by C. L. Werner
‘It won’t be enough,’ Thoriol said, stepping towards the king. ‘New generals, fresh troops, these have been sent to the colonies before. What they need in Tor Alessi is a more substantial gesture. A sign that Elthin Arvan is very much in the thoughts of Ulthuan.’
Hulviar smiled thinly. ‘Surely you aren’t suggesting that his highness set aside his duties here and journey to Elthin Arvan? It should be enough that the king has done so once already.’
Thoriol shook his head. ‘No, my Lord Hulviar, that is not what I am suggesting. The king’s duties must keep him in Lothern. I, however, have no such obligations.’ He turned and bowed to Caledor. ‘My liege, permit me to sail to Tor Alessi as your emissary. I need have no official position or duties. My presence alone, the presence of the king’s nephew, will be enough to tell the colonies that they are still in the hearts and minds of Ulthuan. I will be the living symbol of your promise that they will not be abandoned.’
As he spoke the last words, Thoriol could see Caradryel grow tense. It would be an interesting report he’d have to give his mother and her cadre. They’d thought to use him to speed the War of the Beard to an end. He would still achieve that purpose, but he would do so in a way that wouldn’t make a mockery of his father’s sacrifice.
The first step would be getting himself to the battlefield. For that, Thoriol would need the king to indulge him one more time. He could see the uncertainty in Caledor’s eyes, the hesitance of his uncle to commit his heir.
‘It would be imprudent–’ Caradryel started to object. Before he could finish speaking, Thoriol received the unexpected support of Hulviar.
‘I must disagree,’ the seneschal said. ‘Prince Thoriol makes a good case for why he must put in an appearance at Tor Alessi. The colonists need something to inspire them, and the prince is quite right when he says it will take more than a new general and a few regiments.’ Hulviar bowed to the king. ‘For a time, my liege, I think Prince Thoriol should be sent to rekindle the morale of your subjects. To let them know that the eyes of the Phoenix King are upon them.’
Caledor looked as though he would demur. There was a hint of worry on his normally proud features. Unexpectedly, he glanced at Caradryel, almost as though begging the diplomat to offer some rationale that would give him cause to defy the united counsel of both his seneschal and his heir.
‘Please, my liege, allow me to perform this service,’ Thoriol asked, dropping to one knee. ‘For too long I have sat idle. I would not feel useless to my king.’
It was that one word and the memory of his own thoughtless speech that decided Caledor. ‘You will go to Tor Alessi as my representative,’ he told Thoriol. ‘Lady Aelis will be told to extend to you the same courtesies and considerations she would to me.’ He stared into his nephew’s eyes. ‘Restore their courage, then come back to me.’
The king turned and withdrew from the Amber Room. As he departed, Thoriol thought he heard his uncle whisper something.
What he thought he heard the king say was, ‘Elthin Arvan has already taken too much from House Tor Caled.’
Reaching up into the misty clouds, the gargantuan peaks of the Worlds Edge Mountains stretched like a wall across the countryside, a megalithic barrier separating the Old World from the Dark Lands beyond. Great stands of pine and spruce clung to the slopes, rising up from between the craggy rocks. Patches of scrubby grass and wizened bushes struggled to find purchase in the shelter of boulders and trees, eking out a precarious existence just between the hills below and the snowline above.
There were twenty of them, climbing down the side of the mountain with a nimbleness that made the native goats seem as clumsy as drunken orcs. Not a branch or bramble did they disturb, not so much as a pebble was kicked loose by their passage. There was barely any sound at all, only the rare rustle of a cloak as the wind pulled at it or the rasp of a boot against a patch of sand. So silently did they move that the birds singing in the trees didn’t skip a note.
Watching them from the mouth of a tunnel not a hundred yards away, Morgrim appreciated the enormity of the danger the intruders posed. Elf spies who could move with such eerie speed and silence were a threat that couldn’t be understated. It was bad enough that the elgi could spy upon the Karaz Ankor with their sorcery, but for them to feel at liberty to dispatch spies so deep into dwarf lands betokened a boldness that couldn’t be tolerated. These spies had to be exterminated. If a single one returned to their cities, if the elgi for an instant thought they could trespass with impunity…
Morgrim closed his hand about the hilt of Ifulvin. Just touching the sword reminded him of his purpose. He was Elgidum. It was his destiny to drive the elves from the Old World and cast them back into the sea.
