by Nick Kyme
‘I am as low as I can get.’ Krondi attempted to stoop further, but a sharp pain in his knee prevented him sinking much more than another inch or two.
Evidently dissatisfied, the crow-king squawked again, ‘Rundin, help this dawi show the proper obeisance.’
Krondi glared up under his eyebrows, muttering an oath. The hill king stared back, bird-like and imperious. Something glittered in his dark little eyes. It might have been pleasure.
A heavy-armoured dwarf behind Krondi put a meaty hand on his shoulder. It felt like a mason’s block. Leaning, exerting a little pressure as he did so, the warrior whispered into Krondi’s ear, ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ and pushed.
Failing to hide a grimace, Krondi sank another half a foot.
‘Am I to kneel or genuflect?’ he grumbled under his breath.
‘Better,’ said the king. ‘Now rise.’
The dwarf called Rundin tried to help him back up, but Krondi shook off his hand. ‘I can manage well enough,’ he snapped, to which the other dwarf merely nodded and stepped back. ‘And he is not my king,’ he hissed between his teeth.
Skarnag Grum sat upon a gilded throne. A long stairway of stone steps led up to it, crested by a circular dais engraved with runes. Beringed fingers, festooned with gems, clacked loudly against the golden arms of the throne as the king vented his impatience. A jewel-encrusted gold crown sat upon his head, so large and grandiose his neck was braced with an aureate gorget to support it.
Though his gilded trappings, his armour and royal vestments shone, the king did not. Unlike most of the other hill dwarfs, Skarnag Grum’s skin was pale and waxy. Krondi fancied if held up to the light of a lantern you would see his bones and organs through the thin parchment of his flesh.
Overlong nails and black-rimed teeth spoke of matters occupying the king’s mind that exceeded the necessity for personal grooming. Even his beard, also festooned with gems and ingots of precious metals, was unkempt.
Apart from his warrior protector, Krondi and the king were alone in the grand hall of Kazad Kro. Like its liege-lord it was opulent, with tall shining columns of stone and a wide aisle of silver flagstones that led to the vaulted throne itself. Banners and tapestries lined the walls, hinted at by the flickering embers of brazier pans suspended from the high ceiling on gold-plated chains. Furs and silks lay strewn in a penumbral gloom not so far removed from the dwarf halls beneath the mountains, though some of the materials were distinctly elven in origin.
Krondi’s warrior instincts had not been completely dulled by his time as a merchant under Nadri Gildtongue and though he could not see them, he felt the presence of further guards lurking in the darkness and knew then why the hill king had devised his hold hall in this way.
‘Speak then,’ said Grum, wafting his hand disinterestedly in Krondi’s vague direction. ‘Time is precious, dawi.’
Krondi was still trying to work out if the hill king had meant the last word as an insult when he cleared his throat and said in a loud voice, ‘Let it be known, on this day did–’
‘No, no, no,’ snapped the king, scowling and slashing a clawlike hand through the air as if to cut Krondi off from speaking further. ‘No declarations, no oaths or grudgement.’ He exhaled, as if already tired of the exchange when it had barely begun. ‘You have come from Zakbar Varf, yes?’
Shocked at the hill king’s flagrant disregard for the accepted tradition of voicing a grievance, Krondi nodded mutely.
‘And you claim to have been cheated by elgi merchants?’
Krondi found his voice. ‘They said they were weaponsmiths, and it is no claim. It’s true, my lord.’
‘Liege.’
Krondi frowned. ‘Your pardon, my lord?’
‘I am a king, High King of the Skarrenawi, and thus you will address me as liege.’
Taking a deep breath, Krondi said, ‘Yes, I was cheated, my liege, and as Zakbar Varf is an outpost of the skarrenawi I have come to seek reckoning against the elgi.’
Dutifully silent until that moment, Rundin stepped forwards to speak on the merchant’s behalf. ‘I believe there is a case for grudgement here, my king, and can have our reckoners ready in the hour.’
