The Great Betrayal (33 page)

She peered down through the clouds for a few seconds before conceding. ‘We must be swift.’

The dragons dived a moment later, Draukhain in the lead with Vranesh a few feet behind. In keeping with Imladrik’s plan, they perched on the ridges of the gorge on either side. The elves then dismounted and climbed down. They met in the middle in a scrum of scattered, broken blades and patches of churned earth.

‘It was a brutal fight,’ said Liandra. She was crouching down, running the earth between her fingers.

‘That is plain even to my mundane sight,’ said Imladrik. ‘What else do you feel?’

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

‘Dhar saturates this place. It has been tainted by it. Three sorcerers, one much more potent than the others…’

Imladrik kept his voice low, but his gaze was intense. ‘How can you tell?’

‘Each crafts the wind of magic subtly differently. Such a thing leaves a trail of essence behind it if you know how to look for it.’

‘And what of the other thing, the enigma you spoke of?’

She screwed her eyes tighter. Her fists were clenched at her sides. Liandra’s already pale skin drained further, leaving her cold and corpse-like. She shuddered, wracked by a sudden convulsion that threw her off her feet and onto the ground where she spasmed.

‘Liandra!’ It was as if Imladrik’s voice was lost through the veil of a waterfall, distant and muffled.

Reaching her side, he shook her hard, pulling her up onto her knees again.

‘Liandra!’ Rubbing her arms, trying to beat some warmth back into her, Imladrik didn’t know what else to do. ‘Come back to me,’ he urged and was about to strike her when Liandra’s eyes snapped open again.

She flushed at the look of concern on Imladrik’s face. When the prince recognised it too he backed off.

‘Are you hurt?’

She struggled to her feet but refused any help.

‘We cannot linger here. It’s not safe.’

‘Liandra?’

She was already climbing back up to the ridge, finding trails no dwarf ever could and moving with a grace and swiftness that would seem impossible over such rugged terrain. Equally as nimble, Imladrik gave chase.

‘Liandra…’ He grabbed at her arm, and she snapped it away with a muttered curse.

‘Even with a dragon to protect me, I do not want to feel a crossbow bolt in my back,’ she said.

‘The dwarfs are gone, and I doubt they would shoot us without cause.’

‘Did you not see as I did in the dwarf hall? They want retribution for this. Even if their king is wise, they are not. They are a vengeful and greedy people, Imladrik. It is time you realised that. It might not be tomorrow, or even next year, but a war is coming to our people and there is nothing you can do to prevent that.’

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 and theft, yet my father does nothing. He hides in his Grand Hall, bickering with the other kings. Right now the elgi are nothing, just a few thousand warriors and the odd drakk, scattered across disparate settlements. We could defeat them in a month and reclaim the Old World as our own.’

Morgrim picked up where his cousin had left off, choosing a particularly ugly goblin skull to split.

‘You make it sound so simple.’

‘It is! It’s easy, Morg. If an enemy threatens you, take up az and klad, step into his house and kill him. Drogor can see it, why not you?’

Morgrim looked down at the skull he’d just sundered. ‘Drogor is not the dawi I remember.’

‘You were little more than beardlings when you knew each other. Despite what our ancestors say, dawi can change.’

Morgrim took another skull. ‘Not that much.’

‘He is a little strange, but I just put that down to his ordeal to reach the karak or living under hot sun for the last twenty-odd years. Southland jungles are no place for dawi.’

‘Aye, perhaps.’ Bone fragments exploded furiously across the ground. ‘I can see why you enjoy this.’ Swinging the hammer onto his shoulder, Morgrim hefted a third skull. This one had belonged to an orc. ‘He certainly hates elgi.’

‘Wouldn’t you if they’d slain your kin? And is that such a bad thing?’

‘I do not doubt his cause, but if he turns your mind towards similar thoughts then yes, it is bad.’

Snorri scowled. ‘I’m no puppet, Morg.’

Two-handed, Morgrim split the orc skull in twain.

‘I know that, cousin. I’m sorry.’ He took off his war helm to wipe the sweat dappling his forehead. ‘Thirsty work.’

‘I have ale…’ Snorri pulled a damp tarp off a modest-sized barrel he’d kept in shadow beneath the tower wall. He handed Morgrim a pewter tankard. ‘And hoped you would find me up here.’

