by Nick Kyme
‘You’re here because your father, despite his misgivings, believes that peace is something worth fighting for and not over. You are his ambassador, a feat beyond the skills or patience of either of your brothers.’
‘Do not besmirch them,’ she warned.
Candlelight limning the edge of its saurian body, the beast a few feet away from Liandra growled in empathy. It clawed at the earth with its long talons.
Imladrik was not cowed. He had nothing to fear from Vranesh, upraising his palms to placate the princess not her beast.
‘I merely speak plain fact and the truth as I see it, Liandra. Just as I see the dwarfs are a noble race who value heritage, tradition and honour.’
‘Honour? Really?’ She stooped to retrieve a length of thick iron chain that trailed along the ground and into the darkness. ‘Where is the honour in this? The dignity?’
‘The dwarfs built this rookery for us. They cut the earth to allow us–’
‘They dug a hole, Imladrik. A hole. And then they filled it with chains and shrouded it from the sky. Insult is too light a word, confining noble creatures such as this. The dwarfs should be grovelling at their feet.’
‘The High King has organised this brodunk for us, the least we can do is concede to his wishes to see our mounts kept hidden. We are on his lands, these are his people. I can understand his concern.’
Liandra scoffed. ‘You even use their tongue like it is your own. Are you sure you aren’t turning native on us, Imladrik?’
‘I will pretend you did not say that to me, and attribute it to the fact you miss your father and brothers. The dwarfs are a good people. We have much to learn from each other. We are just different, our kind and theirs.’
‘As mud is to air and sky.’
She mounted Vranesh, getting a foothold in the stirrups and propelling her body up into the saddle. Liandra turned to Imladrik, looking down from her lofty position as the roof of the rookery tent was hauled away by ropes like a tarp from the back of a cart and the light flooded in. A host of dragons, drakes and wyrms of all stripe and hue were revealed, chained to the ground and muzzled. Draukhain was amongst them, easily the largest and most magnificent, lowering his neck under the gaze of his master. All did, recognising Imladrik’s mastery and the potency of his dragonsong. Few were left amongst the asur who commanded such respect amongst the dragons. Certainly, none bore his archaic title.
‘It is no wonder that blood has been spilled between us and them,’ said Liandra. ‘The only surprise to me is that it took this long.’
Not waiting for a reply, Liandra whispered a harsh word of command and Vranesh took to the skies. The chain fastening its ankle to the ground broke apart as if it were brittle bone, and the muzzle shattered likewise as the beast uttered a feral roar.
Imladrik watched her disappear into the clouds, an ill-feeling growing in his heart.
‘I am sorry, though,’ he whispered, but wanting to say it out loud, ‘about your mother.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Father and Son
Drogor clapped Snorri on the shoulder from where he sat behind the prince. Since he’d entered the royal pavilion, his father had said nothing to him and this was the first act of recognition the prince had received since taking his seat… aside of course from the High King’s toady, Grimbok. Preened and plucked as ever, the reckoner had been particularly obsequious during the brodunk and cleaved to Snorri’s father’s side like a limpet. Like a narrow-eyed crag-hen, he scoured the clans watching the tournament, his dirty little book of reckoning ever chained to his belt. In fact, he had only averted his gaze from the crowds to give both Snorri and his new friend a withering glare as the prince had joined the royal party.
Mouthing the word ufdi, Snorri had ignored him after that, including his muttered rejoinder. Drogor had laughed. It was a burbling sound that rattled in his gut, but was not so loud that it woke or roused any of the High King’s guests that were sitting with him.
Since making his acquaintance in the drinking hall, Drogor had been Snorri’s near-constant companion over the past few days. Regaling him with tales of Karak Zorn, of scaled monsters that lurked in the torpid jungles of the Southlands and of ziggurats of pure gold that stretched all the way to the sun, Snorri had found his company a welcome respite from Morgrim’s continual lectures about duty and the decency of elves. Several were sat with the High King and did not look best pleased by the fact. Snorri ignored them too.
