The Great Betrayal

by Nick Kyme

  At this remark, Drogor nodded grimly.

  ‘Aye, there are worse things than sun and jiggers the size of your fist in the endless jungle. Ziggurats that claw at the sky, and beasts…’ He shook his head, as his gaze was drawn far away as if back beneath the sweltering canopy. ‘Like you have never before seen. Creatures of tooth and scale, of leather pinion and tusk, chitinous bone plates that repel crossbow bolts like paper darts.’

  Drogor’s hand was shaking, and Morgrim clutched the fingers to steady it.

  ‘It’s all right, old friend,’ he said, his voice soothing, ‘you are returned to Karaz-a-Karak, but I am surprised you are back at all. How long did you travel from the Southlands to get here? How many long years has it been?’

  Clans Bargrum and Zarrdum had been staunch allies for many decades, across two generations without bloodshed or a grudge made. Miners and fortune hunters, the Zarrdums had left Karaz-a-Karak over twenty years ago and gone south to be reunited with their cousins in the sunny climes of Karak Zorn.

  Finding his composure again, Drogor said, ‘We were many months travelling on perilous roads. Fifty of us ventured out, our pack mules brimming with saurian gold. Of that expedition, I alone remain.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Drogor’s expression darkened further. ‘Having survived the jungle with just under half of my father’s warriors, we reached the borders of Karak Azul.’ His eyes narrowed, remembering ‘Foolishly, we thought we would be safe in the shadow of the mountain but we were wrong. An ambush, old friend. Archers, hidden in the crags and raining steel-fanged death upon me and my fellow dawi. It was a slaughter.’

  Morgrim’s jaw clenched at such perfidy. ‘Cowards…’ he breathed, an undercurrent of anger affecting his voice. ‘How did you survive?’

  At this Drogor hung his head. ‘To my shame, I ran and hid.’

  ‘Dreng tromm… Mercy of Valaya that you lived. There is no shame in retreating from certain death.’

  ‘Then why is it that I wish I had died with my kin?’

  Morgrim gripped the shoulder of his old friend, and exhaled a deep, rueful breath.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said, after some thought. ‘I must meet my cousin outside the Great Hall but then we can find an alehouse and drink to the honour of your slain clansmen.’

  Nodding solemnly, Drogor said, ‘I don’t think I have ever met your cousin, the great prince of the Karaz Ankor. I much look forward to it.’

  ‘I warn you,’ said Morgrim as he left the alcove-chamber, ‘he takes a little getting used to.’

  Drogor smiled. ‘We have time, old friend.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Return of the Prince

  During times of war, a king’s duty to his hold and his peoples is very clear. Conflict against a different race, a different creed unites clans, it brings cultures together. It was no different for the dwarfs. But Gotrek had fought his wars, or so he hoped. He had defeated the greenskins, harried them to the point of extinction and brokered peace between all the clans of the Karaz Ankor. The dark days were over, at least for a while, and had been for many years.

  So, why then did he feel so tired?

  It was with a weary reluctance that he dragged himself from his bed or to his feast halls, or even the alehouses of the chief brewmaster. War made a king lean, sharp like the razored edge of an axe blade. Gotrek felt blunt like a hammer, but without its purpose and directness.

  Though he didn’t want to admit it, especially to himself, peace was wearing him out. Despite his protestations to the other kings who still argued and fought him and each other, he would prefer war but was wise enough to realise the folly of that desire. Weary of constant negotiation and compromise in the search for harmonious co-existence with the elves, he just wanted a good clean fight to blow away the dust he felt gathering between his bones. It provoked a maudlin mood in the High King.

  I am atrophying, becoming a living ancestor bereft of his tomb.

  In the minds of some, he had invited an enemy onto their shores, to camp and build cities outside their holds. Tempers were already frayed. It wouldn’t take much of a spark to ignite something more serious than mere discontent and pugnacious bellyaching.

  War was easy. It was simple, the need obvious. Survive or die. Kill or be killed, they were hackneyed words but with good reason. Truth shouted loudly from every syllable. Give him greenskins or giants, even dragons run amok in the underway, even the Grungni-damned rat creatures he was hearing so much about of late. But not elves, not them, and not peace. At least not one as fragile as this. It was as if their very natures fought against it, that no matter how he reasoned, no concession would ever satisfy the lords of both races.

