The Great Betrayal (27 page)

Yes, the clans of Everpeak had gone to great efforts to fashion a stage worthy of their king. It was a pity then that the first major contest upon it had ended in defeat for the dwarfs.

Through the brazier smoke at the edge of the mock battlefield, Morgrim could tell there were more elves than dwarfs rejoicing at the display. One in particular, a stern female wearing crimson scalloped armour, gave Imladrik a nod, which the prince returned. She didn’t linger, merely waited long enough to show her quiet applause for his victory before disappearing into the crowd. As was typical of their race, the elves were restrained in celebration but the sense of triumph they evinced was palpable.

It was like a slap in the face for Morgrim. Shame reddened his cheeks and he was glad his helm obscured them. Not daring to look towards the High King’s royal pavilion where Snorri and his father were watching, he kept his eyes on his hammer and pretended to tighten the leather straps around its haft.

Imladrik appeared to sense what the dwarf was thinking.

‘There’s no shame in this. If your shield hadn’t broken, if you’d have swung when you tried to dodge… Well,’ the elf admitted, ‘things could have turned out very differently. If it matters at all, you pushed me to the limit of my endurance, Morgrim.’

They clasped forearms in the warrior’s greeting, something not usual amongst elves but common in the dwarfs, resulting in another cheer. Over thirty dead greenskins and one troll, chained to a lump of stone, littered the arena. It was the warm-up act, according to the High King. From their faces, some of the elves had found such wanton butchery in the name of ‘entertainment’ distasteful.

‘You treat them with such disdain,’ said the prince, echoing the apparent mood of his kin.

They stood in the middle of the battlefield together, deciding to allow the more raucous spectators to calm before leaving the arena. Armourers from both sides were heading towards them to help them out of their trappings, take their weapons and ensure they were cleaned and readied for the next bout.

Morgrim shrugged, barely glancing at the disappointed faces of his own retinue. ‘They’re just vermin. Good sport for our axes.’

Imladrik nodded, but Morgrim saw in the elf’s eyes that he didn’t really understand.

‘Grobi are dangerous,’ the dwarf said, nudging one with his boot, ‘but only in large numbers. True, they have a certain low cunning that–’

A shout from behind the dwarf arrested his explanation. A moment later and a flash of metal glinted off the sun as it sped past the elf. Imladrik avoided the blade out of instinct but need not have bothered. It would have missed him, barely. Instead it struck the shoulder of a goblin that had played dead amongst the corpses. A broken spear tip slipped from the creature’s scrawny hands as it collapsed back into the heap of carcasses it had crawled from.

Striding towards them, breaking from the retinue of armourers he had accompanied, Snorri Halfhand’s grin was wide and slightly smug.

‘Should watch your back, elfling,’ he called to the prince, adjusting his weapons belt where a second throwing axe was attached by a leather loop. ‘I won’t always be there to save your skinny arse.’

He slapped Morgrim on the back, harder than he really needed to.

‘Wanted to make him feel better, eh, cousin?’

Snorri didn’t wait for an answer and stomped past them. Taking a knee down by the dying greenskin, he muttered with mild surprise, ‘Still some life in this one…’

Imladrik turned to the dwarf prince, bowing his head. ‘You have my gratitude, lord dwarf. If you had not–’

The
schlukk
of Snorri’s axe as it was wrenched from the goblin interrupted him.

‘Didn’t catch that,’ said the dwarf, half looking over his shoulder at the elf. ‘Busy getting my axe back.’ Looping it back onto his weapons belt, he regarded the greenskin again and thrust a gauntleted finger into the wound.

The wretched creature squealed and squirmed under the dwarf’s touch, which only made Snorri dig deeper, a half-snarl contorting his lips. He wasn’t dressed for battle, but carried his hand axes anyway. Instead of pauldrons, a regal blue cape armoured his shoulders. A tunic sat in place of a breastplate or suit of chain. His vambraces were supple leather. Morek’s mastercrafted gauntlet was the only piece of metal on his body.

Forbidden by his father as punishment for his defiance, Snorri would not be competing.

