by C. L. Werner
‘It is lucky you chose to check on me when you did,’ Caradryel said.
The White Lion shook his head. ‘It wasn’t luck, my lord. We were conducting a messenger to see you.’ He nudged the corpse of Hulviar with his foot. ‘Lord Hulviar said he would awaken you, but the messenger said his report couldn’t wait. It was at his insistence that we came when we did.’
Caradryel looked past the guards to the doorway. Once again he was shocked to recognise a visitor. First an assassin proved to be Lord Hulviar, then a messenger was revealed to be Lord Athinol.
The highborn bowed as he stepped towards the bed. ‘Forgive my intrusion, but the tidings I bear are of the utmost urgency.’ He looked down at Hulviar. ‘Maybe more urgent than any of us know. A fleet has been spotted sailing out from the Sea of Chill. A fleet of black sails and floating fortresses. A druchii fleet.’
The news sent a thrill of horror through Caradryel. He stared down at Hulviar. At first he’d thought the seneschal had tried to murder him in accord with some orders Caledor had left behind. Now he knew it was a different master Hulviar had served. Not all who believed in Malekith’s right to the Phoenix Crown were druchii. There were still some in the ten kingdoms who thought the Witch King was their rightful lord and master. How carefully Malekith must have plotted to get one of these traitorous asur so close to Caledor. Hulviar, always at the king’s shoulder, dispensing his poisoned advice and encouraging the king’s excesses.
The War of the Beard, this thoughtless, wasteful conflict with the dawi – It was nothing but a scheme concocted by Malekith to weaken Ulthuan, to give him time to rebuild his forces and invade. While the asur struggled against the dawi, the druchii had been given the time to build their ships and armies. Feigning weakness, pretending to be on the verge of defeat, Malekith had hidden his real strength until now, until the moment when Ulthuan was most vulnerable.
‘There is no time to waste,’ Caradryel declared. ‘All defences must be readied against invasion. I’ll need a fast ship and a dependable crew. The king must be informed and he must bring the army back from Elthin Arvan.’
High King Gotrek stood on the broken battlements of the outer wall, facing towards the yet unconquered city. It was the third time that the king had climbed up onto the structure and addressed the enemy inside the city. In the two weeks since the arrival of the Phoenix King, the dawi had yet to catch a glimpse of the hated Caledor. By his display, Gotrek wanted to let both dawi and elgi alike know that he wasn’t afraid to show himself, unlike his foe.
‘A hundred-weight of gold shall be the price for Karak Hirn. A hundred-weight of gold shall be the price for Karak Izor. A thousand-weight of gold shall be the price of Barak Varr.’ High King Gotrek’s voice boomed out from Tor Alessi’s ruined battlements, hurled like a spear at the city before him by the great brass horns into which he spoke. Some connivance of the engineers’ guild had led to the crafting of the device, an invention to both magnify and project the king’s voice.
It was the third time, too, that Gotrek had read his demands –demands for the wergild that the dwarfs would have from the elgi. There had been no response to his prior readings, only the defiant silence of the inner wall and the city beyond.
As he read through the list, Gotrek stared up at the great towers of Tor Alessi, blackened by the smoke of war, cracked by the few stones that had managed to strike them. Above each of the spires flew the hated banners of the Phoenix King. From across the whole of the Karaz Ankor, Gotrek’s subject kings had come, seeking restitution from the elgi. Only Varnuf of Karak Eight Peaks and Zar of Karak Zorn had failed to come. The kings had spent days debating how much wergild to demand from the elgi and how great should be the share of each stronghold. It had been a tedious process and one in which the king placed no faith.
The elgi would pay no ransom, no restitution. The only thing to be gained by such talk had already been accomplished – the gathering of a throng vast enough to tear down the city with their bare hands. By coaxing the other kings to Tor Alessi, Gotrek had assembled an army unlike anything seen since the days of Snorri Whitebeard.
It was an army that would bring him not gold, but the head of the elgi king.
Gotrek finished reading his list of demands and turned away from the array of horns. He saw the kings of the dawi waiting for him below, their expressions eager, goldlust smouldering in their eyes. Much nearer to him was his nephew Morgrim. His expression was far less eager. The High King hadn’t been able to deceive his heir about his intentions.
