The Great Betrayal

by Nick Kyme

  Gotrek pointed at the hill dwarf. He was crisscrossing test swings over his body to loosen his shoulder. Every loud whomp of his blade through the air drew a cheer from the small crowd of hill dwarfs that had gathered at the arena side.

  ‘Years ago,’ said Snorri, recalling a similar feast time. ‘He was decent with an axe.’

  ‘Now I know you are lying, son.’

  Snorri was disinterested and had no qualms about giving his father that impression. His gaze wandered over to the healing tents, where the priestesses of Valaya practised their battlefield ministrations.

  The High King seemed not to notice and went on, ‘Rundin son of Norgil is the skarrenawi king’s champion. He shuns the rinkkaz but sends his axe-battler to humble our warriors in the brodunk. Petty, King Grum, very petty,’ he grumbled.

  ‘What does it matter if he does? Let me go over there and show him up for the pretender he is. The skarrenawi do not care about us, why should we care about them?’

  ‘Spoken like a true wazzock,’ Gotrek said angrily. ‘Does nothing I say ever sink into your thick skull, Snorri? The skarrens are our kith, if not kin. They are dawi, albeit of a different stripe. You should care about them, for the day may come when we need them. Relations between our two disparate clans, hill and mountain both, are important. Grum is the problem, not the skarrenawi.’

  ‘Yet you do nothing when he thumbs his teeth at you.’

  ‘Diplomacy is a delicate business, lad,’ the High King replied, though he agreed with his son that something needed to be done to bring Grum back in line. Bad enough dealing with elves and the ambitions of King Varnuf, without adding the hill dwarfs to his list of immediate problems.

  Snorri scoffed, his gaze drawn back to the healing tents where it lingered in hope.

  ‘Skarnag Grum is an oaf and a glutton, grown fat on excess,’ he declared, lowering his voice to add, ‘I’ve even heard rumours of an elf consort.’

  Forek, who had evidently been earwigging, nearly spat out his ale and ended up tipping most of his tankard over his finely tailored tunic.

  ‘I seriously doubt that,’ said the High King, though there was a glint of amusement in his eye as Forek did his best to apologise to the elves and wipe down his attire at the same time.

  ‘If I could beg your leave, my liege,’ he began, coming over. ‘I need to–’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Gotrek told him dismissively, ‘just go. You don’t need me to tell you when to go for a piss, Grimbok, neither do you for this. Away.’

  Bowing profusely, crafting a dagger stare at Snorri who was finding it hard to maintain his composure, he left the pavilion to get cleaned up.

  ‘Bit of an ufdi, that one,’ Gotrek said behind his hand to Snorri once the reckoner was gone. ‘But he’s good with words and the hardest bastard reckoner in the Karaz Ankor. Grimbok has settled more debts than any other for this hold.’

  Snorri wasn’t really listening. His attention was on the healing tents.

  ‘Do not look for her,’ said the High King. Though his tone was stern, it was also paternal. ‘She isn’t there, son.’

  Turning away ostensibly to watch the tournament, Snorri feigned ignorance. ‘I look for no one, father. My eye merely wandered for a moment.’

  ‘See it does not wander back then.’

  Snorri didn’t answer but his face was flushed.

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, lad. I know for whom you hold a torch. It is as glaring as Grungni’s heart-fire. A pity that Helda was not more to your liking,’ he mused briefly, ‘a marital union between Karaz-a-Karak and Karak Kadrin would have been very useful about now. Though I trust him to be an ally, Grundin is a thorny hruk at the best of times. If we could have bonded his daughter and his clan to ours…’

  ‘Father,’ Snorri implored, ‘she was–’

  Gotrek waved away his protest. ‘The size of an alehouse and with a face like an urk licking dung off its own boots. Yes, I know, lad. But the rinn you want is not for you. She is sworn to Valaya and as such is off limits, even to the son of the High King.’ He gestured in the direction of another tent put up nearby. ‘Besides, her brother would not look on it favourably either.’

  Snorri opened his mouth to protest, but Gotrek silenced him.

