’
Morgrim sneered. ‘I see.’
‘Is there a problem?’
‘Nothing that cannot be rectified.’
‘It matters not,’ said Snorri. ‘Slaying rinns and priestesses, it cannot go unanswered any longer.’ He was stern, and he spoke through a portcullis of clenched teeth. ‘Gather the clans. All of them. And send word to Brynnoth and Thagdor. This time I won’t be dissuaded. We march on Kor Vanaeth.’
‘What about your father? He sues for peace, and any warmaking that we do here could–’
‘Let him!’ Snorri roared. ‘He’s knows it’s over, as well as I. Peace is dead, has been for eight years.’
‘And while peace fails, what will we do?’
Snorri’s face was pitiless as knapped flint, and just as unyielding.
‘What we should have done years ago. Kill elgi.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The Sea Gate
Towering cliffs, thronged with shrieking gulls and carved with the likenesses of the ancestors, loomed over Forek Grimbok and the hearthguard.
‘Is that it?’ he asked the armoured warrior standing next to him at the ship’s prow.
‘Aye,’ murmured Gilias, tightening his grip on his axe haft instinctively. ‘The Merman Gate, entryway into Barak Varr, the Sea Hold and realm of King Brynnoth.’
The pair of cyclopean statues were fashioned seamlessly into the rock face, depicted wearing fishscale armour and fin-crested war helms. One was female and carried a trident in her left hand; the other, male, bore an axe that he held across his chest.
‘Magnificent,’ breathed Forek.
Insisting they make all haste to Barak Varr, the High King had petitioned