  Looking over to the only two empty seats on the high council, below and in front of the Throne of Power, Gotrek sagged. One was for his queen, beautiful Rinnana, who had died some sixty-three years ago whilst giving birth. Perhaps that was why the weight fell so heavily upon his shoulders? Shared, it would be halved. As it was, it was an anvil big enough to forge a sword for a giant.

  ‘My love…’ he murmured, and prayed to Valaya to bring him fortitude.

  The other empty place brought a scowl to the High King’s face. His errant son was wayward yet again.

  As if summoned by the thought, a creaking sound invaded the penumbral gloom of the Great Hall as the massive bronze doors yawned open. A quartet of figures entered, striding quickly, armour clanking, down the mosaicked walkway that led all the way to the ancestor runes and the Throne of Power.

  There was a shallow enough gap in the semi-circle of nobles for the late entrants to pass through. None spoke, not even to grumble, during the many minutes it took for the dwarfs to cross the hall. All looked, though, sucking on their pipes thoughtfully, glaring through exhaled smoke.

  Thurbad led the small throng, his face as grim as a thundercloud. He stopped when he reached the ancestor runes and took a knee. Slamming a fist against his armoured chest, he waited for the High King to bid him rise and then announced who he had escorted into the chamber.

  ‘Tromm, High King,’ he said, bowing his head before meeting the king’s gaze again to add, ‘Prince Snorri Lunngrin of Thunderhorn.’

  ‘Tromm, Thurbad.’ Gotrek nodded his respect to the captain of his hearthguard. ‘You may take your place.’

  Snorri stepped forwards from between a pair of silent warriors, crafting a shallow bow that smacked more of rote than respect.

  When he continued forwards, the High King raised his hand.

  ‘Not you, my son,’ he said, fierce and cold as winter storm. ‘You have not earned the right to be by my side.’ He nodded to the back of the semi-circle where room had been left for Skarnag Grum. ‘That’s your place, back there.’

  Snorri looked over his shoulder, and frowned.

  No one spoke. Even the Ancient’s snoring had dulled to a low susurrus of heavy breathing.

  ‘In the seat of the skarrenawi? Thagging hill dwellers?’

  The frown became a scowl.

  Gotrek mirrored it, only his was born of centuries of grudges. He had perfected it, forged it into a weapon to make all but the staunchest vassal lords quail.

  ‘Sit down,’ he said, snarling the words through his teeth. ‘Now, and disrespect me no further.’

  Snorri glared, every inch his father’s son, about-faced and planted himself down in the seat reserved for Skarnag Grum. It took a few minutes to reach the back of the throng, and silence was with the prince during every step. He didn’t speak to the lesser nobles around him when he sat down, he didn’t even look at them. His eyes were on his father, arms folded and brow jutting to display his displeasure.

  Like any good father who is trying to teach a lesson to his son, Gotrek ignored him and turned to his Loremaster instead.

  ‘Missives?’ he asked, requesting any letters or messages from the more d
istant holds unable to attend the rinkkaz.

  Clearing his throat, the Loremaster’s stentorian voice boomed without need of a speaking horn.

  ‘From Krag Bryn, King Drong does send word of elves setting up a colony on the borders of his lands.’

  This brought renewed consternation from certain vassal kings, especially Bagrik of Karak Ungor, which Gotrek silenced by slamming his fist upon the arm of his throne.

  Turning to a fresh page, the Loremaster continued, ‘At Silver Pinnacle, King Borri Silverfoot of Karaz Bryn makes a detailed record.’ The Loremaster waited for permission to relay it, which Gotrek gave him with a nod.

  ‘“More of the grey men were sighted in the southern reaches today, wandering lonely upon the hills and fens that border our hearth and hold. As their numbers grow, so too does my concern at their presence. A dark cloud lingers over the barrows and cairns beyond our walls, where a party of rangers went missing several weeks past. I have instructed the gates to be shut and sealed, the guard doubled at night. No more dawi shall leave my halls come the fall of darkness. Fell winds blow across my lands that reek of death, even in the deep earth we can smell them and are reminded of our own mortality. I pray to Valaya they will soon abate.”’