Taking a long pull of the foaming brew, Morgrim said, ‘Tromm, but that is fortifying.’

‘
Drakzharr
, one of Brorn’s special reserves.’

A companionable silence fell between them as they supped together, the sun on their faces and a light wind redolent with the scent of the earth filling their nostrils.

Morgrim breathed deep as he took a long swig of the liquor.

‘Been too long since we did this.’

‘Aye Morg, it has. I am sorry too. My father…’ Snorri bit his lip to keep back his anger. ‘He treats me like… like…’

Morgrim smiled reassuringly.

‘Like his son, Snorri. And that means he judges you harshest of all dawi.’

‘Why won’t he let me show him what I am capable of? I am of the Thunderhorn clan, of Lunngrin blood. I am Whitebeard’s namesake, by Grungni, and yet he favours elgi over his own kin.’

Morgrim shook his head. ‘No, cousin. He does what he must to hold on to the peace he’s fought so hard to create.’

‘And what if I want war?’ Snorri’s eyes were crystal clear as he said it. ‘What if what Drogor says is right and the elgi cannot be trusted? Is it not better to strike first?’

‘When have you ever known a dawi to strike first, cousin? Besides, Drogor seems full of bile. Be wary that you do not heed him too much.’

‘He is your friend.’

‘Not one I recognise.’

‘What is it you can see that he and I cannot? You have befriended this Imladrik–’ Snorri tried but failed to keep the sneer from his face, ‘–and of all the elgi, he at least seems honourable, but the rest… this elgi woman and the other, this Salendor…’

‘Imladrik is the ambassador of the elgi king, the one who resides across the sea. If anyone speaks for their race, would it not be him? Why do you see the others as enemies? They are acting no different to you, cousin. Your belligerence and mistrust is a mirror which they reflect back.’

Snorri smirked. ‘Have you been talking with Morek, cousin? You sound as cryptic as the runesmith and his master.’ Finishing the drakzharr, he wiped his mouth and poured another. ‘A drakk slayer, one destined to be king. That is what Ranuld Silverthumb prophesied.’

‘I remember,’ said Morgrim.

‘Only elgi ride drakk and they are supposedly our allies. How then must I go about killing one if that will always be true?’

‘Nothing with prophecy is ever clear. Even Ranuld Silverthumb doesn’t know its meaning and he is runelord of Karaz-a-Karak. Do you think you can decipher it so easily?’

‘Times are changing,’ said Snorri, looking off into the high peaks where dark clouds had started to gather, wreathing the pinnacles of the mountains like smoke. ‘I can feel it, Morg.’

There was a danger of the conversation souring again, so Morgrim sat down, clapping his cousin on the shoulder to dispel any growing tension. ‘These are hard times for everyone,’ he said, ‘but I am still hopeful that a peaceful outcome to the troubles can be reached.’

Snorri paused in his supping, eyes darkening.

‘It may already be too late for that.’

Incredulity deepened the lines in Morgrim’s face. ‘The High King is still in council, so how can that be so when no decision has been made?’

Snorri met his cousin’s questioning gaze.

‘Varnuf and Thagdor have already mustered armies. They wait in the hills and valleys not far from Karaz-a-Karak. Luftvarr too has over two thousand dawi warriors awaiting their king’s return. And I reckon there will be others too.’

‘And what do you plan on doing, cousin?’ Morgrim had set down his tankard, the ale more bitter than it was previously.

‘Several clans see as I do. Regardless of the council’s decision, I am marching on the elgi. We attack now or regret our temperance at length.’

Morgrim was on his feet. In his haste he kicked over his tankard, spilling the precious brewmaster’s ale. He barely spared it a glance.

‘Varnuf is a rival of your father’s, so too Thagdor of Zhufbar. Luftvarr is just a savage. How can you be thinking about throwing your lot in with them, possibly against the High King’s wishes? It is beyond reckless, cousin.’

Snorri stood up too. ‘It is reckless to do nothing,
cousin
. The elgi have enjoyed our understanding and flouted our hospitality for too long. We must show them who the true lords of the Old World are. My father
will
declare war. What other choice does he have?’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

Snorri’s eyes were hard as granite. A harsh wind tossed the curls of his beard, making him appear even more belligerent.

‘Then I shall declare it for him.’