The Curse of the Phoenix Crown

by C. L. Werner

  ‘He is the king,’ Thoriol said. ‘He can command whatever he wishes. However misguided or foolish.’

  Caradryel grimaced at those last words. They were imprudent, even in a place like Kor Evril. ‘The wisdom or folly of the king is a subject perhaps best left undiscussed for the moment. You could even say that past mistakes have laid the seeds for future opportunity.’

  Thoriol studied Caradryel’s face, wondering if the glimmer he saw in the highborn’s eyes was genuine or another pretence. ‘He is unfit to be king.’ They were words that seemed to roll like thunder through the room.

  ‘Today he is our king,’ Caradryel cautioned. He pointed to the band of white cloth bound about Thoriol’s neck, a mark of mourning he still wore years after his father’s death. ‘When he appears in public, the king shines with splendour. I have seen him in private, however, and I tell you he wears white when he is alone. He mourns the death of his brother in his fashion. I think he questions the decisions that killed your father and the doubts that brought about those decisions.

  ‘The king has no issue,’ Caradryel stated. ‘Your father’s death, I think, has made Caledor think upon his own mortality. He worries about the legacy he will leave behind. He wonders about the future of the House of Tor Caled. You are that future. That is why the king asks you to join him.’

  ‘He cared little enough when my father was alive,’ Thoriol scoffed. ‘What does he expect from me now? What does the king expect me to say that will ease his guilt?’

  Caradryel rose from his chair. The diplomatic mask fell away and his face became stern. ‘Say nothing,’ he warned. ‘Listen. Watch. You are being handed an opportunity that is so momentous it terrifies me. You will be ushered into the inner circle of the Phoenix King. You will be privy to his innermost councils, his most private discussions. Blood of Asuryan, can you not understand? He intends to groom you as his heir!’

  Thoriol clenched his fist, enraged by the very suggestion. Again, it was the accident of blood not the reward of achievement that was dictating his life. ‘I am my father’s son,’ he snarled.

  ‘Then do what your father tried so hard to do,’ Caradryel said. ‘Use your influence with the king to save Ulthuan.’

  ‘I have no influence with the king,’ Thoriol said.

  Caradryel’s voice dropped into a warning whisper. ‘Then bide your time until you do.’

  Even in the quiet solitude of Valaya’s temple, the brooding majesty of Karaz-a-Karak made itself felt. It was a climate, an atmosphere all to itself, a sense of ancient honour and monumental strength that fired the blood and made the heart of any dwarf swell with pride.

  At the moment, Morgrim was too discomfited to think about pride and magnificence, even that of Karaz-a-Karak. He grimaced behind his beard as a sharp pain throbbed through his body. Inwardly he berated himself for such a display of weakness. He was the great hero of the Karaz Ankor, Morgrim Bargrum, Elgidum, Imladrikbane. The slaying of the elf prince was a feat that had fired the heart of all the dawi, from Kraka Drak in the far north to Karak Hirn in the west. Through the many years since the killing of Snorri Halfhand by the elf king, the dwarfs had sought retribution against their foe. They’d laid siege to Tor Alessi four times, razed Kor Vanaeth and Oeragor, sacked Athel Numiel, vanquished armies of elves, seized mounds of treasure. None of it had gone so much as an inch towards settling the grudgement levelled against the asur.

  Killing Imladrik was different. The elves had killed the son of High King Gotrek. Now the dwarfs had killed the brother of Phoenix King Caledor II. It wasn’t enough to satisfy the call for vengeance, but it was a start, an omen that inspired the whole of the Karaz Ankor. Even after the conflagration that had consumed Kazad Mingol and seen the destruction of Barak Varr’s skryzan-harbark, the dawi were still emboldened by what Morgrim had done.

  ‘The wound still pains you?’

  Morgrim forced a smile onto his face and started to deny the hurt in his side. One look into the anxious features of High Priestess Elmendrin made him appreciate the futility of such a denial. He might be able to hide his pain from most but there was no fooling a priestess of Valaya.

  ‘When there’s a wind from the north, it starts to trouble me,’ Morgrim confessed. A gruff laugh rumbled through his broad frame. ‘Even in the depths of the Ungdrin Ankor, it troubles me when the wind comes down from the north. Filthy elf magic.’