  ‘Off limits, lad,’ he told him again, but for all that the mood between them was improving. ‘Now, let’s watch this son of Norgil and see if he’s as good as he claims… for a skarren, anyway.’

  Father and son smiled together, and Snorri found he was glad of the rare moment of bonding. There had been precious few of them recently.

  In the arena, the cage was lowered into a thin trench through some mechanism fashioned by the engineers’ guild and the goblins were finally released. Twin war cries in Elvish and Khazalid curdled the air.

  Before it was over, there would be much blood.

  A foul mood was upon Forek Grimbok as he entered the healing tent.

  Several dwarf warriors taking part in the various games had laughed at him as he strode across the field and the memory of it still simmered. His breeches were wet from the spilled tankard, and it looked as if he’d pissed himself. Their derision only worsened when they realised it was beer that Forek had wasted. One even offered to sup it from his sodden garments, until the fearsome reckoner had glowered at him. At that the half-drunken clanner had sobered up and left quietly with his friend.

  Grimbok might enjoy the finer things that life had to offer, he might enjoy the silks the elves brought from far-off lands and keep his beard trimmed, maintain neat and pristine attire, but he knew how to crack skulls too and had done so often during his tenure as reckoner.

  It was warm inside the healing tent, and light from suspended lanterns cast a lambent glow over cots and baths. In the centre stood Valaya, a small stone effigy of the ancestor goddess removed with respect from one of the lesser temples and brought here to watch over the wounded. Her rune-emblazoned banners hung from the leather walls.

  During the course of the games so far, there had been mercifully few serious injuries to trouble the priestesses. Therefore he was surprised to see his sister Elmendrin tending to the wounded. She was carrying an armful of fresh linen bandages to a wooden trunk.

  ‘Were you planning on wringing that out into your tankard later, brother?’ she teased, gesturing to his soiled tunic.

  ‘An unfortunate accident,’ Forek replied formally, cheeks reddening. ‘I thought you were performing rites in the temple?’ he asked, looking around for something to swab his tunic with.

  Elmendrin proffered a clay bowl and a sponge she picked from the trunk, which Forek took and proceeded to dab his tunic with.

  ‘Scrub it,’ she chastised, showing him how until Forek got hold of the sponge again to save his expensive attire from ruination.

  ‘You are such an ufdi, Forek,’ she said, smiling.

  A dwarf in a nearby cot sniggered. He had one foot up, exposing a missing toe.

  ‘Never was much of a dancer,’ he said.

  Forek scowled back before returning his attention to his sister.

  ‘So why are you here, then?’

  ‘Another of the priestesses came down with kruti flu, so I took her place.’

  The scowl turned into a disapproving frown.

  ‘He is here, but I daresay you’ve already noticed that.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Elmendrin as she started to wash a batch of soiled, ruddy bandages in a pewter tank.

  ‘Halfhand.’

  She paused, failing to suppress a small smile. ‘Is that what they’re calling him?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you–’

  Elmendrin turned sharply, cutting off Forek in mid-stream.

  ‘No brother, you don’t need to tell me anything. I am here to perform my duty, not to fawn over the High King’s son,’ she snapped. ‘For good or ill, Valaya has sent me
here.’

  Forek sagged down onto an empty bench, holding his hand up apologetically.

  ‘Sorry, sister. I am drawn, that is all.’

  Indignation became concern on Elmendrin’s face and she went to him and sat down.

  ‘You look very troubled,’ she said, resting her hand on Forek’s shoulder. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I am tired, worn like metal overbeaten by the fuller,’ he confessed, using his knuckles to knead his eyes. ‘Failing to reckon the many misdeeds done to dawi by elgi has left me ragged. Reports flood in daily of more attacks, more unrest, and our kin grow ever more belligerent.’ He met her worried gaze with a look of fear in his eyes. ‘I can see but one outcome.’

  ‘But what about the brodunk? Surely it will help salve whatever wounds these troubles have caused between our peoples.’

  ‘Weak mortar to mask the cracks, sister. Nothing more.’