Grum shook his head to dismiss the idea. ‘Not necessary,’ he said, then eyed the other dwarf sternly. ‘Explain to me how you were duped, dawi. What did the elgi do that was so heinous you feel the need to disturb me in my hall and demand restitution? Eh?’
Krondi flushed with anger, but kept his temper. In his battlefield days he had killed for lesser slights against his honour. Shucking off a laden pack he carried on his back, he kneeled and unfurled a leather satchel of blades.
Grum recoiled, scowling. ‘You dare bring weapons into my hall!’
Rundin interceded again. His hands were raised and he glanced at the darkness behind the throne, giving the slightest shake of the head to the guards Krondi now knew were posted there.
‘These are just his wares, my king.’ He looked down at the assorted blades, hammers and hafts. ‘And a poor lot at that.’
Krondi nodded to the other dwarf, finding him to be honourable and just, much more so than his king at any rate.
‘Gold exchanged hands, much of it,’ said Krondi, inadvertently piquing the hill king’s interest, ‘for what was a clutch of battered swords, spears and arrows.’
The weapons were certainly well worn, with chipped blades and blunted heads. Little better than battlefield leavings, it was hard to conceive of why even the most naïve of traders would part with coin for such a sorry cache.
‘Did you not inspect them before purchase?’ asked Grum, incredulous.
‘Of course.’ Krondi lowered his voice at an unspoken rebuke from Rundin. ‘Of course,’ he repeated more calmly, ‘but they did not look as this.’
‘Then how is it that they do now?’
‘What else?’ Krondi said, nonplussed at the hill king’s failure to grasp his meaning. ‘Sorcery. Elgi magic. They enchanted the blades to make them appear to be priceless artefacts.’
Grum tutted. There was more shaking of the head, much stroking of his lank beard. A small gold coin had appeared in his left hand and he was rolling it across his knuckles.
‘A bad business,’ he conceded, ‘for which you have my sympathies.’ Grum beckoned to the shadows. Four burly dwarfs in heavy armour and full-faced helms emerged into the hall.
‘Agreed,’ said Krondi, ‘so what is to be done about it?’
The throne bearers were already lifting the opulent hill king and his throne off the ground when Grum turned to the merchant with a confused expression and said, ‘Nothing. Fools beget what they beget. I will not waste coin on sending reckoners on a pointless errand. Do I look profligate to you, dawi?’
‘Thievery has been done to me!’ Incredulous at what he was hearing, Krondi stepped forwards, only for Rundin to impede his path. Instead, he shouted over the warrior’s massive armoured shoulders. ‘Grudgement must be made…’ Krondi scowled as the king was slowly led away and called after him, ‘If not against the elgi then against you, Skarnag Grum.’
The hill king raised his hand and the bearers stopped.
‘Heed this warning, dawi. Do not return to Kazad Kro and do not threaten me with grudgement in my own halls. Begone, or I will have you thrown out of my gates and off my rock.’
‘The reckoners shall hear of this,’ Krondi vowed, marshalling his anger but only barely. ‘I shall seek the counsel of the High King of Karaz-a-Karak.’
Grum’s bearers were moving again, the king’s voice growing fainter as they disappeared down the long hall towards his private chambers. ‘Do so with my blessing, for Kazad Kro will not hear your grievances further. Rundin,’ he called, ‘I am retiring to my counting house. Escort the dawi out.’
Rundin was about to oblige when Krondi snarled at him.
‘Lay hands on me and it’
ll be the last thing you do.’
Palms up, Rundin said, ‘Leave without a fuss and there’ll be no need to.’
Krondi had his back to him when he replied. ‘How you can serve a king such as Grum I cannot fathom. All dawi are greedy and selfish bastards, but he is something worse.’
‘He is my king,’ said Rundin.
‘If that is the best you can say of him, you are being loyal to the point of blindness.’
At that Krondi stalked out of the hall.
