The tent’s canvas walls swayed in the wind, buffeted by gusts that came off the western ocean and straight across the plain. It was an elaborate construction, a storeyed collection of fabric-walled chambers erected around a scaffold of thick wooden poles and taut hemp ropes. Imladrik had had it prepared weeks ago, hoping that it would be used for such a purpose; erecting it had taken just a few hours.
The site was equidistant between the dwarf camp and the city walls. No more than a hundred delegates were permitted within half a mile of it, fifty from each opposing force. Despite the precautions, the atmosphere of tense antagonism was palpable. Dwarfs glowered at their elgi counterparts; the asur glared back at them with equal suspicion.
Imladrik didn’t like to see it, but he wasn’t surprised.
So are the dreams of our fathers diminished.
He sat at the centre of a long table covered in white linen. He had come in his ceremonial robes rather than armour as a gesture of trust. Aelis, Gelthar, Caerwal and Salendor sat on either side of him, all similarly garbed.
There was still no sign of Liandra. He had sent messages to her quarters. She might, of course, have been unaware that the dawi had finally arrived, but he doubted it. Whatever her feelings about remaining in his presence, she should not have stayed away.
Perhaps that vindicated everything he had done. He wished he could feel surer.
Opposite them, sitting at a similar table, were the dwarfs. Three lords, in addition to the runesmith, sat with Morgrim. Imladrik didn’t know them or recognise their livery; they had been introduced as Frei of Karak Drazh, Grondil of Zhufbar and Eldig of Karak Varn. They were neither princes nor kings, but thanes, advisers to their hold-master. Each looked ancient, as knotted and weathered as oak-stumps.
For all of their grandeur, there could be no doubt who dominated the chamber. Morgrim brooded in the midst of them, his countenance hanging like a funeral pall over the proceedings. He still wore his fabulously ornate battle plate with its swirling curves of knotwork decoration and bronze-limned detail, looking ready to unclasp his axe at any moment.
Still, he was there. That was something.
‘So,’ Imladrik said, inclining his head toward Morgrim, who made no move in return. ‘Three sieges have taken place here. It is my hope we may avoid a fourth.’
Grondil grunted, Eldig looked bored, but none of them spoke. From either side of him Imladrik could sense the wariness of his own side: Salendor disdainful, Gelthar wary, Caerwal silently hostile.
‘We came here for vengeance,’ replied Morgrim. ‘It will not be halted by words we have heard before.’
‘Things have changed,’ said Imladrik. ‘I suspect much.’
‘Suspect?’ Morgrim’s tone was dismissive.
‘More than suspect.’ Imladrik motioned to one of the servants standing in the margins of the chamber, who unfurled a long sheet of parchment and held it aloft.
‘This is a map of our homeland,’ said Imladrik. ‘I had it drawn with every detail. You can see the extent of Ulthuan here. Note the scarcity of land between the mountains and the sea. So it was that the asur first came to Elthin Arvan, to escape the boundaries that fate had enclosed us in.’
Morgrim’s eyes flickered over the parchment, taking in the detail quickly.
‘Observe the land to the north-west,’ Imladrik went on. ‘The race who live there we name the druchii, the dark ones. They are driven by a pleasure creed which turns their minds, blighting them with sadism. For seven centuries we have warred with them. For more than a generation we have kept this war secret, shamed by it even as we strive to end it. Over the years it has changed us: we have become a harder people. We remember our fight against the daemons with pride, but this secret war has caused us nothing but shame.’
Morgrim looked back at him doubtfully. ‘What is shameful about war?’
‘Because the druchii were once one with us,’ said Imladrik. Admitting it, even after so long, was still painful. ‘Their master was our greatest captain. He will be known to you in your annals. His name is Malekith.’
The runesmith Morek grunted in recognition. ‘We do remember. He was a friend of the dawi.’
‘He was once,’ said Imladrik. ‘He was many things, once.’
Morgrim placed his gauntlets on the table before him with a soft clunk. ‘This is your business, elgi. We have no concern what battles you make for yourselves.’
‘So it would be, had the war not spread to Elthin Arvan. We have always tried to prevent it. Even in times of peace we maintained a watch on the seas, knowing that the Witch King would covet our cities here just as he covets those in Ulthuan. Athel Toralien was his once, and he is jealous over what he believes has been taken from him.’
As he spoke, Imladrik kept a wary eye on the dwarfs before him. They made very few gestures and gave away almost nothing, though they were still listening, which was good.
‘Druchii can pass as asur with some ease; even my own kind cannot always tell them apart. I tried to warn Gotrek of it, but by then he was in no mood to listen. They have certainly been here, perhaps in small numbers, but enough for what they were sent for.’
Morgrim leaned forward. ‘And what is that? Enough hints — tell us what you suspect.’
‘Agrin Fireheart,’ said Imladrik. ‘The spark that started this. They killed him, not us. The trade caravans, the first attacks; we were not responsible.
That brought a change: Grondil shook his head angrily, Frei rolled his eyes. Morek leaned over to Morgrim and whispered something in his ear.
‘You’re telling me that these… druchii were to blame?’ Morgrim asked, pushing the runelord away. He pronounced the word awkwardly.
‘In the beginning, yes.’
‘There were a hundred skirmishes,’ said Morgrim sceptically. ‘Dozens of attacks in the first years. We know they came from your colonies.’
‘That did happen. Tempers flared, some lords were foolish.’
‘Foolish!’ snorted Grondil.
‘And we also were attacked by dwarfs,’ said Salendor, his eyes flat with hostility.
‘All suffered,’ admitted Imladrik, giving the Lord of Athel Maraya a sharp look. ‘All of us did.’ He turned to address Morgrim directly. ‘You remember how much your High King tried to restrain your warriors, how much I attempted to keep my own back, and how we both failed — could that have happened if other forces were not at work? Think back: were there no voices in the holds whispering from the start? Strangers, perhaps, who somehow gained the ears of the already-willing?’
He might have imagined it, but Imladrik thought he caught a flicker of recognition from Morek then — the briefest of sidelong glances.
‘I will not try to convince you we were not to blame,’ said Imladrik. ‘Believe me, I regret plenty, including things that happened before I went to Ulthuan. All I will say is this: other powers were active, powers that have wished to see us brought low ever since the Sundering. And if that is the case, should we not stand back, just for a moment, and consider what that means?’
His eyes remained fixed on Morgrim’s.
‘Warriors have died,’ Imladrik said. ‘Some fights have been without honour, and I understand the need for grudgement, but the Dammaz Kron makes provision for deception, does it not? This is my case, lords. Deception has taken place, poisoning the way between us. We can restore it, if we choose — it requires patient work, a little more understanding.’
Imladrik sat back, waiting for the response. He hardly dared to breathe. It would have been in character for the dawi to flatly refuse any further discussion — the information was new to them and they did not like tidings they could not personally verify.
The runesmith leaned over to Morgrim and they conferred for a few moments in whispers. They needn’t have lowered their voices — even Imladrik could not understand much of the Khazalid they used. After that, Morgrim took views from the three other thanes. They took their time, grumbling and muttering in their guttural tongue with stabbing gestures from armoured fingers.