Chris Wraight - Master of Dragons

‘Then you should be pleased.’

‘How little you understand us.’ Liandra crossed her arms, threading the staff under an elbow. ‘You sit there, smirking, content in small malice. Nothing you have done here will hasten Malekith’s return to the Phoenix Throne. He will remain an outcast for the rest of his days, howling his misery into the ice.’

Drutheira inclined her head in putative agreement. ‘Maybe, but he has his war. Nothing can stop that now.’

‘You know less than you think. They are talking again, and the dwarfs know of the secret war. All they need now is proof, and that is why you have been suffered to live — so I can drag you to Tor Alessi where, under the hot irons, you will be made to speak. Truth-spells shall be wound around you. All shall hear it. Your last action, before I finally kill you, will be to weep for the ruin of all you have sought to achieve.’

Drutheira couldn’t prevent a faint quiver of doubt showing on her face then. Liandra might have been lying, of course, but she sounded unnervingly confident. Recovering, Drutheira glared back defiantly.

‘Wishful,’ she said. ‘You know the chance has long gone. I sense the hatred boiling away within you even from here — you loathe the dawi.’

Liandra drew close to her then, so close that Drutheira could smell the fragrance of her robes and make out the freckles on her pale cheeks.

‘I do,’ Liandra whispered, bending over her almost tenderly. ‘I wish to see every last one of them driven back into the mountains, but how much more do I loathe you .’

The intensity of hatred then was unmistakable. Drutheira tried to pull her head away but her bonds held her tightly.

‘When you burn, witch, I shall be watching,’ Liandra whispered coolly. ‘For the sake of those you killed, I will revel in your agony.’

Drutheira couldn’t look away. Two blue eyes glared at her from the gloom, unwavering in their passionate intensity.

For the first time in a long while, no words came to her: no acid riposte, no withering put-down. She was alone, shackled, held in the vice by those who hated her, and there was nothing much left to say.

Then Liandra sneered, her message delivered, and withdrew. The mage swept from the chamber, not looking back, and slammed the heavy door behind her.

Alone again in the darkness, Drutheira heard the bolts lock home. Then silence fell again, as complete as the outer void.

This, I admit , she thought to herself mordantly, is getting difficult.

The drum beat with a steady, driving rhythm. Even as the dark trees clustered close, their shaggy branches hanging low across the path, the beat continued — heavy, dull, dour.

Morgrim enjoyed the sound of it. It reminded him of the beating of hammers in the deeps, the ever-present sound of the sunken holds. Its steady pace spoke of certainty, resolve, persistence.

He marched in time with it, as did all of his retinue. Five hundred dwarfs of the bazan-khazakrum kept up the punishing pace, hour after hour, pausing only for snatched meals of cured meat washed down with strong ale. They carried their supplies on their backs, not waiting for a baggage train to keep up with them. Every warrior matched the stride, none falling behind, none pressing ahead.

The constant exertion helped Morgrim forget. While he was moving, his breathing heavy and his arms swinging, he could consign the memory of Tor Alessi to forgetfulness. Only in the few hours of sleep he allowed himself did the images come back — the flaming fields, the stink of burning flesh, the cries of alarm. He would awake in the cold dawn, his eyes already staring, his fists clenched with anguish.

‘Onward,’ he would growl, and all those around him would drag themselves to their feet once again.

Dwarfs could cover a phenomenal amount of ground when the occasion demanded. They were not quick in their movements but they were relentless. No other race of the earth had such endurance, such capacity to drive onwards into the night and start again before first light. Freed of the straggling demands of his huge army, Morgrim’s warband had made good progress, led from the front and hauled onwards by his indomitable will.

Morek kept pace just as well as the others. He swayed as he strode, his cheeks red and puffing, his brows lowered in a permanent scowl of concentration.

‘How many miles?’ he asked, several days into the march, the road still thickly overlooked by foliage. His hauberk was thick with mud, his cloak ripped and sodden.

‘No idea,’ replied Morgrim, maintaining pace to the hammer of the drum. ‘Why do you ask?’

Morek snorted. ‘Because Tor Alessi is at one end of the world and Oeragor is at the other. I do not mind the exertion, but was there not a closer prize?’

Morgrim hawked up phlegm and spat it noisily into the verge. ‘There are many closer prizes. Soon they will all be burning.’

‘That is not an answer.’

‘Then because it is his .’ Morgrim’s voice shook with vehemence. He was tempted to stop then, to call the march to a halt and remonstrate with the runelord, but resisted. Every minute was vital. ‘It is his place, the one he built. It will hurt him.’ He glared at Morek. ‘Enough of a reason?’

Morek nodded, his breathing getting a little more snatched. ‘So it is a private war with you now.’

‘It is, and if you have issue with that there are other warbands you could join.’

Morek shook his head wearily. ‘Gods, no. I made an oath.’

Morgrim looked ahead again. ‘Good. While we march, recite your rune-craft. I will need it.’

He knew he spoke harshly; the runelord deserved more. His mood was dark, though. He could feel Snorri’s casket rattling against his jerkin, bound to his chest with chains of iron. Imladrik had no doubt intended the return of Halfhand’s remains as a gesture of goodwill. Now, in the aftermath of what had been unleashed, it felt like an insult.

‘I sent word to every thane under the mountains,’ he muttered. ‘They are all marching. Frei has taken half his hold to Sith Rionnasc. Others are heading through the forest. Others are marching under Brynnoth of Barak Varr. His army is the one we will join. He will support the new way of war — he was ever a wily soul and he knows how best to skin the elgi.’

Morgrim didn’t mention the other reason he wished to join forces with Brynnoth’s armies. Rumours had been whispered through the candlelit corridors of Karaz-a-Karak for months, sometimes with scorn, though often with interest. Brynnoth had done something interesting in Barak Varr, something that held greater promise of taking on the elgi than the campaign of scorched earth he now advocated. He’d heard stories of airborne machines, held aloft only by sacks of air and carrying weapons of fiendish invention. That was interesting. The two of them needed to talk, and to accomplish that he needed to get to Brynnoth.

For now, though, retaliation needed to be decisive, extensive, and, above all, swift.

‘You think we will be in time?’ asked Morek. ‘Last I heard he was close to his muster weeks ago.’

‘We will be in time,’ said Morgrim dismissively. ‘We will make rafts for the river and drive up against the current. We will march into the Ungdrin when we find it again. I will burn myself into the ground if need be, but we will be there.’

Spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. Anger was only ever a finger’s breadth under the surface with him, ever ready to erupt. The axe weighed heavily on his back at such times, as if daring him to draw it.

Morek scratched the back of his neck, still marching, looking as if he had his doubts but was too prudent to voice them.

‘The runes,’ he said, glancing at the axe. ‘Do they still answer?’