  The Loremaster looked up from his reading.

  ‘There is nothing further, High King.’

  A perturbed look creased Gotrek’s brow. Beyond sending a message of support, there was little else he could do for the Lord of the Silver Pinnacle.

  ‘Carry on,’ he breathed, still deep in thought.

  ‘Karak Zorn makes mention of riches in the far south where the sun is hot enough to cook a dawi in his armour. Several have fallen to exhaustion and wells have dried up across the hold. Forays into the deeper jungle have encountered “saurian beasts”. A gathering of these creatures is mentioned and an attack upon the hold itself.’

  The crease on Gotrek’s brow deepened. It seemed the dwarfs were assailed by enemies familiar and unknown. At least Karaz-a-Karak and the Worlds Edge were mercifully spared from fighting.

  Shutting his great leatherbound tome, the Loremaster looked up. ‘That concludes all of the missives, High King.’

  ‘Tromm, Loremaster.’ Gotrek switched his attention to the assembled lords, regarding his son with a reproachful glance.

  Some of the kings and thanes had caught the waft of cooked meat, the malty flavour of hops from freshly uncasked ale. Several licked their lips, stomachs groaning in anticipation.

  ‘Business is concluded,’ he declared. ‘The feast halls are prepared. Eat. Drink.’ He shooed them off, as if tired of seeing their faces.

  None took offence, but rather tromped off in their masses to the nearby feast halls, drawn by the emanation of smells.

  Snorri was left alone, sitting before his father and the high council. The young prince was surprised to see Ranuld Silverthumb amongst the venerable dwarfs and glowered when the runelord winked at him.

  ‘Leave us,’ Gotrek said firmly, but with an underlying weariness.

  It took many minutes for the council to depart, during which time Snorri locked his gaze with that of his father. Should the two of them ever attempt a staring competition, a victor would be tough to predict and the contest itself would last for days, perhaps even weeks.

  When they were properly alone, the sounds of merriment echoing distantly from the feast halls, Gotrek beckoned his son to him.

  Fighting to keep his temper, he rasped, ‘Where were you?’

  Snorri’s nostrils flared and he licked his lips. ‘Father, I have been on the road for many hours. My stomach is empty. Can we not discuss my absence before there is nowt but scraps at the feast table?’

  ‘Answer me!’ Gotrek rose to his feet, hands clutching the arms of the throne; their knuckles white, he gripped so hard.

  Snorri was about to when Gotrek raised his finger, stopping him. ‘And I warn you, boy, give me any more of your flippancy and I will come down off this throne and beat some respect into you. I swear to Grungni, I will do it,’ he said, settling back down and speaking more calmly. ‘Now where were you?’

  Snorri swallowed back a lump of trepidation in his throat. ‘In the Ungdrin Ankor, in the hold halls of Karak Krum.’

  The anger returned to the High King’s face, manifesting as a flush of vermillion to his cheeks and nose. His beard bristled.

  ‘That place is forbidden to the dawi.’

  ‘Morgrim and I, we only–’

  ‘With good reason!’ Gotrek bellowed. ‘There are dangers in the dark beneath the world, fell creatures we dawi have no interest or business in provoking.’

  ‘Provoking?’ said Snorri, becoming bolder. ‘The Karaz Ankor is our sovereign territory. We dawi are masters of earth and stone, is that not what you have always told me?’

  ‘Aye, it is, but–’

  ‘Then what do we have to fear of the dark, father? Whatever lurks in the ruins of Karak Krum should be mindful of us, not the other way around.’

  Gotrek was shaking his head, descending the throne. ‘You have much to learn, my son. And do not think I won’t have words with your cousin and his father too, though I know whose idea this little adventure was.’

  ‘I venture beyond our borders because you will not. Every day parts of our hold are surrendered to urk and grobi who have returned in number since the purge. Beneath the halls of Karak Krum, I saw rats, father. Rats! They walked on two legs and spoke with one another.’ Snorri brandished his bandaged hand like a badge of honour. ‘We barely escaped with our lives.’