  Remembering the other priestesses moving quietly around the healing tent, Elmendrin whispered, ‘I had no idea it was this bad.’

  ‘Few do. My every effort is bent towards urging the clans not to retaliate unless they know for certain who the bandits responsible for this perfidy are.’

  ‘Surely the High King can restrain them.’

  ‘Not for much longer. Relations with the elgi are worse than ever.’

  She pursed her lips, unsure how to ask her next question. ‘And what do you think? About the elgi, I mean?’

  Forek looked down at his boots, worry lines deepening the shadows on his forehead. ‘I think the world is darkening, sister.’

  Elmendrin rubbed her brother’s back and held his hand.

  ‘They will be caught. This will stop and the bloodshed will end,’ she assured him. ‘Elgi do not want to kill dawi, nor dawi kill elgi. It is madness.’

  ‘And yet the killing does not stop. Only the other day, a band of rangers from Karak Varn slew a band of elgi traders bound for Kagaz Thar. Aside from hunting bows, they were unarmed but did not speak much Khazalid and could not explain why they had blundered onto the sovereign territory of the Varn. With all that has happened, what else could they do but kill them?’

  Elmendrin rubbed his back harder, fighting back her tears. ‘It will pass. It has to. You always see the worst, Forek, but that is just how Grungni made you.’

  Forek gripped her hand and she embraced him warmly.

  ‘Not this time, sister.’

  He let her go, and her eyes followed him all the way to the flap of the tent. Forek turned just before he left. ‘I need to return to the king.’ He smiled, but it was far from convincing. ‘You’re right, sister. All will be well again soon.’

  Elmendrin watched him go and the silence of the healing tent became as deafening as a battlefield in her ears.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A Herald of Doom

  As Snorri watched the fight unfold he began to recognise some of the differences between elf and dwarf in the way that they fought. Despite his obvious disdain for the elves, he had always studied them in war, what little he had been able to garner in these times of peace anyway. Salendor was an odd exemplar of their method.

  He fought more like a dancer than a warrior, but with a brutal edge that many elves lacked. His face was an impenetrable mask of concentration. It betrayed no weakness, nor did it show intent. Every blade thrust was measured and disguised, fast as quicksilver and deadly as a hurled spear with the same amount of force.

  Goblins fell apart against Salendor’s onslaught. Heads, limbs and torsos rained down around him in a grisly flood of expelled blood and viscera. He weaved through the bodies, never slowing, always on the move. No knife touched him. No cudgel wielded by greasy greenskin hands could come close. He was like a cleaving wind whipping through the horde, and wherever he blew death was left in his wake.

  Where Imladrik fought with precision, a swordmaster in every regard, Salendor improvised, broke expected patterns and unleashed such fury that many of the goblins simply fled at the sight of him advancing upon them.

  The hill dwarf was a different prospect altogether. He brutalised like a battering ram, gladly taking hits on his armour, wearing the savage little cuts of the greenskins like badges of honour. As well as his axe, he fought with elbow and forehead, knee and fist. Rundin reminded the prince of a pugilist, wading into the thick of battle. Utterly fearless, his axe was pendulum-like in the way it hewed goblin bodies. Never faltering, rhythmic and inexorable, it carved ruin into their ranks. Where the elf used as much effort as was needed, the hill dwarf gave everything in every swing. His stamina was incredible.

  From what he knew of the son of Norgil, Rundin was not given to histrionics, yet he flung his axe end over end to crack open a fleeing goblin’s skull and earn the adulation of the crowd. It was indulgent, and Snorri suspected that Grum had instructed him to entertain with this obvious theatre. It left the dwarf vulnerable but he used a long left-handed gauntlet to parry then bludgeon until he seized his axe and began the killing anew.

  Seeing the artifice of the gauntlet reminded Snorri of his own finely-crafted glove. Through it, he recalled the pain of his wounding by the rats beneath the ruins of Karak Krum and of Ranuld Silverthumb’s prophecy. Scowling at the memory, he wondered how he was supposed to fulfil his great destiny watching other people fight.