  Morgrim sat upon a stone bench, stripped to the waist so that the priestess might inspect the scar running across his ribs. If a hot poker had been pressed to his hide, he didn’t think it could leave a more grisly brand. It was a strange fact that the blow which had inflicted the wound had failed to penetrate the heavy armour he had been wearing. Then again, the elves were a race saturated in magic and sorcery. It only followed that a great leader like Imladrik would have borne a blade with some sort of dire enchantment upon it.

  More evidence, as though any were needed, of elven perfidy. Imladrik had been as close to the dawi as any of his breed. He’d known precisely what to say, what to do, to stir doubt in Morgrim’s heart. Almost, the elf lord’s words had made Morgrim’s resolve falter, made him question the righteousness of their war. Duplicitous talk of renegade elgi being responsible for the strife between their peoples! Was it not the elf king himself who had commanded the humiliation of the ambassadors sent to Ulthuan? Was it some mythical druchii who slew Snorri and cut the hand from his corpse?

  A low grunt of pain fell from Morgrim’s lips as Elmendrin’s fingers kneaded his scarred flesh, working the healing salve into his old wound.

  ‘Relax, Ironbeard,’ the priestess told him. ‘You must rest and give yourself time to heal.’

  Coming from anyone else, the advice would have made him laugh. Time to heal? Every hour he spent convalescing in the halls of Karaz-a-Karak was almost as torturous as the wound itself. Years he had spent trying to recover his strength. Years when he should have been out there, leading the dawi in battle. His name had become a rallying cry for the dwarfs, yet the warrior who bore it was left behind in the vaults of the High King. It was left to others to march against the elves. King Thagdor and King Varnuf, their warriors crashing against the walls of Tor Lithanel and Sith Rionnasc. The army of King Bagrik striving to pierce the defences of Athel Toralien. The great thane Brok Stonefist of Karak Azul leading his troops through forgotten branches of the Ungdrin Ankor to attack the enemy where they least expected battle.

  Battle! The entire land gripped by war and Morgrim was condemned to watch from the sidelines. Until he was fit again, High King Gotrek had forbidden him to return to the field. A living hero was what the dwarfs needed right now, not yet another fallen lord to avenge. Much as he chafed under his king’s command, Morgrim recognised the wisdom of it. Killing him would embolden the elgi at a time when they were being pressed on every front. The elves needed a victory to rally them, something to dull the pain of Imladrik’s death and the loss of Oeragor.

  Morgrim rested his hand on Elmendrin’s shoulder. ‘I think I understand now the frustration you must endure.’

  ‘No,’ she reproached him, ‘you cannot begin to understand. You endure through the hope that your hurt will ease and you will return to the battle. You anticipate taking up your axe and again seeking retribution from the enemy.’

  ‘I do,’ Morgrim admitted. ‘Azdrakghar hungers for the blood of the elgi and their beasts.’ He clenched his fist as he remembered the sight of the elven dragon riders burning his army before the walls of Tor Alessi. The runes had awoken in that moment of rage. The years since had not diminished their ire. ‘I would feed my axe well,’ he vowed.

  Elmendrin dipped her hand into the pot of salve, rubbing more of the ointment into his flesh. ‘Such a path is denied to me. However deeply I would drink from the cup of vengeance, I cannot. Even the desire to do so does me shame.’

  ‘You have more cause than most to bring grudge against the elgi,
’ Morgrim declared. ‘Your brother Forek unspeakably disgraced by their king. My cousin Snorri…’

  Morgrim felt the tremble that passed through Elmendrin’s hand. At once he regretted his words. He knew how close she had been to Snorri. The prince had courted her incessantly, finding any excuse to visit the Temple of Valaya. Sometimes Morgrim had wondered if Snorri’s obsession with Elmendrin had played a part in making him so impulsive and reckless. The prince had been brave, but it had been a foolish sort of bravery, the senseless bravado of pride and arrogance. Snorri had often confessed his intention to make Elmendrin his bride, but Morgrim was never sure how much of that desire stemmed from genuine love and how much was simply the knowledge that a priestess was forbidden even to the High King’s son.

  Looking at Elmendrin now, Morgrim appreciated that whatever Snorri’s motivations, the priestess had cared for him. There was such a deep pain in her eyes that he had to hurriedly turn his head, unwilling to shame her by gazing on her sorrow.

