The Curse of the Phoenix Crown

by C. L. Werner

  The High Runelord shook his head, some measure of clarity returning to his eyes. He clapped a hand on Morek’s shoulder. ‘This war will consume us if we let it,’ he declared. ‘The old magic is slipping away, sinking too deep for our picks and shovels to follow. It will be a slow death. Excruciatingly slow. We’ll cling to past glories and hold our heads high even as we feel everything dying around us.’

  ‘The elgi will not win,’ Morek said, trying to reassure his master. ‘They don’t have the stamina for a long war.’

  ‘Without the old magic we will be lost,’ Ranuld persisted. ‘It won’t matter if elgi or dawi prevails – the Karaz Ankor will be broken.’ He fixed his eyes on Morek, as though he could impress his meaning on the runelord through his gaze alone. After a moment, he turned away and started to retrace his steps, returning to whatever secret door had admitted him to the hall.

  ‘I have to call it back,’ Ranuld declared, but Morek didn’t know if he was speaking to him or muttering to himself. ‘I have to make the old magic come back to us. We can’t follow it, so it has to come back to us.’

  Morek looked back at the rune forge, watching the weird energies rising off the shattered elgi sword. If Ranuld was right and the magic of the runelords was fading, then was the same true of the elves and their mages?

  Chapter Four

  The Lord of the Tunnels

  243rd year of the reign of Caledor II

  Steel splintered before the axe’s bite, driving slivers of jagged metal into the elf’s soft flesh. The elf warrior struggled to bring his shield slamming down onto the armoured hands that gripped the butchering axe, hoping to break the dwarf’s assault. Already the effort was beyond the stricken knight. Like those of his steed before him, the wounds he had suffered were too deep, and he was losing too much blood too rapidly to summon any kind of strength into his limbs. Like a weary moth, the asur sagged against the axe, his own sword and shield drooping from his lifeless hands.

  From behind his mask of metal, Forek Grimbok glared at the corpse twined around his axe. He kicked at the elgi knight, forcing the corpse to slip away and free his weapon. The knight had made a bold display, rushing to intercept Forek. Surely the elf had seen enough to know what kind of foe he was challenging? Since battle had been joined, the steelbeard had been like some crazed engine of destruction, smashing his way through the carnage, leaving the mangled husks of his enemy strewn behind him, marking his path with their blood.

  Forek scowled at the knight’s seeming bravery. He wasn’t deceived. He knew enough about the elgi to understand something of their ways. The knight was highborn and therefore unimpressed by the dwarf’s harvest of mere peasant elgi. He’d thought to make short work of the steelbeard. Perhaps, in that last instant as Forek’s axe chopped through his hip, the asur appreciated what a dire mistake he’d made.

  All around Forek, the sounds of battle were fading. The fighting had raged for several hours now. The great thane Brok Stonefist had lured an entire elgi army into a carefully laid trap. First the dwarfs had ambushed the asur column on the road, emerging from hidden tunnels, half-forgotten fingers of the Ungdrin Ankor. They hadn’t caused much damage, but enough to rile their enemy. When the ambushers retreated and the elgi saw how few they were, it had offended their pride. Angered and insulted, the elgi had chased after the ambushers… and straight into the real trap.

  The slaughter had been vicious when three thousand dwarfs emerged from hiding. The elgi couldn’t know that the dawi had been in place and waiting for three days among the concealed shafts and pits of an old copper mine. For three days they had bided their time, barely twitching a muscle, becoming as stolid as the stone around them. Then, like an avalanche, they had come crashing down upon the unsuspecting elves.

  Cries of ‘Khazuk! Khazuk!’ rang out from every quarter as the remaining pockets of elgi warriors were surrounded and annihilated. A few of the knights, like the one Forek had killed, had managed to break through the dawi ring. They could have made a good escape, but instead had swung back around to engage the dwarfs. Their charge had faltered almost at once, slamming as it did into an immovable wall of dwarfish steel.

  Forek hesitated a moment, cocking his head to one side and listening to the tumult. As High King Gotrek’s reckoner, his sense of hearing had been honed to a remarkable degree, able to pick out the whisper of a visiting king halfway across Karaz-a-Karak’s great hall. That facility to focus on a single sound amid whatever clamour sought to drown it out now served the steelbeard well. Hefting his vicious axe, Forek hastened across the battlefield. He gave scant notice to the dead lying strewn across the ground, his attention fixated upon the voice he’d picked out from the roar of battle.