‘Ready the grudge throwers,’ Gotrek told Morgrim. ‘And tell Morek… Tell him he may do as he judges necessary.’
The last remark made Morgrim wince more than when the wound in his side pained him. ‘There must be another way.’
Gotrek sighed and ran his fingers through his beard. ‘There is. We can sit here for months, maybe years, trying to break the elgi. We can’t starve them out – they’ll just get supplies from the sea, so it will mean wearing them down, stone by stone. That will mean more dawi sent to wander the halls of their ancestors.’
‘The elgi might pay,’ Morgrim suggested. ‘But would that satisfy you?’
‘No,’ the king confessed. ‘But if the elgi pay, I am now obligated to accept. I have to abide by my word to them. To do less would be… like breaking an oath.’ Gotrek pointed at the city, waving his finger at it. ‘They won’t pay,’ he declared. ‘Their king is too arrogant for that. He’d sooner see his whole kingdom burn than admit weakness. Such is the way of boastful braggarts with more pride than brains.’
Gotrek locked eyes with Morgrim. ‘See that the grudge throwers are ready. Remind the crews of their targets. We’ll give the elgi until sunset to answer our demands, then I will order the attack. The kings of the Karaz Ankor will simply have to content themselves with whatever plunder they can loot from the rubble when we’re through.
‘Tor Alessi will fall and the Phoenix King will die,’ Gotrek decreed, clenching his fist. ‘By Grungni and Grimnir, I’ll hear Caledor draw his last breath and watch the light fade from his eyes.’
The council chamber of the Tower of the Winds was filled with the great and powerful of Tor Alessi – the nobles, mages, priests and warlords who commanded the respect and fealty of the asur colonists. Their numbers had been swelled by the generals and highborn who had made the voyage from Ulthuan with the Phoenix King. Lady Aelis sat in the old seat from which she had once adjudicated Elthin Arvan’s Council of Five. Now, of course, her authority was superseded by that of Caledor. The king made that much immediately clear. Aelis called the meeting right after Gotrek issued his demands, but Caledor had kept them waiting until well into the afternoon before making his appearance and initiating the conference.
‘If you were to pay the dawi, we could earn concessions from them. They would withdraw to their mountains and leave us to our lands,’ Aelis appealed to the king.
From the high throne of Tor Alessi’s council chamber, the same chair that had once been occupied by his brother Prince Imladrik, King Caledor scowled down at Lady Aelis. She had ever been too timid of temperament for the war, an asset that had been exploited by the barrage of generals the king had sent to the colonies over the years. The fact that she saw opportunity in the dwarf demands was something that seemed to Caledor to border on complete idiocy.
‘You would have us pay these animals for burning our cities and killing our people?’ Caledor’s tone was sharp enough to cut steel. ‘And what happens the next time one of their mud-eating wretches stubs his toe crossing our lands? Do we bend our knee and pay another ransom to these brutes?’ He shook his head, incredulous at the idea. ‘Are we the children of Asuryan? Are we the proper masters of the world? Are we the asur? Or are we dogs to grovel and cringe at the grumbling of a mole-king?’ Caledor smacked the flat of his hand against the arm of the throne. ‘By all the gods, we will not pay this bastard or his dirty mob of badgers. He
’ll get no gold from me, only steel!’
‘Then what, my liege, are your plans to lift the siege? The dwarfs have had us encircled for almost a year and show no signs that they intend to leave of their own accord.’ The question came from Lord Ilendril. The grey lord had arrived at the meeting of Tor Alessi’s high and mighty arrayed in his finest cloak and robes, resplendent in the finery his exile in Elthin Arvan had enabled him to acquire. He’d wanted to attract the king’s attention by displaying his wealth and prestige. As he felt the king’s eyes turn to him, Ilendril immediately regretted his decision. The monarch’s gaze was like having a dagger pressed to his throat.