  ‘I did not turn from my vows when he was alive,’ Elmendrin whispered, her voice so low that Morgrim was uncertain if he was even meant to hear her words. ‘How can I break them now that he is gone? Revenge is something I must leave to others.’

  Morgrim closed his hand around her own, squeezing her fingers. ‘By Grungni, there will be a reckoning. If we must sail to Ulthuan and drag the elf king from his perfumed throne, he will pay for what has been done.’

  The priestess drew her hand away. Some of the sadness left her eyes as she looked at the determination in Morgrim’s face. ‘You do his memory honour,’ she said. ‘You restored his hand to his tomb. Soon you will restore honour to his spirit.’

  Morgrim felt his stomach broil at the mention of Snorri’s hand. The hand had been disfigured long ago, bestowing on the prince the title of ‘Halfhand’. When the elf king slew Snorri, the villain had contemptuously cut the hand from the corpse and taken it back to his palace as a trophy. Its return to the dwarfs had little to do with Morgrim. It had been restored by Imladrik, an act of contrition on his part for the crimes of his king. Alone of the elf lords, Imladrik had understood what Snorri’s mutilation meant and had made the effort to undo such evil.

  That was the warrior Morgrim had slain, the hero whose brand he now wore on his flesh.

  Elmendrin set the lid back onto the pot of salve. She gathered up the remaining ointments and unguents she had previously applied and replaced them on the wutroth tray. The old poultice she’d removed from Morgrim’s side was carefully folded into a tiny square of soiled cloth. Later it would be burned in ceremonial gratitude to Valaya.

  ‘Do I get another of those?’ Morgrim asked.

  ‘Not for a few days. The salve must be allowed to work on its own,’ Elmendrin answered. A worried look crept onto her face. ‘You have visitors,’ she said.

  Morgrim slipped down from the bench, glancing around for his shirt. ‘What?’ he barked angrily before remembering where he was and to whom he spoke. He’d been in the hospice for several hours and Elmendrin had never left him. Any visitant would have been cooling his heels for a long time if he’d arrived before the priestess began her ministrations. ‘Who is it?’ he said, trying to make his voice more respectful than demanding.

  ‘Morek Furrowbrow and… a steelbeard,’ Elmendrin said. She didn’t look at him as she took up the tray.

  Morgrim was barely able to contain himself. Morek Furrowbrow! She’d kept a runelord waiting. Even a king didn’t ask a runelord to wait. Before his blood could boil over completely, he considered the rest of her words. Morek and a steelbeard. There was only one steelbeard who would be accompanying the runelord. Anger drained from Morgrim in a surge of sympathy. Years had passed, but Elmendrin was still struggling to accept the dishonour inflicted upon her brother.

  After Elmendrin withdrew, a temple acolyte conducted Morgrim’s visitors to him. Morek looked thinner than the last time Morgrim had seen him, with more wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and a bit more silver in his hair. The runelord bore his staff, a tall rod of wutroth ringed in bands of iron and copper, and topped with a stone carving of an anvil. Little slivers of light crackled about it every time he brought the steel-tipped stem into contact with the floor.

  The dwarf accompanying Morek wore full armour, his face locked inside an enclosed helm of steel. The mask of the helm was cast in the shape of an enraged ancestor, lips curled back in an eternal snarl. A great curtain of gold chains dripped from the mask, falling across the dwarf’s armoured chest in a gleaming cascade. With each step he took, a shiver passed through the golden beard, playing upon the subtle differences of hue between each link. The beard had been fashioned from gold gifted by the kings of each hold in the Karaz Ankor, save the lost southern hold of Karak Zorn. Even the skarrenawi kings had sent gifts, all except their greedy ‘High King’ Skarnag Grum. It was a testament to the great insult the elves had inflicted that even the hill dwarfs felt offended by the disgrace suffered by the steelbeards.

  Steelbeards. It was a name bestowed upon the dawi who had been abused in the elf king’s court. The name referred not to the metal beards that fell from their masks, but to the grim axes they carried, axes that had been forged to shear elves even more closely than those who bore them had been shorn. The runes inscribed into those axes were the most abominable ever pressed into steel, murderous symbols of such potency that the runesmiths had refused to inscribe them for mere grobi, urk and drakk. It had taken the insult of elves to rouse such a fury in the runesmiths and even then there were many who had demurred about their use. Karaz-a-Karak’s own High Runelord Ranuld Silverthumb had been one of those who warned against such weapons, proclaiming them to be a curse against not the elgi but the dawi themselves. Ranuld had withdrawn from public view shortly after. Even his apprentice Morek hadn’t seen him in over a year.