When the goblin shrieked and crimson geysered from its ugly mouth, Imladrik went to intercede and end the greenskin’s suffering swiftly but Morgrim put a hand on his arm.

‘This is barbaric,’ hissed the elf. ‘The creature is no further threat.’

Morgrim simply shook his head.

‘Don’t be fooled,’ said Snorri, and elf and dwarf prince met eye-to-eye with the dying goblin between them. As he withdrew gory metal fingers from the wound, the goblin snarled but Snorri caught its wrist in a steel grip and twisted it before the greenskin could shove a piece of broken blade into his stomach.

It yelped but Snorri kept going until he’d broken the wrist. Then he wrapped his thick fingers around its head and yanked it round to snap its neck.

‘See,’ said Snorri to Imladrik alone, ‘can’t be trusted not to stab when your back is turned, no matter how dead you think they might be.’

Though he trembled with anger, Imladrik maintained his composure.

‘Your cousin fought well,’ he said, his jaw still taut. ‘With honour.’

Morgrim was nodding when Snorri interjected and said, ‘He doesn’t need your false magnanimity, elgi,’ before stomping off back towards the royal pavilion.

‘My apologies for my cousin,’ said Morgrim in a low voice. ‘He doesn’t realise the effect of his words on others sometimes.’

Imladrik glared at the prince’s back as he watched him go.

‘It is of no consequence.’ He drew his sword, saluted and then sheathed it quickly. ‘You honour your kin enough for both of you, Morgrim Bargrum. Tromm…’ he intoned, bowing once more before returning to the elven tents with his armourers.

Morgrim went after Snorri but noticed something glinting in the battlefield earth. It was a piece of silver scale, cut from Imladrik’s armour. Watching Snorri depart, he was suddenly glad that the father had banned his son from taking part in the games.

An elf death, accidental or otherwise, was the last thing peace needed.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wise Words

Snorri called, ‘Come,
cousin!’, as he tramped across the arena towards the royal pavilion.

A massive stone ancestor head loomed over them, the great god Grungni. Enormous emeralds hewn from the lowest deeps glittered in his eyes and a set of broad steps unfurled from his wide-open mouth like a stone tongue.

Within, lit by the flickering flame of braziers, was the High King of Karaz-a-Karak.

Bedecked in his finest royal attire, a red tunic with a skirt of gleaming gromril mail, matching cloak trimmed with ermine fur and the Dragon Crown of Karaz fixed upon his brow, Gotrek cut a powerful figure sat atop the Throne of Power. Alongside the king, fitting easily in the ancestor’s gaping maw, were several of his elders but only those who were capable of leaving the hold and staying awake for the festivities. There was also a place at his side for his son.

Gotrek was in a saturnine mood, rattling heavy rings against the arm of his throne as he awaited the prince’s return.

As if sensing his father’s displeasure and perhaps even seeking to aggravate it, Snorri slowed as he got closer to the royal pavilion.

‘Did you mean to hit him, cousin?’ Morgrim asked as he caught up.

‘Didn’t realise I had,’ said Snorri, feigning surprise.

‘You are the best axe thrower in all of the karak.’

Snorri smiled wryly. ‘It was only a nick, nothing to trouble a master of drakk that is for sure.’

‘If he noticed it…’

‘Then he is not saying, cousin. Let it go.’

‘I cannot.’ Morgrim paused. What he asked next wasn’t easy. ‘Are you deliberately trying to scupper peace with the elgi, cousin?’

His smile faded and Snorri stopped in the middle of the field. He dismissed the dwarf armourers tagging along behind them.

‘Why so serious, Morg? It was a jest, a polite reminder that dawi rule these lands, not them.’

‘Not
them
? You speak as if they’re already our enemies.’

The silence that followed suggested Snorri thought precisely that, to a lesser or greater degree. After a few moments they walked on.

All the humour bled out of the prince, his mood now matching that of his cousin.

‘A band of elgi was killed for trespassing on dawi soil a few days ago. I heard my father talking to Furgil about it.’

‘Murdered?’ Morgrim sounded shocked.