  ‘Precisely why you must do as I bid, as your king bids.’

  ‘Ignoring the enemies at our gates won’t make them disappear, father. We are besieged, if only you would look beyond your fragile peace with the elgi to see it. Or are we to look to them for our protection now? Resting on past laurels, what would my mother think?’

  Gotrek raised a fist. His teeth were clenched tight as a sprung trap.

  Despite himself, Snorri flinched.

  ‘I am your father, Snorri, but you should choose your next words very carefully indeed.’

  Snorri bowed, and knew he had gone too far. ‘Tromm,’ he uttered. ‘I am sorry, father. I didn’t mean it.’

  Unclenching his hand, letting his arm fall by his side, Gotrek sighed and turned his back. ‘Yes, you did.’

  ‘Please father, I…’

  ‘It’s all right,’ said Gotrek, waving off his son’s protests like they were flies. ‘Do you not think the same thoughts have entered my head?’ His eyes lingered on Rinnana’s empty seat. ‘How I miss her…’

  When he faced Snorri again, there were tears in Gotrek’s eyes but he mastered his voice to stop it from cracking as he put both hands on his son’s shoulders.

  ‘One day the throne will be yours,’ he said, staring into Snorri’s eyes, ‘and I would have it that you’re ready to rule when that day comes. Being king is not about warring and killing, it is about keeping your realm and maintaining peace for as long as you can. It is the hardest thing you’ll ever need to do as king. Killing is easy. Any fool can make war and slay his enemies. Keeping a realm once it is intact is much more difficult. Don’t be so eager to take up axe and hammer, my son. It might be a while before you can put them down again and I can tell you they grow very heavy in that time.’

  ‘I am ready, father,’ Snorri said in a small voice, ‘if you would but see it. There is none amongst all the champions of the holds that can best me with axe or crossbow. Nothing scares me, nothing. I would purge the very Ungdrin Ankor of monsters to prove that I am a leader, a worthy successor.’

  Gotrek let go, and began to pace.

  ‘Have you got chuff in your ears, for I can think of no other reason why you have heard nothing I have said.’

  ‘Father, I have–’

  Gotrek stabbed a finger in the direction of the
feast halls.

  ‘Sitting in there, Varnuf of Eight Peaks covets my throne. He would not seize it or try to take it from me by nefarious means, but nonetheless he believes he would be a better High King than I. He wants war with the elgi because it is popular amongst the other kings, and he also seeks to undermine me at every turn. We dawi are honourable, but we are also envious, greedy creatures. One always wants what another has, be it his gold or his armies, even his hold.’

  ‘Then declare grudgement against him. Tie your beards together and fight Varnuf. Show him who the High King of the Karaz Ankor is. I’ll do it now, father. Challenge him in your name.’ Snorri began to turn.

  ‘No! Do not suggest it. Do not even dare. If the only way a king can maintain order is to pummel his fellow lords into submission, his would be a short rule. Stand down or I shall put you down, by Grungni I swear it.’ Such was the intensity in Gotrek’s eyes that the prince shrank from it and was rooted to the spot.

  Snorri rallied quickly. ‘Can I do nothing that meets your standards, father? Without chastisement and being brought to heel? Ever do my achievements fall short. What must I do to earn your respect?’

  Gotrek sighed again, like he was a bellows and all the air was escaping from within him.

  ‘Not this.’

  ‘Then what? What must a son do to gain his father’s favour? He who vaunts all others above him out of spite.’

  Gotrek had no answer. He dared not speak in case in his anger his words betrayed him.

  ‘You are a great king, my liege.’ There was a grimace of inner pain on Snorri’s face as he spat the words. ‘But you are a poor father.’

  He turned around and stalked from the Great Hall.

  Breathing hard, heart pounding in his chest, Gotrek watched him go.

  It was several moments before he could speak again. When he did, it was to ask a question of the shadows.

  ‘Why won’t he heed me?’

  From the darkness, a smoke-wreathed figure answered.

  ‘He is still young, and burdened with the weight of expectation,’ said Ranuld Silverthumb. Hidden from sight, he watched the prince keenly. ‘Do not be too hard on yourself, my liege.’