‘You can afford to show them no quarter.’ The advice came in a whisper from his left. Drogor Zarrdum, his old friend from Karak Zorn. The thane had been indispensable to him since they’d been reunited in the deeps below Barak Varr, both as a companion and as an advisor.
Even so, at times Drogor’s relish at slaughtering elgi was a bit unsettling to Morgrim. Certainly the elgi were an enemy to be fought and conquered, but there was a difference between battle and bloodlust – a difference that Drogor sometimes didn’t appreciate.
‘Let them get a little closer,’ Morgrim whispered back. He turned his head, glancing down the tunnel. There were thirty dwarfs behind him, all with axes at the ready. Across from them, in another mineshaft, were a dozen crossbows. Further down the slope was a patrol of rangers, the ones who had found the first traces of elgi spies.
It was still confusing to Morgrim why the elves had marched across half the countryside to reach the Worlds Edge Mountains and then made their ascent in such a forlorn place. They weren’t near Karak Kadrin or Karak Ungor – there were no major passes or trade routes of any consequence for leagues in any direction. Even the Ungdrin Ankor didn’t run beneath this part of the mountains. There just seemed no tactical purpose for what the elgi were doing here. They were too few to be establishing any kind of base from which to stage future operations and even if they were, why would they be leaving so soon after making their assent? The rangers had discovered them only a few days ago.
Morgrim chided himself for asking so many questions. They were elgi and it was only right that their treacherous ways should be strange to a dwarf. Wasting energy trying to figure them out was as fruitless as trying to talk to a goblin. The only understanding that could ever exist between them was that of steel!
The violence of his own thoughts surprised Morgrim. Where had such rage come from?
There was no time to question his motives. One of the elves descending the slope abruptly lost his footing. The elgi recovered with a grace and nimbleness that amazed the onlooking dwarfs, but when their foe’s slide ended, the elf was in a half-crouch and staring directly into the mine. His green eyes were staring directly at Morgrim.
‘Attack!’ Drogor shouted, shoving Morgrim to one side as the elf threw a leaf-shaped knife at him. The blade caught Drogor in the breast, the impact knocking him back and into the warriors surging up from the rear of the tunnel.
‘Attack!’ Morgrim took up the cry. Drawing Azdrakghar, he rushed at the elf who’d thrown the knife. The elgi was already ripping his own sword from its scabbard. Above him, on the slope, the other elves were beset by a volley from the lurking crossbows. Four of their number were cut down, two more staggering from their wounds. The others drew their bows or pulled their swords, reacting to the sudden ambush.
Morgrim could see his warriors fanning out, hastening up the slope to engage the other elgi. They would need to draw the attention of their enemy while the crossbows reloaded. Until then, they would be vulnerable to any charge the elgi mounted. The dwarf warriors had to prevent that from happening.
The elf swordsman was left to Morgrim. There was that much respect that lingered between elgi and dawi that the challenge from one warrior to
another would be honoured. Morgrim closed upon the grey-cloaked elf, noticing the seemingly effortless way his foe maintained his footing as he manoeuvred on the uneven ground. It was a stroke of despicable luck that this elgi had tripped up above and sprung the ambush.
Morgrim circled the elgi, waiting and watching for an opportunity. The elf was like a panther, every muscle in his lean frame tensed to spring. Where would the attack fall? When would the warrior decide was the moment to strike? The thin, angular face that glared at Morgrim from the hood of the cloak gave no clue to the thoughts and intentions stirring in the elgi’s mind. There was only the stamp of hate and the contemptuous disdain most asur felt for peoples they considered beneath them.