‘My plans are just that,’ the king growled. ‘Mine. Do not think that I have not heard your claims of mastery over the dragons. It reminds me that my father cast you out of Ulthuan for such ideas. It reminds me that when Prince Thoriol, my nephew and heir, lay alone and bleeding on the battlefield, you and your wyrm flew away. I wonder, then, Lord Ilendril, are you a charlatan? Is your mastery perhaps less firm than you claim? I would hope such is the case. It would pain me to think that you abandoned my heir of your own accord.’ The king sneered as he watched the arrogant poise wilt off Ilendril’s face. ‘Your beast is undependable, Ilendril. Your role in my plans is to safeguard the refugee ships. See if you can manage at least that much.’
Thoriol looked up at his uncle from where he sat among the Council of Five, in the seat that had once been Lord Gelthar’s. ‘Refugees? Do you mean to abandon Tor Alessi?’
Caledor laughed. ‘Not one inch are we abandoning to these moles,’ he declared. ‘But we will evacuate the city. My warriors will fight better without the confusion of panicked civilians getting in their way. The people will be moved to the ships and taken to Sith Remora or some other settlement.’ A cunning gleam shone in his eye as he raised one finger. ‘But they won’t be the only ones to leave. Under cover of the evacuation, half the warriors I’ve brought will likewise board ships. They will sail a few leagues down the coast, far enough to be beyond the notice of the dwarfs. Then they will make landfall and march with all haste to assault the besiegers from the rear. As soon as the attack is under way, I will lead a sally from Tor Alessi. The mud-eaters will be caught between us.’ Caledor laughed again. ‘It was very obliging of this High King of the short folk to bring so many of his brutish subjects here. It affords us the chance to wipe them out in one go, rather than ferreting them out of their holes in the mountains.’
‘It is unwise to underestimate them, my liege,’ Thoriol warned.
‘Ever the voice of caution,’ Caledor declared. ‘You are much like your father. That is why you shall have the honour of leading the contingent that takes the dwarfs from behind. I can depend on your judgement. If you do not think there is a real chance for success, then you are to hold back. Unless your forces attack, I will keep my troops inside the walls.’
The king’s expression was almost benign as he nodded at Thoriol. ‘Be wary of the dwarfs if you like, but do not let that wariness dull your eyes to the strengths of your own people. A king must have pride in his kingdom if it is to be prosperous.’
Whatever else the king might have said was forgotten as the entire chamber suddenly began to shake. Dust spilled down from the ceiling and cracks snaked across the walls. A dull, monstrous groan shuddered through the Tower of the Winds, almost drowning out the cries of shock and alarm that echoed through the halls.
Caledor’s face was livid as he rose from the throne and brushed marble dust from his hair. He didn’t join the rush of generals and nobles who flocked to the balcony to see for themselves the validity of the screams and shouts sounding all around them.
He’d expected the dwarfs to keep up their demands for wergild a few days more. That would have allowed the king time enough to bring his own schemes to fruition. The one time he needed the brutes to behave like stubborn children, the miserable creatures decided to play against type and take swift action.
‘Aelis!’ Caledor shouted. ‘Get your people to their ships. Thoriol, embark your troops. The filthy beard-sniffers have forced an acceleration of my plans, but the strategy remains the same.’ The king stumbled as the Tower of the Winds was slammed once more by one of the huge projectiles the dwarfs were hurling at the structure. His eyes blazed with outrage as he regained his footing.
‘The dwarfs are so fond of their hammers and anvils – let us see how they like being caught between the two.’
The colossal grudge throwers growled as their arms snapped upright, casting tonnes of stone far into Tor Alessi. Raised by the dawi just behind the outer wall, the immense trebuchets had no shortage of ammunition, hurling rubble from the wall itself at the city. With expert aim, the artillerists lobbed their projectiles at the targets High King Gotrek had chosen for them – the three tallest towers in the city, the soaring spires of Winds, Sea and Dragon. Hundreds of feet higher than their closest neighbours, the towers were readily visible landmarks, ones that the artillerists had spent months demolishing in their imaginations.
Now they were turning that vision into reality.
Gotrek watched with grim satisfaction as the great blocks of stone slammed into the towers, raining rubble and debris into the streets below. With each impact, he could see the hated banners atop the towers tremble. It amused him to think of Caledor himself shivering away inside whatever hole he’d taken refuge in. Wherever it was, the dawi would drag him out into the light of their vengeance. His only real fear was that the elgi king might escape back to his island realm. The grudge throwers were the only weapons that could strike out into the harbour and menace the ships there, but to do so would mean diverting them away from their demolition of the towers, and that was something too crucial to Gotrek’s battle plan.