  Flowing like a stream, Salendor moved through a clutch of goblins. He cut them open with his longsword, spilling entrails, then sheathed the blade and drew the bow from his back in the same fluid motion.

  It appeared that Rundin was not the only one told to put on a show.

  Arrows seemed to materialise in the elf’s hand, nocked and released in the time it took for Snorri to blink. One goblin about to be felled by the hill dwarf’s axe spun away from the blow with a white pine shaft embedded in its eye.

  At the edges of the arena, a dwarf loremaster announced the kill for the elf. Tallymen racked the count and held up stone placards decorated with the Klinkerhun to describe the score.

  It was close, but Salendor had the edge by one.

  Only six goblins remained.

  Beside the prince, the High King shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  ‘It is tight…’ he murmured.

  ‘What does it matter who wins?’ said Snorri. ‘Elgi or skarren, we lose on both counts.’

  That earned a look of reproach from his father. ‘I would rather it be a dawi, be that of the mountain or hill.’

  ‘You should have let me fight,’ said Snorri, his sudden petulance betraying the better mood that had been growing between him and his father. ‘Then the victor would not be in any doubt.’

  Gotrek showed his teeth. They were clenched but did not bite. Instead, he fixed his attention on the end of the bout.

  Around the arena, the mood was tense but raucous. In tents draped in mammoth hide, Luftvarr hooted and roared with every goblin slain. On the opposite side, Varnuf was more considered and watched keenly over the top of his steepled fingers. Grundin and Aflegard mainly glared at each other, their attention returning to the fight only when prompted by the reaction of the crowd to something particularly noteworthy. Brynnoth, ever the gregarious king, vigorously supped ale with his thanes as they exchanged commentary. The closer it became, the more he drank. It was fortunate that the king of the Sea Hold had an iron constitution from imbibing vast quantities of wheat-rum.

  Rundin had pulled one back, but Salendor was quick to riposte, unleashing the last of his arrows to pin a goblin through the heart.

  It left four greenskins with the elf still one up. Rundin took two at once, earning a loud bellow of approval from King Luftvarr. Even Grundin clenched a fist. The hill dwarf tackled them before Salendor could run them through with his sword. In using the bow, the elf lord had put too much distance between his quarry and was now paying the price for that.

  Swift as a lightning strike, the el
f thrust his blade through a greenskin that rushed him in desperation, making it even. One goblin remained, flanked by the two bloodstained champions who looked ready to rush it from opposite ends of the arena.

  ‘The elgi is quick,’ hissed Gotrek, glancing up as Grimbok returned to the fold.

  ‘Aye, but the son of Torbad has an eagle-eye when he throws that axe,’ the reckoner replied.

  Snorri folded his arms and said nothing.

  Both warriors advanced on the lonely greenskin, who looked back and forth, scurrying one way and then the other before it realised there was no escape.

  ‘Kill it!’ bellowed Brynnoth, banging down his tankard and swilling out some of the dregs.

  The goblin shrieked once, clutching its emaciated chest, and slumped down dead, its heart given out.

  Silence descended like a veil, settling over the dumbstruck crowd.

  Eyes wide, wondering if he had ended the creature with his voice alone, Brynnoth looked down at his tankard and belched.

  Some of the elves looked around at him, disgusted and incredulous at the same time.

  Both combatants met one another’s gaze. The loremasters scoring the bout paused, unsure what to do next. They looked to the High King.

  Snorri laughed out loud, his mirth echoing around the arena crowd who were still stunned into bemused silence.

  ‘The grobi kills itself,’ he declared. ‘Expired by its own fear!’

  He laughed again, raucously and derisive. ‘Incredibly, both elgi and skarren found a way to lose.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ snapped the High King. ‘You dishonour yourself and the hold.’

  ‘I am merely stating facts, father.’ He gestured to the stone placards, the same Klinkerhun inscribed on each now the loremasters realised they had no choice but to score one kill apiece. ‘A tie is a win for neither.’