That disdain acted as a warning to Morgrim. He noted the patch of sand, saw the way the elf’s foot squirmed when crossing it. From that moment, he knew what to expect. The elf made a few thrusts at him, flashing feints that the thane already knew weren’t intended to strike true. His own retorts with his axe were equally half-hearted, just enough to keep his enemy on edge.
When the elf’s boot rolled under the little ridge of sand his foot had created, Morgrim threw up his left arm to shield his face. The sand kicked up by the elf spattered across the fending arm, but failed to blind him as the foe had intended. At the same instant, the elf was lunging in with his sword, planning to open Morgrim’s throat. He tried to adjust in mid-charge when he realised his foe could still see, but by that time it was too late.
Azdrakghar struck the elgi’s waist, the rune axe tearing through the light elven mail to crunch deep into the body beneath. Blood and bile spilled from the grisly rent in the elf’s side as Morgrim tore his weapon free. The stricken warrior collapsed at his feet, pawing at the rocks for a moment before falling limp and cold against the earth.
Morgrim was just starting to turn from his stricken foe when a sound from behind him brought him spinning about. He froze in mid-swing, ashamed that he’d almost buried his axe in Drogor’s head. His friend noted his alarm and laughed.
‘If I’d known you’d be this glad to see me I would have left the elgi knife where it was,’ Drogor said. He jabbed his thumb into a tear in his breastplate. The elgi sometimes put enchantments on their blades that allowed them to pierce iron as neatly as flesh. Drogor had been fortunate this blade had penetrated no deeper than it had.
Morgrim shrugged. ‘It was meant for me anyway,’ he said.
‘All the dawi will cry if you fall, my friend,’ Drogor cautioned him. ‘If Elgidum dies, it is a tragedy. If Thane Drogor of Karak Zorn dies… none will even notice.’
Morgrim was already beginning his climb to join the fighting above. It seemed the worst of it was already past. A dozen elgi were already down. Three others tried to make their escape through the dwarf ambushers, but as they fled down the slope they found a surprise waiting for them. The rangers, concealed as effectively as any elgi scout, emerged from hiding to intercept them. It wasn’t long before the only elgi left alive on the mountain were those too badly wounded to fight.
‘See to the wounded,’ Morgrim told his warriors when he rejoined them. He scowled when he saw the dwarfs ignoring the surviving elves. ‘Attend the elgi too,’ he warned.
‘They will only slow us down,’ Drogor said as he watched a pair of rangers trying to staunch the stream of blood coursing from one elgi warrior’s mangled leg. ‘We should finish them now. There may be other spies about.’
Morgrim frowned at his friend’s bloodthirstiness, but decided to put a different rationale for his distaste. ‘That’s why I want prisoners,’ he said. ‘I want to know if there are others in the mountains.’
Drogor smiled and shook his head. ‘You won’t learn anything from these ones,’ he declared. Stooping, he reached down to the bleeding elgi and opened the elf’s mouth. Blood bubbled over the captive’s lips. With a start, Morgrim understood what Drogor meant. Each of the prisoners had bitten through his own tongue when he found himself unable to fight further.
‘Bring them just the same,’ Morgrim ordered when he recovered from his shock. ‘We will leave them in Karak Kadrin.’
‘Why? They are no use to us,’ Drogor persisted.
Morgrim shouldered his axe and stared at the maimed elves. ‘That’s exactly why we have to take them with us.’
Shrugging, Drogor turned back to help the rangers attend the wounded elves. For a moment, he stared at a stand of thorn bushes. Quickly he looked away and helped the rangers carry one of their prisoners down the slope.
It was only hours after the last dwarf had withdrawn that a figure emerged from below the thorn bushes. As he threw back his cloak, the garment shifted hue, changing from the mottled black and brown of the thorn bushes to become a dusky grey. The elf gave only a brief inspection of the dead strewn about the slope. The dwarfs had taken their own dead with them and made certain that the elves they left behind were corpses.
Only Ashelir had escaped their notice. It stung his pride that he had hidden himself while so many comrades fought and died, but it would have been a greater disgrace to have failed in his mission.
Reaching under the breast of his tunic, Ashelir felt the ugly piece of bone they’d come so far and risked so much to retrieve. Ilendril assured them it was worth the dangers, that it would change the whole war.