As Prince Imladrik was the Elf King of Ulthuan’s representative, he was afforded a seat in the royal pavilion but had yet to sit in it because he was still taking part in the brodunk. Along with the presence of the elves, this was another reason for Snorri’s distemper.
At least Morgrim had stopped urging him to heal the rift with his father, which was some small respite, but then he had barely seen him to talk to at length. Other, more conciliatory voices had the prince’s ear now.
‘Saw what you did out there,’ Drogor whispered. ‘That axe throw…’
‘Heh.’ Snorri grinned, enjoying the quiet acclaim. ‘Yes, a little closer than I had intended.’ Given who was sitting nearby, he lowered his voice still further. ‘The elgi moved quicker than I thought.’
‘Not close enough to my unpractised eye, my lord.’
‘I think drawn blood might have put a dampener on the brodunk, Drog.’
A brief pause suggested Drogor thought that would be no bad thing at all.
‘You should be out there competing against the elgi, my lord.’
‘Aye, but I am not.’ Snorri half turned so he could see the other dwarf. ‘And stop calling me “my lord”. It’s overly formal. Use “my prince” instead,’ he said with a wry smile.
Drogor chuckled, but the smile he wore didn’t quite reach his eyes, which glittered like endless dark pools in the dim light of the pavilion. He leaned in closer, pointing across the field to the elven rookery.
‘See there,’ he hissed, ‘the elgi rinn lurking in the darkness?’
Snorri nodded.
‘Not stopped glaring at you or your cousin since she clapped her narrow little eyes on you. What do you think she is saying?’
Surprised that Drogor could even see that far, let alone know it was an elf female that was looking at them, Snorri squinted but couldn’t tell much of anything.
‘How I am supposed to know.’
‘It doesn’t look friendly. She scowls, like she just stepped in something.’
‘Perhaps our rugged earth disagrees with her.’
‘That or the fact she is surrounded by dawi,’ said Drogor. ‘I see the same expression in many elgi faces.’ He glanced askance at the elven lords in the royal pavilion. They appeared too self-absorbed to pay much attention to the High King, let alone any other dwarf sitting with them. ‘I do not think they can be trusted.’
Now Snorri turned all the way around, earning a reproachful glance from his father who was trying to look interested in the brodunk but who had a host of other matters on his mind.
‘What are you saying, Drogor?’ Snorri asked.
‘That elgi and dawi should not mix. We are too different.’
‘Aye, as solid rock to an insubstantial breeze.’ Supping on his pipe, he returned his attention to the battlefield.
‘Bad enough having skarrenawi around.’ Drogor pointed at the champions taking part in the next event, an elf and a hill dwarf Snorri had heard of.
The prince clenched his teeth a little.
‘They are not so bad.’
Rundin Ravenhelm was well known to him. Skarnag Grum had made him his captain and chief reckoner. He seldom left Kazad Kro, on account of the king’s paranoia no doubt. This, then, was a rare occasion. Obviously, Grum had sent him here as his champion to uphold what little honour the hill dwarfs had. Snorri felt his annoyance at his father for barring him from the brodunk anew
– he would have dearly liked to measure himself against this Ravenhelm.
‘Perhaps not,’ hissed Drogor and shrank back into the shadows.
Snorri watched as the elf and hill dwarf readied their weapons, the former carrying a silver longsword and wearing an eagle-winged helm, while the latter bore a finely crafted rune axe and went unhelmeted in lacquered black leather armour.
‘He is bold, for certain…’ muttered the prince and could not help but admire the hill dwarf. Half turning again, Snorri was about to reply to his friend but Drogor was gone.
The air was hot and thick inside the iron forge, drenched with the smell of soot and ash. Morgrim breathed deep of it, letting it fill him like a balm. In the murky depths, he found Morek casting an eye over his warhammer.
After a few words of incantation, a silent rite performed in the air, the runes of the hammer glowed and were still again.
‘What are you doing here, runesmith? Surely the karak has enough metalworkers and foundry dwarfs to run the forges for the brodunk?’
It was true. There were several other dwarf smiths roaming the gloomy confines of the forge, working the bellows and hammering out the dents from the armour and blades of all the combatants. Morek Furrowbrow was the only runesmith.