While a few of the smaller onagers and mangonels attacked the inner wall, they weren’t expected to batter a path for the dawi. Entry to the city would come from a different quarter, but to hold that breach, the dwarfs needed to keep the elgi from rushing reinforcements to the crucial zone.
The key to accomplishing that purpose was an especially satisfying one for the onlooking throngs of dwarfs. The great towers of Tor Alessi would be brought crashing down. So many centuries they had stood firm and defiant, mocking the warriors who waged thirteen sieges against the city. They wouldn’t survive the fourteenth. The grudge throwers would see to that.
While Gotrek watched, one of the massive stone blocks crashed through the walls of the Tower of the Sea. Flashes of light played about the stone moments before it struck, the reaction of the runes etched into each missile by the runelords to dispel any enchantments the elgi cast to try to fend off the attack. As the stone struck, a cloud of dust exploded from the side of the wounded tower. Already holed in half a dozen places, this last impact was too much for the structure. Roaring like a dying god, the Tower of the Sea went crashing down, spilling its tonnes of stone across the outlying district, smashing neighbouring buildings and blocking entire streets with its enormity.
Gotrek turned his gaze from the fallen tower to watch as the attacks continued against the others. The grudge throwers aimed low, trying to cut the buildings off around their bases, ensuring the most destruction possible when they fell. It was a boon to the dawi that elgi construction owed more to aesthetics than durability. Tor Alessi was suffering now for the fragile compromise its people had made between pragmatism and artistry.
The city would fall, Every dawi assembled outside the wall knew it now. As the Tower of the Dragon came crashing down, the demolition was nearly drowned out by the fierce cries of ‘Khazuk!’ that rose from the mighty throng.
Gotrek looked towards the main gate leading into the city, at the strange crater where the elgi mages had destroyed the battering ram. Without knowing it, the enemy had helped the dawi with their sorcery. They’d made the job of bringing down the gate much simpler.
The High King descended from his view on the capt
ured wall, climbing onto the Throne of Power and letting his hearthguard carry him out onto the field.
When the gates fell, he wouldn’t be found lingering at the rear. Gotrek might not be the first inside Tor Alessi, but he was determined that both dawi and elgi would know that the High King of the Karaz Ankor was there for the final battle.
Lord Ilendril fumed as Malok lifted away from the trembling spires of the Tower of the Winds. The arrogance and temerity of King Caledor was a bitter pill to swallow. Far from the glory and acclaim he’d expected for his contributions to the war, he instead was subjected to the king’s suspicious insinuations.
Looking out across Tor Alessi, Ilendril could see the devastation wrought by the Tower of the Sea as it came smashing down. Entire blocks were smashed flat, buildings crushed like bugs beneath a boot. Chunks of masonry, even entire walls were thrown into the air to come hurtling onto the heads of panicked survivors. The evacuation had started, but far from the orderly enterprise Caledor had planned, it was a chaotic rout, mobs of panicked elves streaming to the waterfront, herding themselves onto the ships designated to bear them away. It was only the presence of the Sea Guard that kept them from mobbing the vessels that were to take Thoriol’s army down the coast to attack the dwarfs from behind.
Thoriol’s army! Ilendril struck his fist against Malok’s scaly neck as he thought of the glory and honours that awaited the feeble prince when he led that attack. An unaccomplished, insignificant nobody whose only achievement was being sired by Imladrik. By all the Cadai, it was insufferable. That whelp leading an army while Ilendril was squandered playing nursemaid to a refugee rabble.
Distracted by his ire, Ilendril didn’t notice when his dragon shifted slightly in its flight. His control over the wyrm was almost complete, but there were slight gaps in his domination – limits that Malok had learned over its centuries of enslavement. If the dragon openly defied Ilendril or tried to rebel, the elf would know it in an instant. So the wyrm was much more cautious than that. It knew it couldn’t expose its master to danger, but the same rule didn’t necessarily apply to itself.