Snorri glanced at him. ‘They were uninvited and unannounced, cousin. Given the recent attacks on the caravans, the burning of Zakbar Varf, is it any wonder?’

‘Dreng tromm…’ Morgrim shook his head. ‘It’s worse than I thought.’

‘Trade has all but ceased with them. More and more of the elgi are going to the skarrenawi now because King Grum has no sense of honour.’ Snorri hawked and spat. ‘He is barely half dawi as it is, and now he makes himself an
elgongi
to rub in further salt to already stinging wounds.’

‘You learned all of this from your father?’

‘Aye,’ said Snorri, ‘as well as speaking with some of the other lords. King Varnuf and King Thagdor have sanctioned heavy embargoes on trading with the elgi. If these “troubles”, as my father calls them, continue they will enact outright bans.’

Morgrim’s eyes narrowed. ‘Aren’t Varnuf and Thagdor against your father’s petition to keep the peace?’

Snorri nodded. ‘By listening to my fellow dawi lords, I’m not going against my father, Morg.’

‘But if commerce breaks down between our races, it will lead to but one road after that,’ Morgrim warned.

They were nearing the pavilion now and would soon have to part. Morgrim’s armour needed tending and Snorri was expected by his father.

The prince’s steady gaze told Morgrim he knew what road that was.

‘And, cousin?’

‘And?’ Morgrim was incredulous. ‘And? Think of the cost, Snorri, in lives and livelihoods.’ He kept his voice low in case others were listening in. ‘War will devastate our lands, our clans.’

‘Nonsense, cousin. We will expel the impudent elgi with barely any dawi blood being shed. They are merchants and squatters, Morg. Barely a decent warrior amongst them.’

‘What about Imladrik? He just bested me in single combat.’

‘Bah, you just let him–’

‘I let him do nothing. I fought him, as hard as I could, and still he beat me.’

Snorri dismissed the notion with a snort, regarding the broken shield the armourers were taking back to the distant forge.

‘For an elgi he has a strong arm, I suppose.’

‘You underestimate him, cousin.’

‘No, Morg.’ Snorri fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘He overcommits when he thinks he has victory, looking for a quick finish. He has no patience, not like a dawi. You should’ve used that against him, found an opening just before his killing thrust. Then you would not have been beaten.’ He shook his head slowly, impressing the import of what he was going to say next. ‘He would not have defeated me. I would have broken him apart.’

The two dwarfs parted ways, an uneasy silence between them.

Morgrim’s armour needed tending, so did his wounds and battered pride. It was a pity there was no salve in the tent for his unease at his cousin’s demeanour. To some it would appear as if the prince believed they were already at war.

As he gave one last look towards the royal pavilion, he noticed Drogor seated within amongst the high thanes and masters. Snorri must have invited him. They had been spending much time together of late, but Morgrim thought no more of it as he headed for the forge.

Liandra’s face was
a mask of displeasure when Imladrik parted the door of the tent wider and descended into what was known as the ‘rookery’. It was dark inside and the air smelled of earth. Though the shadows were thick, they suggested a vastness belied by the apparent closeness of the tent’s confines. The ceiling also was incredibly high, even with the sunken floor. Guttering candles did little to lift the gloom, but then elves did not need light to see and nor did the creatures the rookery harboured. It had to be this way, drenched in shadow, to placate these denizens and keep them quiescent.

Imladrik heard their snorting, the hiss of their breath and the reek of sulphur that came with it. Like an itch beneath his skin, a heat behind the eyes, he felt their frustration and impatience, the desire to
soar
. Only through sheer will, born of years of practice and dedication, could the prince shake off his malaise. Otherwise, it would have consumed him as it had consumed lesser elves before him.

Armourers had removed his breastplate, tasset and rerebraces. A servant had also left two missives on the table beside him.

‘Letters from home,’ said Liandra without looking down. ‘I received word from my father, also.’

She glanced at an elf standing nearby clad in silver armour, half cloaked in darkness. He went unhooded, carrying a helmet with a purple feather at its tip under his arm. This was Fendaril, one of her father’s seneschals. Bowing to them both, Fendaril left the tent.