  Morek bowed as he came towards Morgrim. The steelbeard made no such concession. By command of High King Gotrek, the steelbeards were no longer under the authority of anyone and need acknowledge neither king nor thane. That he was here at all was a greater show of respect to Morgrim than the most abject genuflection.

  ‘Forgive my absence, lord,’ Morek said. ‘I have been away.’

  ‘Looking for more “old magic” for your master?’ Morgrim asked. The question put him in mind of that chance meeting with Ranuld deep in the ruins of Karak Krum. The runelord had been searching for what he called ‘old magic’ at the time. Perhaps distracted by his hunt, Ranuld had muttered a prophecy to Morgrim and Snorri about a future king who would slay the dragon. That prophecy had played no small part in leading Snorri to his death. Many times Morgrim had wondered if he could dare to level a grudge against the runelord for that.

  Morek ran his hand along the side of his staff. ‘I have been visiting the runelords of the Burudin on behalf of my master. After the murder of Agrin Fireheart, the kings are loath to allow the Burudin to stray far from their holds.’ An amused cough rumbled through the dwarf. ‘Less revered runesmiths like myself are much more expendable.’

  ‘Not to me,’ Morgrim said. ‘You stood by me at the Siege of Tor Alessi and the Cleansing of Oeragor. I do not forget such loyalty.’

  ‘It is a curious reward you offer in return,’ Morek mused, his thumb rubbing one of the iron bands circling his staff. ‘Indeed, I am uncertain if it is honour or insult.’

  Morgrim looked over at the steelbeard. ‘You have explained fully what I want and why?’ The steelbeard nodded by way of answer. They were dwarfs of few words, but when they did speak, even kings listened.

  ‘Forek has explained,’ the runelord said. ‘Most eloquently,’ he added with a touch of sadness. Before his humiliation, Forek Grimbok had been the High King’s reckoner, his most skilled diplomat and ambassador. ‘What I do not know is if what you ask is wisdom or folly.’

  Morgrim slapped his hand against his scarred side. ‘It’s a good blade. Every morning when I
wake up, the first thing I remember is how sharp its bite is.’

  ‘Elgi sorcery,’ Morek cautioned. ‘They are a fearsome people with peculiar ideas about magic and its use. The wise course is to shun their enchantments.’ He shook his head. ‘No, my lord, if you wish my advice, I tell you to cast the shards into the deepest part of the Black Water and forget it.’

  ‘Is what I ask impossible, then?’ Morgrim asked.

  Morek smiled and tapped his runestaff on the floor, setting little wisps of light crackling across the metal bands. ‘You’ll not twist my beard by playing against my pride. Reforging an elven blade is something beyond any swordsmith, but not impossible for a runesmith.’ He nodded towards Forek. ‘You’ve even gone so far as to impress the only dawi in the whole of the Karaz Ankor who knows elgi letters well enough to help in the work. Why do you really want this? You say as a symbol of your victory over the elgi, but you yourself are already a symbol of that victory.’

  ‘And that is the problem,’ Morgrim said. ‘I have become too important as a symbol. High King Gotrek is reluctant to send me into battle now. He worries what my death would do to the war.’ He shook his fists in frustration. ‘I can’t go on like this, locked away like some treasure too precious to spend. Our people are out there fighting! I need to be with them.’

  ‘You think the captured blade of an elgi lord will replace you in the hearts of the dawi? You are Elgidum, the great hope of our people. No enemy’s sword will fire their spirits as you have,’ Morek reproved him.

  ‘It isn’t our people I need to inspire,’ Morgrim confessed. He looked over at Forek. ‘Our people have enough cause to fight. It is the High King whose spirit I need to inspire.’

  Morek frowned. ‘The High King has greater cause for grudgement than any of us. He still wears beads of onyx in his beard and stains his cheeks with ash in mourning. Entire vaults in the royal treasury have been emptied to pay for the armies he has set against the elgi.’