Ashelir cared little for any of that. All he cared was that he was being brought one step closer to the end of his own private war.
Revenge with honour, a dream cherished for so long, would soon be within his grasp.
Thoriol’s arrival in Tor Alessi was a bitter one for him. He was greeted with fanfare befitting a conquering hero. Bright pennants bearing the heraldry of Tor Caled fluttered from the spires atop every tower in the city. Flowers were strewn across the piers when the fleet from Ulthuan pulled into port. Crowds swarmed the streets, eager and jubilant, thrilled beyond words to set their eyes upon Prince Thoriol.
He’d only been partially right when he made his case for returning to Elthin Arvan before the king. Tor Alessi was revitalised by his arrival, all the dread and despair caused by the desertion of the dragons forgotten as he disembarked. But it wasn’t Thoriol they celebrated. It was the memory of his father, the memory of Imladrik who had come and saved Tor Alessi from the dwarfs.
Grim memories of that battle returned to Thoriol as a chariot drawn by white horses carried him through the streets. In his mind’s eye he relived those long-gone days when the smoke of war had choked the sky. He could hear the screams of the dying, could smell the stink of scorched flesh. He could see the dwarfs, massed before the great walls like a sea of steel, their axes glistening in the sun.
He’d nearly died upon those walls when the dwarfs breached them. If not for his father ordering the very best treatment the city could offer his wounded son, Thoriol would not have survived. When his chariot passed the shrine in which the ashes of the siege’s dead were entombed, he thought how easily his remains could be there, lying with Baelian and all the others who had been slain defending Tor Alessi.
The asur had extended the walls after that. The dwarfs had tried to attack since, but never in such numbers as when Morgrim Elfdoom had come howling at the gates. Never again had the dawi managed to batter their way into the city. New battlements had been raised two hundred yards before the old walls, a great curtain of stone and mortar twenty feet thick at its base and sixty feet high. Between the curtain and the old wall was a killing field especially prepared for any dwarf who managed to force his way through. Devoid of even so much as a shrub to hide under, the grassy expanse between the walls had been carefully measured so that archers posted on the inner wall could immediately know the distance to any target from where they stood and loose their arrows with unwavering precision.
There was no question in anyone’s mind that the dawi would come again. The dwarfs were a stubborn, vindictive people. They could accept no compromise and wouldn’t
abandon a grudge. They’d come again and again and again. Most everyone in Tor Alessi was resigned to the fact. Many felt the only way they could ever know peace was if the dwarfs were completely exterminated. Even the once passive Lady Aelis, ruler of Tor Alessi, shared that sentiment. After meeting with her, Thoriol realised that his mother had one less ally in the colonies. Yethanial would need to cast her net farther afield if she thought she’d find support for her position in Elthin Arvan. For the colonists, the dreams of building a new life were too grand to sacrifice for a peace that could only come by destroying those same dreams.
It was late in the evening before Thoriol was able to extricate himself from the gauntlet of receptions and soirees that were held in his honour. It was somewhat ironic that Lady Kelsei, now commander of the colonial armies, was barely feted at all by the nobles of Tor Alessi. Tomorrow, tomorrow they would repent not extending full courtesies to her, but this night all they could think of was the hero of the hour.
The hero who as yet had accomplished nothing greater than simply staying alive.
Every passing moment spent among the festivities, listening to the people of Tor Alessi toast his health and express their gratitude had felt like an eternity to Thoriol. They weren’t celebrating him; they were celebrating the shade of his father.
That couldn’t have been made clearer to Thoriol than with the quarters he had been given. He had been afforded one of the smaller towers, some distance from the Tower of the Winds where the Council of Five gathered, and where Kelsei would have her headquarters. Thoriol knew this building quite well, it was as vivid in his memory as his mother’s home in Tor Vael, or his father’s citadel in Kor Evril. This was the place Imladrik had taken for his own when he arrived in Tor Alessi. It had been kept as a memorial to him ever since.
The locals called it the Tower of the Dragon.