  The object of his search was standing on a dead elgi stallion, the head of his axe sunk into the animal’s side. Brok Stonefist was an impressive sight, clad in rune-etched steel plate, his long grey beard festooned with golden rings and silver combs. A great eagle-winged helm covered his head, its mask dropping down to just below his nose. The thane’s steely eyes stared from behind the visor, cold and brilliant as the light of a winter dawn. The thane was almost ancient by dwarfish standards, but the bite of time had yet to steal the strength from his arms or wither the prodigious stamina of a warrior who had spent his youth running messages through the dark tunnels of the Ungdrin Ankor.

  Those days were long past. Now Brok was a mighty hero of the Karaz Ankor, the favoured champion of King Hrallson. He’d been leading the warriors of Karak Azul for years, displaying a knack for strategy and cunning that never failed to take the elves by surprise. His unmatched familiarity with the Ungdrin Ankor allowed his forces to move freely beneath the plains, without worrying about elf scouts and flying dragons. He had become something of a bogey to the elgi and the enemy had bestowed upon him the title Arhain-tosaith, the shadow from the earth.

  At the moment, Brok was much more substantial to his foes, boldly standing before a tiny pocket of elf warriors. The elgi were among the last survivors, clustered around a standard that had grown bloodied and tattered during the conflict. Surrounded on all sides by dwarfs, the enemy remained defiant, brandishing their swords and spears. Perhaps if there had been a bowman among them, they might have dared a shot at Brok, but as it stood all they could do was to shout at their foe.

  ‘They sound upset, whatever that perfumed gibberish means,’ Brok laughed, his humour spreading to the warriors around him. He pulled at one of the combs in his beard, scowling at the tiny ring of elgi survivors.

  ‘They are.’ Brok’s warriors moved aside as Forek strode over to the thane. Many of them clapped their fists against their chest in a gesture of respect to the steelbeard.

  Brok was thoughtful a moment. There were some dwarfs who understood Eltharin, but few among the thane’s army. He wagged a finger at the surrounded asur. ‘Any of that doggerel useful or important?’

  Forek listened a moment as an elf wearing a dark purple cloak over his silvery steel plate armour stepped a little away from the others and began to speak. The steelbeard scowled beneath his metal mask. How like the faithless elgi to put their personal pride ahead of all other concerns. Whatever they were, the elgi weren’t stupid. They had to know full well the tactical value of what they’d disclosed. They had to know that after this, the forests would burn. Dawi axes would again stand before the walls of Tor Alessi and Athel Toralien and Athel Maraya. They had to know this, but they didn’t care. He looked over at the standard the survivors were gathered around, then turned his gaze to the arrogantly defiant elf lord, his swan-winged helm plated in gold and encrusted with gemstones. Around his throat he wore a ruby big enough to choke an ogre. The blade he held at his side was slim, elegant and richly engraved.

  No, the elves weren’t trying any trickery. Brok’s ambush had caught more than an army.

  ‘The one in gold is Lord Myrion,’ Forek reported.

  Brok whistled in appreciation o
f the magnitude of Forek’s words. ‘The general of all the elgi,’ he observed. He squinted at the resplendent elf lord. ‘Dresses the part, I suppose. Elgi always invest more effort in appearance than substance.’ He ripped his axe free from the carcass under his boots and shook it at the elves. ‘This isn’t some trick to get us to spare them for ransom?’

  ‘It is no trick,’ Forek said. He pointed at the standard. ‘They want that rag returned to their kinfolk when the battle is ended. That is all.’

  A laugh rumbled up from Brok’s stout belly. ‘So the general wants a family gewgaw sent back to elfland?’ He shook his axe at the asur. ‘Tell the tall-ears their kin can buy it back from me when I’m done wiping my arse with it.’

  When Forek translated the thane’s words, it was Lord Myrion himself who replied to Brok’s crude abuse. The gold-helmed elf brandished his sword high, heedless of the dozen crossbows focused on him. Myrion’s voice rose in a long diatribe. If the meaning of the words was lost to the dwarfs, the tone in which they were uttered wasn’t. Growls and grumbles echoed among the bearded warriors.

