‘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?’
Morgrim nodded. Azdrakghar had felt alive since Tor Alessi, resonating through his armour in its strapping. ‘It growls like a caged wolf.’
‘The drakk woke it,’ said Morek. ‘Snorri thought-’
‘Do not mention him,’ snapped Morgrim sharply. ‘I grow tired of hearing his name. For too long we have used it, making it stoke our anger. Do we not have enough reasons of our own to hate them?’
Morek stared at him. ‘I only meant-’
‘It is my blade. Snorri was wrong, it was forged for me. It was forged for the drakk. You knew this when you made it.’
Morek shook his grizzled head, puffing hard. ‘I don’t know. Even Ranuld didn’t know. If it has a destiny, I cannot see it.’
‘I can,’ said Morgrim, his grey eyes narrow. He kept marching. ‘I see it as clear as moonlight.’
‘So here we are again.’
Imladrik sat in his throne at the summit of the Tower of Winds. Three of the other thrones were occupied.
Caerwal was no longer there. Neither was Liandra, whose whereabouts had still not been established. Word had come in regarding the fate of her fortress: Kor Vanaeth lay in ruins, its surviving people heading towards Tor Alessi. A dwarf column nearby had also been destroyed. Both sites, Imladrik had been told, bore the marks of dragonfire.
He didn’t know why she’d done it. Hatred — for him or for the dawi — didn’t seem enough. The betrayal hurt him deeply, the more so given the uncertainty over her motives. He’d been tempted to take Draukhain east and find her. Perhaps there were still things they had to say to one another.
Or maybe she had extinguished any trust they still had. As surely as if she had slipped a dagger into Morgrim’s chest, Liandra had ensured the war could never be stopped.
Whatever I may have done to hurt you, he thought bitterly, I deserved better than that.
‘We are victorious,’ said Aelis. She looked reinvigorated. The flight of the dragons had given them all hope again. ‘Thanks to you.’
Gelthar, who sat one place to her left, also looked content. His troops had been first out onto the plain once the dwarf retreat had started.
Of all of them, though, it was Salendor who had been most vindicated by events. The mage-lord was at pains not to make too much of it, but his satisfaction was hard to hide.
‘Then the question is: what now?’ asked Imladrik.
‘Go after them,’ said Salendor bluntly. Then he laughed. ‘Did you expect any other counsel? Morgrim’s army is broken.’
‘They are ripe for destruction,’ agreed Gelthar. ‘Now is the time.’
Aelis shot her companions a tolerant look. ‘Have you learned nothing, lords? We will offer our views here, discuss them for an age, and then Imladrik will overrule us.’
Imladrik smiled wryly. ‘So you understand how this works at last.’
In truth, his position was a strange one. His policy of restraint had failed spectacularly, just as they had all warned him it would. On the other hand he had demonstrated the full ambit of power at his command, which had daunted even Salendor. He couldn’t decide quite what that made him.
A fool? A saviour? Possibly both.
‘You have another idea,’ said Salendor.
Imladrik leaned back in his throne. ‘Place yourself in the mind of our enemy. What will he be thinking?’
‘Vengeance,’ said Gelthar. ‘They will come back at us.’
‘Yes, but how? They are not stupid. We have exposed our greatest strength to them, and they have felt just how powerful that is. They will not repeat their mistake.’
‘What can they do?’ asked Aelis lightly. ‘They have no answer to your drakes.’
‘They will find one. Even now they will be thinking on it. As I say, they are not stupid.’
‘They will disperse,’ said Salendor quietly.
All turned to him. Imladrik nodded fractionally. For all their differences, he had always known that Salendor was the most tactically astute of his captains.
‘Six dragons,’ Salendor went on, speaking thoughtfully. ‘Overwhelming together, but they cannot be everywhere.’ His voice grew in certainty as he considered the options. ‘I would send my warriors in every direction. Forget this place — they cannot take it now. But what of Athel Maraya, or Athel Toralien?’
‘Quite,’ said Imladrik. ‘If we had a hundred dragons then we could consider engaging them, but even Aenarion did not command such numbers. This is their land — our numbers are divided between here and Ulthuan. We do not know how many warriors they have under arms, but it is surely many times what we can muster.’
Aelis’s brow furrowed. ‘Then what is to be done?’
‘The dragon riders will be sent out,’ said Imladrik, ‘one to each great fortress. Regiments will travel to the frontier citadels. They must leave immediately, for the dawi move fast when the mood is on them. They disperse; so do we.’
Gelthar looked unconvinced. ‘That is thinning our forces. No early victory can come from this.’
‘You are right,’ said Imladrik. ‘We will be fighting for years.’ He had resolved not to labour the point, but it was worth stating again, just to underline why he had worked so hard to avoid it. ‘This will be the shape of the war now: brawling over scorched earth, each of us as exhausted as the other. History shall judge us harshly for it.’ He shook his head in frustration. ‘And Liandra most of all.’
The others looked awkwardly at one another.
‘You cannot believe that,’ said Salendor.
‘Then where is she?’ Imladrik demanded, trying not to let his frustration spill out too obviously.