‘I am here at my master’s behest to deliver the gauntlet to Prince Snorri and ensure its fit was a good one.’
‘I saw it earlier. A fine piece of craftsmanship indeed, but why do you linger now?’ Morgrim sat down on a stone bench and began to take off his armour. It was a slow process, made slower by the fact that every piece coming off his body was accompanied by renewed pain at the battering Imladrik had given him.
‘I merely wanted to watch some of the bouts. Seemed wasteful not to lend my skill in the forge tent. Master Silver-thumb will summon me as soon as he is ready. Then I shall commence my master work.’
Morgrim nodded, satisfied with the runesmith’s explanation.
Morek gripped the hammer’s haft to test the leather bindings, swung it around his wrist a few times gauging its balance and heft. His deftness surprised Morgrim. There was not only forge-skill in the runesmith’s hand. He had the hammercraft of a warrior too.
‘All is well?’ asked Morgrim.
Through the tent flap, the clash of arms sounded again as the next bout began.
‘Solid as ever, the rhuns on the blade potent as the day they were wrought.’
‘You wield it better than I.’
‘I doubt that.’ Morek set the hammer down. ‘But I’ve spent my entire life around weapons. I know something about how to use them.’
‘Indeed you do.’
Morgrim was removing his war helm. Stinging sweat made him blink and he ran a gnarled hand through his soaked hair. Summoned from the healing tent, a priestess of Valaya had entered the forge and waited nearby to provide ministration. Once he was done smoothing his scalp, he beckoned her.
‘It availed me little though, I’m afraid,’ Morgrim told the runesmith as the priestess dabbed his facial cuts with a damp cloth from a bowl of water. ‘I hope I did not dishonour its craft.’
Morek shook his head. ‘Not at all. I saw you fight. The elgi is a fine warrior.’
‘You are one of few other dawi at this brodunk that thinks so.’
‘I know metal and flame, and nothing of the politics surrounding elgi and dawi,’ the runesmith confessed. ‘I saw a little of the rinkkaz but much of it was beyond my grasp to negotiate. Certainly, I do not envy the High King in his task. As dawi, we pride ourselves on tradition and heritage. It is one of the cornerstones of our culture. Tradition it seems must be eased if we are to maintain peace, but many of the lords are stubborn. My master is concerned with legacy and what is left behind for others when he and his kind are gone. I think perhaps that the High King is too.’
Morgrim eyed him shrewdly. ‘You understand more than you think, runesmith.’
Looking up from tending a piece of battered armour, Morek was about to try and mend Morgrim’s shield but discarded it as scrap.
‘You’ll need a fresh shield.’
‘With a shoulder and arm to go with it,’ Morgrim replied, wincing as his pauldron was removed along with the padding and chainmail beneath, an ugly purple bruise revealed beneath all three. ‘He hits like a hammer.’
Once he was no longer armoured, the priestess approached with a bottle of rubbing alcohol to ease Morgrim’s suffering. He stopped her before she could apply it.
‘Waste of grog that, milady,’ he said, and gently took the bottle from her. ‘Use salts instead.’
She did.
Grunting as he eased the stiffness from his back, Morgrim drank a belt of the dirty liquor and grimaced at the taste.
‘Packs a kick like a mule.’
‘You are as unrefined as that ale, Morgrim Bargrum,’ Morek informed him.
‘I am.’
The bruise on Morgrim’s shoulder was ripening nicely as the priestess applied the salts.
‘Do you have another bout?’ asked Morek.
‘Anvil lifting.’
‘Not even the sense you were born with.’ He laughed. It was an all too rare expression in the runesmith that lifted the furrows of his countenance.
Outside the forge tent, a resonant shrieking rent the air as the dragons took flight. Morgrim watched them ascend, fear and awe warring for emotional dominance within him. Through the peeled-back leather flap, it was difficult to see much but he fancied he could make out Imladrik’s beast and the prince saddled on its back. He was like a glittering arrow of silver fire, behind the flight of dragons at first but quickly gaining on the leader before overtaking her and assuming the tip of their formation.