  Forek didn’t bother to translate all of Myrion’s speech. Even when they had been at peace, he’d found little patience for the flowery extravagance of the elf language. ‘He says his gods will curse you if you don’t grant him the respect due a foe killed in honour.’

  Brok spat into his beard as another laugh shook him. ‘Seems to me I haven’t seen any elgi gods wandering about lately. They must have more sense than their poncey spawn. At least they stayed back on that damn island where they belong!’ The thane pumped his fist in a rude gesture, letting Myrion know precisely what the dawi thought of his gods and their threats.

  The elf lord started towards Brok, but his warriors grabbed hold of him, restraining the outraged general. One of them called out to Forek, the elf’s voice actually devoid of the habitual condescension exhibited by their race. For a heartbeat, the desperation of that appeal evoked sympathy in the reckoner. Then the memory of what had been done to him crushed any mercy growing within the steelbeard.

  ‘They want you to meet their general in single combat,’ Forek told Brok.

  Brok swung his axe upwards, letting it come to rest against his shoulder. Puffing out his chest, he climbed down from his morbid perch. ‘I killed thirty-six elgi today. One more will be good for my appetite.’

  Before Brok could take another step towards the elves, a harsh voice cried out from behind the dwarfish ranks. ‘Hold, my lord. The elgi vermin is unworthy of dying on your axe.’

  The dwarf warriors parted as a savage apparition stalked forwards. He was a dwarf, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, with a long beard spilling down his chest and a massive axe gripped in his brawny fists. There, however, his resemblance to the other dawi ended. Where the rest of the dwarfs were armoured for war, this one went unshod and bare-chested. Spirals of tattoos marked his skin and iron chains pierced the flesh of each arm, every third link of their length anchored in his body. His scalp had been shaved, only a narrow strip of hair left running down the centre of his head. This had been starched with a stinking mixture of grease and animal fat so that it spiked upwards like a cockscomb.

  Every dwarf in Brok’s army knew this warrior. He was Rundin Torbansonn of the skarrenawi. Rundin Dragonslayer, many called him, for he had killed an elgi drakk at the fall of Kazad Mingol. Others called him Rundin Oathbreaker, for after that battle he had broken his oaths of loyalty and service to High King Skarnag Grum and led an exodus of hill dwarfs back into the mountains. He was, at once, both a heroic and a despised figure, perpetrator of a great victory and an unforgivable offence.

  As he stood between Brok and Forek, both dwarfs could see the ugly brand burned into Rundin’s breast, right above his heart. It was the rune of Grimnir, a promise made in flesh by the disgraced hero. The nature of that promise was the most whispered rumour among Brok’s warriors. Many said it meant Rundin had vowed to redeem himself with a life of battle. Others claimed it wasn’t life he sought but a glorious death that would eclipse the shame he’d brought upon his own name.

  ‘No elgi is worth a dawi axe,’ Brok growled at Rundin. A scowl knotted his brow as he glared into the hill dwarf’s eyes. ‘Or is it that you think I can’t beat him?’

  Rundin shook his head. ‘You are Ungdrin Ankor Rik, Lord of the Tunnels. Without you, what will become of your army?’ He waved his hand at the elves, the chain on his arm clattering as he did so. ‘The elgi have lost the day, their army is vanquished. But if they can kill you, they can yet win the battle.’

  Brok’s anger only increased. ‘I can kill that scum and a score like him with one hand tied to my beard! I was gutting urk for King Hrallson before you were a gleam in your father’s eye! I’ve skinned trolls while they were still trying to eat me! You’ve dishonoured one lord already – I should think that was shame enough for you.’

  ‘I’ve sworn no oaths to you,’ Rundin growled through clenched teeth. ‘I fight alongside you because we share an enemy. Don’t forget that.’

  Forek stepped between the two warriors before their mounting anger could come to blows. ‘Don’t give the elgi the satisfaction,’ he hissed at them. A nod of his masked head drew the attention of both dwarfs back to the clustered asur. There was a look of scornful amusement on some of their faces. Even Lord Myrion was smiling. ‘They think us brute savages. Don’t prove them right.’

  ‘Then tell this unbaraki to step aside and let me kill that grinning dog,’ Brok declared.