Rundin was left alone with his thoughts. Silent as a tomb in the grand hall, the distant chink of coins being counted in King Grum’s treasure room clanged brashly. Beneath it, running as an undercurrent, was another sound. At first it was difficult to place, but Rundin listened hard and was rewarded. Laughter. It was laughter that he heard. Just the odd chuckle, a half-stifled giggle but which soon gave way to raucous hooting and guffawing.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Wrath and Ruin
Skirting the Worlds Edge, the caravan of wagons was deep into the mountain passes now. Despite the fact he rode out ahead of Nadri, Krondi could ill-afford the detour to Kazad Kro especially when it had yielded nothing. His coffers were all but empty, wasted by elven treachery, and he felt the sting of that indignity worse than a dagger in his gut.
Driving the mules hard, he was determined to at least ensure his passenger reached Karaz-a-Karak in good time.
Perhaps it was his obsession with achieving that goal, or possibly some residual anger from his meeting with Skarnag Grum though it was days old, that blinded Krondi to the fact that he had strayed into the sights of a predator. Three days out of the domain of the hill dwarfs and he finally realised they were being tracked.
Cursing himself for ignoring the signs and allowing his good instincts to be clouded by selfish concerns, Krondi turned to his charge who was sitting quietly alongside him in the lead wagon.
‘We are being followed,’ he said. Krondi glanced over his shoulder, but all he could see was the lengthening shadows of the slowly dipping sun. Nightfall was not far off and they were too far away from Everpeak to reach it before the light died completely. Krondi did not want to still be on the road when that happened.
The old hooded dwarf beside him grunted something, appearing to ignite the smoking root in the cup of his pipe with his finger.
Hailing one of the guards riding at the back of the wagon, Krondi said, ‘Keep a sharp eye behind us. I don’t think we are alone out here.’
Durgi frowned, gesturing to the twenty or so warriors that rode on the four wagons. ‘Only a fool would attack such a well-defended caravan.’
‘That is what concerns me. A sharp eye, remember,’ Krondi told him, pointing to his eye before returning both hands to the reins.
They were approaching a rocky gorge. High-sided and narrow, it would funnel the wagons into a tight cordon, an ideal position for an ambush. Krondi tried to search the highlands at the summit of the gorge for signs of warriors. There were only craggy boulders and rough gorse bowing gently in the wind.
He muttered, ‘Something doesn’t feel right.’
On the path laid before them the wagons would be exposed but at least they would have room to manoeuvre if needed. Through the narrow defile of the gorge they’d be sheltered from the flanks but vulnerable to an attack from above. Making any sort of camp in this terrain was out of the question, so the two choices remained.
Take the path or travel through the gorge?
Krondi chewed his beard then said, ‘These mountains are my home. I know them as I know my own skin. So, why then do I fear them all of a sudden?’
‘Do you wish me to answer, beardling?’ asked the old dwarf with a voice like cracking oak.
‘Something hunts us,’ said Krondi, urging the mules to greater effort. ‘And anything bold enough to attack a party of over twenty armoured dawi in their own lands is something I do not wish to fight.’
‘We won’t reach Karaz-a-Karak,’ said the old dwarf, ‘not before they catch us.’
Krondi turned to the hooded dwarf sitting next to him smoking his pipe. His eyes grew a little wider. ‘So I am not imagining it. We are being followed.’
‘Have been for miles, lad.’
Krondi was incredulous. ‘Why didn’t you say something?’
‘What good would that do? Kill us quicker, maybe. No, better to get closer to the hold, better to let them see us and know us for what we are.’
‘Their prey?’ asked Krondi.
Now the hooded dwarf turned and there was fire in his eyes, of forges ancient and forgotten, of jewels that glitter for eternity.
‘No. We are dawi, stone and steel. And we are not afraid. That is what they will see. Strength, lad. Strength and courage of our ancestors.’ The flame in the hooded dwarf’s eyes faded and he added, ‘Slow down, spare the mules or you ride the wagon train into the ground and do our hunters’ job for them.’
Krondi nodded, let his beating heart slow also to a dull hammering in his chest.
‘I have fought in dozens of battles, fought the urk and grobi, trolls and gronti. I am a warrior, not a merchant.’
‘Aye, lad,’ said the hooded dwarf, ‘but this is not a battle. There’s no shield wall, no brother’s shoulder to lock against your own. We are alone out here in the rising dark.’
