Thorgrim sat back. The High King seemed tired. Ungrim did not envy him the weight of responsibility he bore. Heavy sat the crown of the High King, and it was very likely that he was now watching the sun at last set on the empire of the dwarfs. Ungrim smiled humourlessly. Even so, if they were to die, then it was best done properly.
That was the only way dwarfs did anything, after all.
The great beak snapped shut inches from Eltharion’s nose, and a rumbling hiss filled the hold. The horses in the nearby stalls shifted nervously as the griffon hunched forward, its claws sinking into the wood of the deck. Eltharion reached up as the beast’s chin dropped heavily onto his shoulder and stroked the ruffled feathers that cascaded down its neck. ‘Shhh, easy, Stormwing,’ he murmured. He felt one of his mount’s heavy forepaws pat clumsily at his back, and heard its inarticulate grunt of contentment.
Around them, the ship made the usual noises of travel. Not even the graceful vessels of Lothern were free of those, though elvish craftsmanship was the finest in the world, and their ships second to none. If he listened, he could hear the waters of the Great Ocean caressing the hull, and beneath that, the melodic hum of the whales that occupied the sea. Their song was one of beauty and peace, but tinged with fear. Even the most isolated of animals could sense that the world was sick.
As he stroked the griffon’s neck and head, he looked about him. The horses who shared Stormwing’s hold belonged to the Knights of Dusk, a noble family of Tor Ethel. More accurately, the only family, noble or otherwise, of Tor Ethel, which was all but abandoned these days. It sat on the western coast of Tiranoc, and each year coastal erosion took more of that once shining city into the sea, claiming gardens, sanctuaries and palaces alike. The Knights of Dusk hailed from the ever-shrinking group of the city’s remaining inhabitants. They were valiant warriors, as were the others who had accompanied him and Eldyra on this journey.
Besides the Silver Helms of Tor Ethel, there were the Sentinels of Astaril, mistwalkers of Yvresse, in whose company he had honed his archery skills as a youth, and the Faithbearers of Athel Tamarha, a company of spearmen who had fought at his side in every campaign but one. A small enough host, but tested, and experienced. They would need to be, to survive what was coming. They were entering unknown territory. The last time he’d set foot in the lands of men, they still hadn’t quite grasped the concept that hygiene wasn’t a mortal offence. He doubted much had changed in the intervening centuries.
He didn’t hate them. He simply didn’t see a reason for their existence. They caused more problems than they solved, for all that they were barely more than chattering apes. It had been men, after all, who had allowed the goblin, Grom, to pass through their lands in order to reach Ulthuan. Teclis doted on them, in his acerbic way, something that had always puzzled Eltharion. Men were the cause of the problems facing them now. Men fed Chaos a constant stream of souls, whether they knew it or not. And if they weren’t doing that, they were turning themselves into abominations like Mannfred von Carstein. Men couldn’t leave well enough alone. Some small part of Eltharion hoped that whatever was going on would swallow mankind whole before it ended, and that the Dark Gods would choke on their grubby little souls.
As if sensing the direction his thoughts were taking, the griffon grumbled into his ear, its hot, foul breath washing over him. He pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on calming the animal. Once, when Stormwing was no more than a squalling cub, he’d have taken the beast in his arms like an infant, and carried it about until it was soothed to sleep by the rhythm of his heartbeat. Now the griffon was bigger than the largest of the horses who occupied the remainder of the hold, and a good deal more skittish about the confined space it found itself in.
‘I see Stormwing is no more fond of the sea than his master,’ a voice said. Eltharion didn’t turn. He dug his fingers into the strange spot where feathers met fur on Stormwing’s body and gave it a good scratch. One of the griffon’s rear paws thumped the deck, and its spotted tail lashed in pleasure.
‘Come to check on your own mount, then, Eldyra?’ he asked. ‘He misses you. I can tell.’
‘I doubt that. He’s asleep, the lazy brute,’ Eldyra said, crossing to the stall where her stallion, Maladhros, stood dozing. The big, silver dappled animal was the only one who showed no concern at Stormwing’s presence, though whether that was because they had been stabled together before, or because Maladhros had fewer wits than a thick brick, Eltharion couldn’t say. The stallion was strong and fierce, and Eldyra swore that it was a canny beast as well, but Eltharion thought she vastly overestimated its problem-solving capabilities. When he’d come down into the hold, it had been eating an empty bucket.
She clucked and rubbed the stallion’s nose, stirring it to wakefulness. Eltharion watched as she fed it an apple, and it crunched contentedly. ‘He’s taking the trip well,’ he said.
‘He knows it’s important,’ she said. She stroked the horse’s mane.
‘Does he now?’ Eltharion smiled.
Eldyra looked at him. ‘As a matter of fact, yes, he does. How is Stormwing?’ she asked. She stepped across the hold towards him, light on her feet despite the pitch of the deck. She was the perfect blend of grace and lethality, much as Tyrion was, Eltharion reflected. He wondered if the latter was aware of just how much he’d shaped the princess of Tiranoc in his image, and whether he’d find that worrisome. Probably not; in Eltharion’s opinion, Tyrion didn’t worry as much as he should, at least not about the right things.
‘Nervous. He doesn’t like confined spaces. He prefers to fly,’ he said. The griffon grumbled and eyed Eldyra balefully. Stormwing didn’t care for anyone other than Eltharion getting too close. He had a tendency to snap.
‘Why not let him?’
‘There’s no guarantee he’d remember to come back, rather than fly home,’ Eltharion said, rubbing his palm over the curve of Stormwing’s beak. The creature butted his chest and made a sound halfway between a purr and a chirp. ‘He’s not very bright.’ He hesitated. ‘Then, perhaps he’s smarter than both of us.’
‘Do you truly hold so little hope?’ she asked, quietly.
He smiled thinly. ‘I am not known as “the Grim” for nothing,’ he said.
‘That’s not an answer.’
‘No, it is not.’ He looked at her. ‘There is no hope. She is as good as dead, or worse. We are not heroes… We are avengers.’
‘Tyrion doesn’t think so,’ she said.
‘Tyrion lies to himself,’ he said softly. ‘Just as he lied to himself that there would be no consequences for his indiscretion. Those lies are the source of optimism, and his downfall.’
‘You think that, and yet here you are,’ Eldyra said. She said it as if it were an accusation. And perhaps it was, he thought. He nodded agreeably.
‘I am, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Why are you here?’ he asked.
‘My lord Tyrion ordered it,’ she said stiffly.
‘I was under the impression that he was your friend,’ he said. ‘Just as he is my friend.’ He tasted the word as he said it. It wasn’t one he used often, or, indeed, at all. But it seemed fitting, in reference to Tyrion. Tyrion was his friend, and that meant that there was nothing Eltharion wouldn’t do to help him. ‘And I, like you, am smart enough to know that if we were not here, he would be, and Ulthuan would suffer for it.’
‘Or at least worse than it already has,’ Eldyra said. ‘Do you think…?’
‘I do not think. I do not worry. I trust. We have our mission. Tyrion and Teclis will drive the daemonic hosts from our shores, as they did before. And we will find Aliathra, for good or ill, whether she is alive or…’ He trailed off.