  Rundin’s eyes went wide with shock as he heard the slur drop from Brok’s mouth. Forek pressed a restraining hand on the hill dwarf, pushing him back before he could answer the thane’s insult with a balled fist or the flat of his axe.

  ‘You could best the elgi in fair combat,’ Forek assured Brok, slipping back into the courteous flattery of Gotrek’s court. ‘But would they fight you fair? Rundin is right – killing you would help them, maybe even balance the army they’ve lost today.’ He reached up, his fingers playing across the chains of his gold beard. ‘Never underestimate the treachery of elves.’

  Brok stepped back, shaking his head in exasperation. ‘Gazul take ’em all,’ he cursed. ‘A volley or two will sort things out.’ He turned to give the order to the crossbowmen who had their weapons trained upon the elves.

  ‘No,’ Rundin said, the word ringing out like the command of Grimnir himself. He matched Brok’s sullen gaze. ‘Let me face them. Let me show them the might of the dawi. Let me show them what courage and honour mean.’

  Brok tapped the side of his helm with his finger. ‘You’re a zaki, you know that?’ A bitter smile pulled across his weathered face. ‘Still, if the elgi kill you, then I’m rid of you both.’ He looked at Forek. ‘Tell the elgi this lunatic will fight them. If they win, I’ll send that rag of theirs back to Tor Alessi.’

  It took the steelbeard only a few moments to explain Brok’s terms to them. There was no mistaking the disappointment on Lord Myrion’s face as he stared at the nearly naked Rundin. Clearly the elf shared Brok’s opinion of the hill dwarf’s sanity. Angry gestures and words were his response. One of the general’s retainers stepped out from the survivors, a long-handled elf axe clasped in his hands.

  Forek turned to Rundin. ‘The elgi think you are unfit to fight their general. They’re matching you against the lowest commoner left among them. It is meant to return the insult they feel Brok is paying them.’

  Rundin spat onto the ground, glaring at the elves. ‘After I kill him, what then? Will they send the general against me? Or do I have to kill them all?’

  ‘Those are Lord Myrion’s personal retainers,’ Forek told him. ‘Whatever happens, you’ll have to kill them all.’

  ‘Grimnir smiles on me,’ Rundin said. He slapped his hand across the god’s brand, as though to invoke Grimnir’s attention. Then, without any hesitation, he charged at the waiting elf.

  Even
for warriors who had spent decades marching into battle, fighting across the length of the Karaz Ankor and the asur colonies, seldom had they seen such a spectacle. The elf axeman knew his business, coming at Rundin with what seemed an overhand sweep designed to open the dwarf’s throat. Before he could connect, however, he spun his body into a rapid twist and set the blade flashing towards Rundin’s knees. Impossibly, Rundin was able to react to his foe’s feint, bringing his own axe flashing down to intercept the elven blade. Sparks danced away as the weapons ground against one another.

  The axeman leapt back, recovering almost immediately from Rundin’s block. The elf tried to employ the longer reach of his height and weapon to keep the dwarf at bay, managing to somehow brace himself each time his foe parried, absorbing the shock of the violent collisions with a facility engendered by long experience. Again and again he feinted an attack in one direction, only to pivot at the last instant to send his blade chopping at some seemingly unprotected quarter. Each time, however, Rundin’s axe was there to thwart the blow. Even the watching dwarfs were dumbfounded by the Dragonslayer’s speed and skill.

  When the end came, it was both sudden and shocking. The elf axeman made another of his deceptive assaults on Rundin, bringing his axe low so that he might draw his foe’s attention to knee, leg and belly, thereby exposing his upper body. This time, however, Rundin didn’t wait to meet the blow, but jumped back. As the elven axe flashed through the space he had occupied, the dwarf’s blade slashed at his foe. The longer weapon and the mailed arm that held it were chopped in half, their wreckage rolling across the bloodied ground. Before the maimed elf could even open his mouth to scream, Rundin slammed his blade into his enemy’s shoulder and sent him crumpling in a welter of gore.

  Looking across from the ruin of the elf soldier, Rundin shook his bloodied axe at Lord Myrion. Then the dwarf raked his thumb across his throat, a gesture of murderous promise that transcended the language barrier. Colour rushed into the elf lord’s pale face, overwhelming his surprise at the butchery of his retainer. Shaking off the soldiers around him, the elven general stepped out to meet the hill dwarf.