The Great Betrayal

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.

‘Congratulations again on your victory,’ she said, interrupting his thoughts but only exacerbating the formality of their exchange further.

Imladrik inclined his head. ‘Thank you.’

‘But it is not pride that makes me glad you defeated the dwarf and showed all of these mud-dwellers our true strength.’

‘Do not speak of them like that.’ Imladrik was on his feet, and still looked imposing despite the fact he was barefoot and had no armour.

The beasts in the deep shadows of the rookery stirred but he calmed them with a glance. None present, not even the largest, would dare oppose the Master of Dragons.

‘Vranesh!’ snapped Liandra, an eye on the darkness briefly too before she replied. ‘I heard them talking, heard what they think of us, our people.’

Pouring a goblet of wine, Imladrik sighed. ‘As did I, but that is no reason to hate them, Liandra, not if we are to achieve harmony between our two races.’

‘I do not want harmony. I do not like these dwarfs or their ways, nor do I understand why you seem to have such an accord with them.’ She moved away from the entrance, down the steps and away from prying eyes. ‘All this talk of murder, of ambushes in the night, it is just that. Talk. Likely, it was made up by the dwarfs to justify attacks on elves.’

Imladrik looked at her shrewdly. ‘And is that what you think, Liandra? Or are these the beliefs of your father?’

‘Not only my father, but my brothers also,’ she snapped, raising her voice. ‘Why wouldn’t I believe them?’

‘Because they are thousands of miles away on Ulthuan, fighting the remnants of Malekith’s forces in the mountains where you wish you could be right now.’

She was on the verge of another outburst when her anger ebbed. ‘I am a warrior of Caledor, Imladrik. By my father’s side is where I should be.’ She lowered her voice, unable to meet the prince’s gaze. ‘And is it any wonder that I want to kill druchii after what they did, after…’ She faltered, but recovered quickly. ‘I am here under sufferance, that is all.’

‘You’re here because your father, despite his misgivings, believes that peace is something worth fighting for and not over. You are his ambassador, a feat beyond the skills or patience of either of your brothers.’

‘Do not besmirch them,’ she warned.

Candlelight limning the edge of its saurian body, the beast a few feet away from Liandra growled in empathy. It clawed at the earth with its long talons.

Imladrik was not cowed. He had nothing to fear from Vranesh, upraising his palms to placate the princess not her beast.

‘I merely speak plain fact and the truth as I see it, Liandra. Just as I see the dwarfs are a noble race who value heritage, tradition and honour.’

‘Honour? Really?’ She stooped to retrieve a length of thick iron chain that trailed along the ground and into the darkness. ‘Where is the honour in this? The dignity?’

‘The dwarfs built this rookery for us. They cut the earth to allow us-’

‘They dug a hole, Imladrik. A hole. And then they filled it with chains and shrouded it from the sky. Insult is too light a word, confining noble creatures such as this. The dwarfs should be grovelling at their feet.’

‘The High King has organised this brodunk for us, the least we can do is concede to his wishes to see our mounts kept hidden. We are on his lands, these are his people. I can understand his concern.’

Liandra scoffed. ‘You even use their tongue like it is your own. Are you sure you aren’t turning native on us, Imladrik?’

‘I will pretend you did not say that to me, and attribute it to the fact you miss your father and brothers. The dwarfs are a good people. We have much to learn from each other. We are just different, our kind and theirs.’

‘As mud is to air and sky.’

She mounted Vranesh, getting a foothold in the stirrups and propelling her body up into the saddle. Liandra turned to Imladrik, looking down from her lofty position as the roof of the rookery tent was hauled away by ropes like a tarp from the back of a cart and the light flooded in. A host of dragons, drakes and wyrms of all stripe and hue were revealed, chained to the ground and muzzled. Draukhain was amongst them, easily the largest and most magnificent, lowering his neck under the gaze of his master. All did, recognising Imladrik’s mastery and the potency of his dragonsong. Few were left amongst the asur who commanded such respect amongst the dragons. Certainly, none bore his archaic title.

‘It is no wonder that blood has been spilled between us and them,’ said Liandra. ‘The only surprise to me is that it took this long.’

Not waiting for a reply, Liandra whispered a harsh word of command and Vranesh took to the skies. The chain fastening its ankle to the ground broke apart as if it were brittle bone, and the muzzle shattered likewise as the beast uttered a feral roar.

Imladrik watched her disappear into the clouds, an ill-feeling growing in his heart.

‘I am sorry, though,’ he whispered, but wanting to say it out loud, ‘about your mother.’