Now that he saw them in the flesh, Caradryel at last understood some of what Imladrik had told him in Tor Alessi. When the asur called them the ‘stunted folk’, that implied something missing, something unfinished. He saw how false that was: they were almost as broad as they were tall, as sturdy as tree-roots and as heavy as ingots of pig-iron. They stared back at him without the slightest shred of fear or wonder. No doubt existed in those dark stares, just disciplined, regimented hatred.
They will never forgive, he realised. They will never give in. They do not know how to.
Eventually, one of dawi made a move. The dwarf broke ranks and waded towards them through knee-high undergrowth that reached his waist. His beard was steel-grey, plaited and folded up in a baroque array of knots and tassels. His exposed biceps were a patchwork of scars, tattoos and iron studs. Unlike the crossbow-wielders, he carried a warhammer, the head of which was beautifully engraved with runes and dragon-head knotwork. His helm was open-faced and crowned with drake-wings just like the Caledorians, though his were bulky and blunt in comparison.
When he was a few paces away he rested the hammerhead on the ground before him, folded his hands over the hilt, and leaned on it. His eyes, sunk deep under bristling brows, surveyed Feliadh’s troops with calm disdain.
‘Who here speaks Khazalid?’ he demanded. His voice was deep and hoarse, as if clogged with coal-dust.
Caradryel swallowed. His usual self-assurance would not help him here. ‘None do,’ he said, edging his horse to the fore of the Caledorian group. ‘I was given the words by another.’
The dwarf chuckled. It sounded like loose stones tumbling down a ravine. ‘So I thought. You speak like a stupid child. We barely understood you.’
Caradryel bowed in apology. ‘Forgive me. I had little time to learn. I had hoped to speak in… other circumstances.’
‘No doubt,’ said the dwarf. ‘Thank your pale gods that we heard the name Imladrik — that is all that saved you.’
‘He wishes to pass a message to his friend, Morgrim Bargrum,’ said Caradryel. ‘We had hoped to find him here.’
The dwarf scowled. ‘If they were friends once, they are friends no longer. But if you carry terms of surrender we will hear them.’
Caradryel paused. This was difficult. ‘Imladrik’s tidings are for Lord Morgrim alone,’ he said, trying to sound authoritative without being haughty. ‘Unless, that is, it is he to whom I am speaking.’
The dwarfs broke into a barking, growling fit of laughter, filling the valley with their bizarre and guttural mirth. Caradryel could feel Feliadh’s annoyance, and placed a hand on his forearm to restrain him.
Laughter is good, he thought, studying the chortling dwarf before him carefully. I will endure a thousand insults if it gets us to where we need to be.
‘Your mind is as slow as your speech, elgi,’ mocked the dwarf. ‘You think we would risk Morgrim in the vanguard? You speak to Grondil of Zhufbar, slayer of your sickly kinfolk, and I ask you again: what are your tidings?’
Caradryel recalled what Imladrik had told him of the dawi.
‘They despise weakness, and they despise arrogance,’ Imladrik had told him. ‘Steer a path between the two: never show frailty, but never insult them. Everything they do is a challenge. Give in to it, and they will hold you in contempt; ignore it and they will assume you mock them. Remember: they kill anything that mocks them.’
Caradryel swallowed.
‘Grondil of Zhufbar,’ he said. ‘I am Caradryel of the House of Reveniol. I serve Imladrik of House Tor Caled. He commands me to speak only to Morgrim. You have us at your mercy and may slay us at your pleasure, but for all that none among us will break our vows. I will speak with Morgrim alone, or I will die here in this valley. They are the choices: you, my lord, have the decision.’
For a moment, silence. Caradryel felt a chill run up his arms. His stomach felt weak. The words ‘die here in this valley’ had slipped out rather easily.
Then Grondil chuckled again, and shook his head. ‘Elgi amuse me,’ he said. ‘So serious, all the time. And you love your fine words.’
He shot Caradryel a sly, intelligent look.
‘I’ll take you to Morgrim,’ Grondil said. ‘Though you’ll have to watch your scrawny backs with him — he doesn’t have my sense of humour.’
Thoriol emerged into the sunlight, blinking and stumbling. He carried his gear slung across his back, just like the others. They were dressed the same way: loose-fitting white robes trimmed with a deep crimson. Baelian’s company shouldered their longbows casually, used to the cumbersome lengths of yew and silk-spun bowstrings. Thoriol remembered enough of his training to use the weapon but struggled to look proficient with it.
‘It’ll come,’ Baelian had told him during the crossing, grinning as ever. ‘Soon you’ll forget what it was like not to carry one.’
Thoriol gazed up at the soaring spires of Tor Alessi, glistening white in the strong sunlight. Gull-shrieks filled the air. Behind him, the length of a gangplank away, the Resurviel bobbed on the quayside. Harbour-hands were already crawling all over her, furling sails and stowing lines.
Baelian’s company assembled on the stone quay, all twenty-four of them. Crowds pushed past them as Baelian attempted to call them to order and speak to the harbour official. Everything in the waterfront seemed to be in constant motion — a carnival of unloading, loading, shouting, moving and hauling. The wind was stiff and thick with salt. The aroma of it was different to Ulthuan — fewer spice fragrances and somehow… dirtier.
While Baelian argued with the official, Thoriol let his eyes wander across to the towers rearing up ahead. Some of them still bore the scars of ballista strikes. Banners of the King and various noble houses rippled in the breeze, exposing images of trees, horses, sea-serpents and hawks.
Everything was martial, hard-edged and poorly finished. Tor Alessi seemed to have no purpose to it but war.
Eventually Baelian turned away from the official, his scarred face tight with irritation.
‘Fools,’ he spat, rolling up some parchment and stowing it under his robes. ‘This place is full to bursting and they’re running around like startled pheasants. Useless.’ He started to storm off, then turned and gave Thoriol a significant glance. ‘Stay together. I’ve got us lodgings in the lower Eliamar quarter. Let’s not get lost in the crush, eh?’
Thoriol smiled dryly. The captain had little to worry about — Thoriol had no plans to make an escape any time soon. Despite himself, he had found himself rather enjoying his reacquaintance with the archery he had learned as a youth. He’d taken a surprising degree of pleasure in handling the long yew bow, in stringing it and leaning in to the pull.
It came back quickly. He remembered how he’d taken hunting bows into the forests west of Tor Vael, and how proficient he’d become at bringing back a haul for the larders. He’d always had a quick eye, and enjoyed the lightweight spring of the weapon; far more elegant than a sword or an axe. Only later had that enjoyment faded, and he’d never had the chance to become expert with the battlefield weapons of the asur companies — long, slender bows with a range of over two hundred yards and a fearful delivery. The effort required just to bend those bows was considerable, and after days of practice on the ship he was only capable of matching his counterparts’ most elementary efforts.
For all that, the process had been oddly cathartic. The others had accepted him readily, showing little or no interest in his origins but willing to help him learn. They shared watered-down wine, bread, hard cheese and olives, discussing the potential for riches in the east, the prospects for the war against the druchii, tales — implausible or otherwise — of love affairs in Saphery and Avelorn.