The mouth of the gorge was approaching, forking off from the main path.
‘What should I do?’
Supping deep of his pipe, the passenger said, ‘It doesn’t matter. Either way, we will have to fight.’
Muttering an oath to Valaya, Krondi took the gorge.
The skryzan-harbark was ruined. It slumped in Heglan Copperfist’s workshop a broken wreck, once a ship and now little more than kindling. Some of the hull had survived intact but the sails had been utterly destroyed, along with Helgan’s dreams, in the crash.
Under threat of expulsion from the guild, Master Strombak had commanded him to break the vessel down, strip it for parts, but faced with the reality of that Heglan was finding it hard to imagine such a formerly magnificent creation rendered into anything so prosaic as a stone thrower or heavy ballista. It would be an easy task, Heglan was gifted as an engineer, but that was also why he railed against the fetters of tradition the guild shackled him with.
His entire workshop was littered with designs, plans sketched with sticks of charcoal depicting various flying vessels he one day hoped to build. Incredibly detailed, each parchment schematic was filled with calculations, formulae for wind speed and velocity, theories on loft and chemical equations related to steam and pressure.
Of the engineers, Heglan was the only one to have fitted his workshop with a vast skylight. He had fashioned the glass himself and the massive aperture sat above the wreckage of his airship, letting in the sun to expose its many wounds. Shadows intruded on the scene as Heglan scrutinised through a pall of pipe smoke. Sharp, hooked beaks, arrow-straight wingspans and the suggestion of talons created a fearsome menagerie of silhouettes. Alongside his engineering endeavours, sitting between his many racks of tools, his cogs and half-built machineries, his oils and ropes, nails, bolts, screws, chisels, planes and work benches was his feathered host.
Here Heglan had created an aviary of the creatures of the sky he so wished to emulate. Preserved, meticulously posed and stuffed, there were hundreds. Often he had ventured in the low lands at the edge of the hold or taken a grubark out towards the ocean in the south. Dead birds were a common sight. Heglan had gathered them, studied their musculature, their pinions and the composition of their feathers. A notebook, bound in boar hide, was almost filled to the hilt with his scratched observations and sketches.
‘It should have worked,’ he muttered bitterly to an uncaring gloom. ‘It should have flown.’ He approached the wreck. In his tool belt he had a large hammer and a heavy-headed axe for the demolition. Running his
hand over the hull, he winced every time he felt a crack or encountered a splinter. Rigging had broken apart like twine, masts snapped like limbs. The stink of spilled grog reeked heavily and spoiled the lacquering of the wood in places.
Shadow eclipsed most of the airship’s remains. Heglan kept many of the lanterns doused, lighting just enough in order to work. Cloud obscured the sun and any luminescence that might penetrate the skylight. Heglan preferred it this way. Darkness salved his thoughts and his stung pride.
Nadri had accomplished so much, earning the respect of his guild, his hold and the dwarfs of other holds beyond Barak Varr’s borders. Heglan was an engineer, a vaunted profession for any dwarf, but had thus far not achieved his potential. With their father Lodri dead and grandfather Dammin cold in his tomb, it mattered more than ever to honour them. Both brothers felt this keenly, and Nadri had remarked upon it when he had left Barak Varr to try and catch Krondi and the caravans.
‘Sons are destined to bury their fathers, Heg,’ he had said. ‘It’s only war that turns that around.’
Heglan had his head in his hands. ‘I’ve shamed them this day with my hubris.’
Nadri gripped his brother’s shoulders, made him look up. ‘Be proud of what you have achieved. You honour them. You will have your moment, Heg. Determination is what made the Copperfist clan what it is this day. Do not forget that. Do not give in to despair, either. We are dawi, stout of back and strong of purpose. We are the mountains, enduring and unyielding. Remember that and you will be remembered, just as they are.’
He gestured to the talisman around Heglan’s neck. It was the exact simulacrum of the one that Nadri also wore. Upon it were wrought the names of Lodri and Dammin, a son and father.
Heglan nodded, relieved from his torpor by his brother’s words of support.