‘There was no need to dismiss him.’

‘Fendaril has other business. Because I’m occupied by this farce, I need him to return to Kor Vanaeth. He has fought in his bout.’

‘Very well.’

They were alone.

Setting down his dragon helm on a nearby stool that was altogether too low for an elf’s needs, Imladrik silently began to read.

‘My brother sends word from Ulthuan,’ he said. ‘Druchii raids continue.’

‘Lord Athinol brings similar tidings.’

Imladrik read the second letter more quickly, before tucking them both into his vambrace. Trying to occupy himself, he started to unbuckle his leg greaves.

‘Your son, he is well?’ asked Liandra, and Imladrik saw a slight nerve tremor in her cheek as she guessed at the second sender.

‘He is.’

‘And her also.’

‘Yes, her as well.’

Imladrik’s scabbard, which contained the sword Ifulvin, was placed reverently on a weapons rack nearby. Lances were mounted on the rack and each of them had names too, etched in elven runes upon their shining hafts.

‘Are you going to stare at them all afternoon, Liandra?’ the prince asked, changing the subject to ease the tension. Pulling off a boot, he relished the kiss of cool spring water on his bare skin as a servant poured some from a silver ewer.

‘I am glad you bested that dwarf,’ she said, eager to turn the conversation to more comfortable ground too. Her eyes did not move to regard Imladrik. She lingered at the entrance to the rookery, at the summit of a short set of earthen steps, and peered through a narrow slit in the heavy leather flap. She was fixated on the royal pavilion at the opposite end of the field, the king and all his retainers looking on.

She sneered, ‘He was a crass little creature, all dirt and hair. When I first heard that dwarfs live in caves under the ground I scoffed, but now I see the truth of it.’

‘I fought a warrior, Liandra. A noble one possessed of a fine spirit. Morgrim Bargrum is a thane of vaunted heritage – you should not be so disparaging.’

‘You obviously see something which I do not.’ She glanced at him, ‘Anyway, I salute your victory, Imladrik.’ Liandra raised her sword, which the prince noted was unsheathed.

Despite her caustic demeanour, even in the darkness of the rookery Liandra’s stark beauty shone like a flame. Her hair was golden but not akin to anything as prosaic or ephemeral as precious metal – such a thing would fade and give in to the ravages of entropy in time. Rather, it was eternal and shimmered with an unearthly lustre. Threaded with bands of copper like streaks of fire, she had it scraped back and fastened it in place with a scalp lock. Pale as moonlight, her skin was near silvern and her eyes were like sapphires captured from the raging waters of the Arduil.

She was beautiful.

Imladrik had always thought so and the very fact spoke to his poetic soul, much as he tried to deny it. His desires were not for war and battle, though he possessed great martial skill and as brother to the Phoenix King of Ulthuan, it was almost expected. Imladrik wanted peace, which he had. Only it felt like his hands were an hourglass and the fragile accord between the elves and dwarfs grains of sand slipping through it. No matter how hard he tried to seize them they would worm their way between his fingers. Grip too tightly and the glass would shatter, spilling their contents anyway.

Not so Liandra. She desired battle,
ached
for it. Fierce-hearted, especially as she was now clad in her ceremonial dragon armour, she was happiest with a sword or lance in her mailed fist. The blood red of the armour’s finely lacquered plates, edged and scalloped, only enhanced her ethereal beauty.

Imladrik removed his other boot before giving her his full attention.

‘Petty pride is not worthy of a princess of Caledor,’ he told her. ‘And you have not even greeted me properly yet,’ he added.

Liandra turned and bowed, a gesture that Imladrik reciprocated. There was no physical contact, no handshake or embrace of any kind. It was as if an invisible veil of propriety existed between them that no sword or spear could ever part. Briefly, Imladrik found he was envious of the more tactile ways of the dwarfs, the open and flagrant, even sometimes crass, mores of social greeting in their culture. Elven stiltedness had its place in court. It was dignified, but all too cold between old friends. Perhaps he had spent too long amongst dwarfs, learning their ways as Malekith once did before his fall.