Though he had humbled him in front of his king and peers, Morgrim bore no grudge against Imladrik. The elf had fought fairly and honourably. Again, as he had so many times in recent days, he found Imladrik to be even tempered and moral. Unlike many elves who could be haughty and arrogant, even disdainful, there was much to like about him. It was just a pity that Snorri could not see it.
‘An anvil lifting an anvil, eh?’ he said to Morek, reaching for happier thoughts and looking back over his shoulder.
The runesmith wasn’t listening. Something else, or rather someone else, had got his attention. The frown returned to his brow as his face clouded over.
‘Is that your old friend?’
‘Who?’
‘The dawi from Karak Zorn.’
Morgrim looked but couldn’t see Drogor amongst the crowds.
‘Possibly, though he’s been spending more time with my cousin of late.’
Morek turned to him. ‘With the prince?’
‘Yes, my cousin. That’s what I said.’ Morgrim tried to find Drogor again but it was like looking for chalk dust in an ancestor’s beard. ‘Is something wrong?’
Morek was leaving.
‘My master will be waiting.’
Left alone with the priestess, Morgrim sighed. ‘I’ll never understand runesmiths.’
A commanding voice got Snorri’s attention. ‘Son of mine,’ said Gotrek Starbreaker, not even deigning to glance at the prince, ‘see here a lesson in axecraft.’
Even as the High King spoke, goblins were scurrying into the arena armed with knives and cudgels. Furgil and his rangers had rounded up the creatures, caging them until this very moment.
Sitting a short distance from the High King, Forek Grimbok was busy speaking with the elven lords. Using a mixture of elaborate hand gestures and a halting dialect, the reckoner described to them what was about to happen next. As Snorri listened to the crude bastardisation of Elvish and Khazalid tumble and crash off Forek’s tongue like weighted anvils, he smiled. For a dwarf, Forek sounded like a very good elf.
The reckoner need not have bothered with the convoluted explanation. It was a waste of effort. Snorri
could have explained the outcome of the fight with a single word.
Slaughter.
The elf and the hill dwarf had unsheathed their weapons and went to opposite ends of the arena, the former releasing his longsword with a perfunctory flourish, whilst the latter merely fastened a tight grip around the haft of his axe. Both combatants looked determined on what they were about to do. Despite himself, Snorri found himself admiring the toughness of the elf. He seemed less airy than Imladrik, a warrior not a statesman, a slayer not a conciliator.
Perhaps it would not be such dull entertainment after all.
In the middle of the arena were the greenskins, penned off from the two fighters by a cage. Wrought of heavy iron, spikes decorating the points of intersection on the latticed metal, the goblins were well secured. Capering and hooting, biting each other and rolling around in the muck, the greenskins did not seem to understand what was about to happen to them.
Snorri did a rough count in his head and reckoned on close to eighty greenskins on the field. Furgil must have been busy to capture so many for the brodunk.
‘All the grobi at once?’ he muttered, intending to keep it quiet, but the High King had sharp ears like a wolf’s and heard him anyway.
Gotrek jabbed his son playfully in the side.
‘Would you balk at such a feat, lad?’
Snorri affected a dismissive air. ‘They are just grobi. I could kill a hundred on my own, but since you have banned me from taking up an axe…’
‘Ha!’ Gotrek’s bellowed laughter woke some of the sleepier members of the elder council and sent tremors of unease through the elves, for which Grimbok hastily apologised. ‘And that is not about to change because of your petulance. Remember why you are sat here and not out there fighting alongside Lord Salendor.’
‘Is that his name, the elgi?’
‘Aye lad, and he is a brutal bastard of a warrior. You just wait and see.’
Snorri had already made that same assessment.
‘Sounds like you admire him, father.’
‘I respect him, as should you. They are not so thin boned and soft of spine as many dawi think.’ He eyed the elves again at this remark, as if testing that theory by sight alone. He need not have been so cautious, for the elves did not understand him. True Khazalid was beyond even their most gifted ambassadors. Even so, Gotrek leaned in closer to his son, nudging him conspiratorially. ‘Tell me, what do you think of the skarrenawi? You have seen him fight.’