This would be recompense. This would be retribution.
She halted before the doors, watching the timbers vibrate from the impact of the ram. The asur soldiers clustered in her wake, weapons drawn, faces torn between duty and doubt.
Liandra had no doubt. For the first time in a long time she knew exactly what to do.
‘Ravallamora telias heraneth!’ she cried, raising her staff high.
The doors exploded into a welter of light and heat, blasting the shards back and sending the dwarfs on the far side tumbling down the stairway. Sunlight flooded in, dazzling after the shade of the tower.
Liandra charged out, her staff ringing with power, her eyes shining. Behind her came the rest of the troops.
She looked out over Oeragor’s ruined towers, and smiled.
‘Fighting together, you and I,’ she breathed. ‘It was always meant to be.’
Imladrik leapt back as Morgrim swung his axe. The swipe was barely controlled — a vicious lunge that nearly sent the dwarf stumbling forwards.
Imladrik backed away warily. For all the hours of flying he felt fresh and in control. Morgrim looked exhausted. To reach Oeragor after the fighting at Tor Alessi he must have marched without pause for days. He had already endured heavy fighting under the punishing heat. Yet, somehow, he was still on his feet.
‘You want the honour of killing me yourself,’ he said, watching Morgrim come at him again. ‘Is that it?’
Morgrim grunted, breathing heavily. ‘It is not about honour any more.’
He swung again, moving surprisingly quickly, getting the axe-edge within a few inches of Imladrik’s body.
‘It is always about honour,’ said Imladrik, sidestepping easily. He kept his feet moving fluidly, letting his opponent do the work. ‘That is the one thing we share.’
‘We share nothing!’ raged Morgrim, breaking into a charge and switching his axe back suddenly.
Imladrik was forced into a parry, the impact nearly making him gasp. The strength in Morgrim’s blows was incredible.
‘You are sure about that?’ asked Imladrik, pulling his blade away before pressing in close, trusting to the speed of his movements. He battered a few blows across Morgrim’s armour before the dwarf pulled away, head lowered.
‘You ride those creatures,’ Morgrim spat. ‘You goad them to war. They’re vermin. Their minds are poison.’
Imladrik held guard watchfully. Getting through Morgrim’s armour would be a challenge — it was all-encompassing, a masterpiece of craftsmanship.
‘You should have listened at Tor Alessi,’ he said. ‘I warned you. Damn you, Morgrim, I warned you.’
Morgrim growled, and broke back into a lumbering charge. The two of them exchanged furious blows, one after the other, the steel of their blades sending sparks cascading around them. Imladrik ceded ground, pace by pace, retreating back towards the prone form of Draukhain.
‘And I listened!’ roared Morgrim. ‘By my beard, I listened! That is now my shame.’
Imladrik held his ground, digging in. The blades locked again. This time Morgrim gave ground first. Even his mighty arms, it seemed, were capable of exhaustion.
‘Your shame is right here,’ panted Imladrik. ‘You wanted blood-debt for your cousin, and now you have it.’
‘Do not mention him.’
Imladrik parried a fresh thrust and returned a low strike. ‘Why not? He blinds you still?’
Morgrim was wheezing now, rolling into contact like a drunken prize-fighter. He said nothing more but worked his axe harder, probing for the way through Imladrik’s defence.
‘You stubborn soul!’ spat Imladrik. ‘Snorri has gone. He was a fool, just as his killer was a fool.’
They rocked back and forth, trading more blows. Imladrik had to marvel at Morgrim’s endurance. Ifulvin nearly buckled under one spiteful lunge, the steel bending under the force of it.
‘We had a chance,’ Imladrik said, breathing hard. ‘We could have done better. I told you the truth.’
Morgrim fell back, gasping, his axe held low. ‘I watched what your animals did,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘You were riding one, so do not preach to me about restraint.’
Then he ploughed into the attack again. The blows were brutal, hurried, devastating. Imladrik fell away, working hard not to be overwhelmed.
‘This land is death for you now, elgi,’ Morgrim grunted. ‘All of you. It will never stop.’
The duel stepped up in intensity. The twin weapons whirled around one another — the axe-blade cumbersome but crushing, the sword-edge rapid but lighter. None intervened, and still Draukhain did not stir, though the city continued to burn around them — a funeral pyre of old hopes.
Imladrik pressed the attack again, his blade blurring with speed. He hammered Morgrim back again, rocking the dwarf on to his heels.
‘Caledor will never surrender,’ he warned, his voice strained with effort. ‘Do you truly think you can kill a Phoenix King?’
Morgrim shorted his disdain. ‘His death will end this. Nothing else.’
‘And mine?’
‘I kill you because I have to. I will kill Caledor for pleasure.’
Imladrik smiled coldly. ‘You will have neither.’
He pivoted on his heel, building momentum for a savage crossways swipe. At the last moment he adjusted the trajectory, ducking his blade under Morgrim’s lifting guard. Ifulvin cut deep into the dwarf’s armour, catching on the chainmail between shifting plates.
Morgrim staggered, and his axe fell by a hand’s width. Imladrik hammered another blow in, denting a gromril plate. Ifulvin whirled, moving now with terrible velocity and smashing Morgrim back by another pace. The dwarf’s breathing worsened, his head lowered. More strikes scythed down, bludgeoning him back through the dust, nearly causing him to sprawl on his back. Blood splattered across the stone, thick as tar.
It was merciless. None of the assembled dawi moved a muscle — they watched, stony-faced, as their lord was driven across the courtyard. Imladrik kept up the pressure, fighting with peerless artistry, the sun flashing from his helm.
He smashed Morgrim’s defence aside with a brutal side-stroke, then rotated his glittering blade on its length, hoisting it over Morgrim’s reeling body and holding it point-down. He angled it at the dwarf’s shoulder, both hands on the hilt, ready to drive.
As he did so, Draukhain stirred at last, his bloodied head lifting from the rubble of the wall. A wave of hot, bitter air rolled out from his tangled body as he shook his neck, his great eyes cloudy.
The runes of Morgrim’s axe suddenly flared. The angular grooves in the metal blazed red-hot amid the bloody patina of the blade. His whole armour surged with power, as if kindled by the awakening of the dragonsoul.
Imladrik plunged Ifulvin down, powering it with all his strength. Morgrim thrust in return, shoving Azdrakghar upwards with both hands, and flames licked along the edge of the blade.
The twin weapons met in a crash of light. A ripple of force shot out from the impact, stirring the dust from the flags. With a crack like ice breaking, Ifulvin shattered. Imladrik felt the force of it radiate up his arms, hard as a hammer on an anvil. He pulled back, amazed, his hands shaking from the impact.
Morgrim roared back at him, heedless, his axe still intact and glowing blood-red. The runes burned like torches. Imladrik saw the blow coming in and desperately jabbed his broken blade in its path, but Ifulvin was swatted aside, its power broken. Morgrim’s whole body shook with raw heat-shimmer, a vision of rune-magic unlocked.
Somewhere close by, Draukhain was roaring in thunderous frustration, his coiled body still pinned by wreckage. Imladrik felt the dragon’s anger and pain and could have wept from it.
Weaponless, all he could do was watch the axe-head sweep around again, propelled by Morgrim’s blind savagery. Its curved edge punched deep into Imladrik’s midriff, cutting through the silver armour with a flash of rune-energy. The bite was deep. A wash of pain crashed through him, numbing his limbs. Morgrim pushed the blade in deeper, tearing through muscle.