by Nick Kyme
Morek spoke the rites with sonorous solemnity, broke the karadurak, tempered the star-metal and from it fashioned such artifice as only happened once in a generation.
Hissing vapour rushed from the barrel. A gromril blade, its runes refulgent in the forge flame, came forth from its raging depths.
‘Drengudrakk,’ he intoned, naming the weapon clutched in his gauntleted hand.
Ranuld Silverthumb, looking on from the shadows, merely nodded.
‘Tromm, Morek,’ he uttered, ‘and so the rhun is struck and the rite spoken. Metal has come from fire and water, bound by the rituals of earth and air. All the four elements are bound within, trapped by meteoric iron sent from the vaults of heaven.’
Morek looked exhausted, lathered in sweat and soot, his chest, face and fingers burned. But he was exultant.
Bowing his head, Ranuld told him, ‘You are now a true master of the rhun.’
A grimace stole upon the runelord’s face and he clutched his shoulder suddenly, teeth clenched tight in his mouth.
‘Master!’ Morek went to him at once, the blade left upon the anvil, but Ranuld stopped him with his upraised palm.
‘No,’ he rasped, his anguish almost palpable. ‘Set it properly. Do it!’
Morek was caught by indecision. He looked once to the blade and then to his master, who was doubled up in pain.
He was by Ranuld’s side a moment later, helping the venerable dwarf to his seat in the forge.
‘Pipeweed…’ he gasped, pointing fervouredly at a small stone box resting on a shelf.
Morek left him to retrieve the box.
Hands shaking, Ranuld opened it, took the pipe and the weed from within, stoked the cradle and lit it.
After a few draughts, his hands steadied, the pain eased and he breathed again.
His eyes were watering, from the seizure or something else, Morek could not tell. He regarded his apprentice with a crestfallen expression, shaking his head.
‘What is it, master? Are you–’
‘Wazzock!’ snapped the runelord. ‘Look at that,’ he said. ‘Look!’
The rune axe upon the anvil had a tiny fissure running through the metal. It was cracked, ruined.
‘The magic was not properly bound,’ Ranuld told him. Struggling but refusing any help, the runelord got to his feet and shuffled off. ‘You should have left me. The rhun is all that matters. Legacy is all I have left to give.’ He turned, snarling, ‘Let me die next time, and save your worthless concern.’
He tromped from the forge, headed for the deeper vault where Morek was forbidden.
‘Not ready,’ he chuntered to himself beneath his breath. ‘Not nearly ready.’ Slowly shaking his head, he disappeared into the soot and smoke. Before he was lost to the darkness completely, his voice rang out, ‘Again, do it again.’
Morek slumped to his haunches, regarding the broken metal on the anvil.
Taking up his tongs, he gripped the sundered blade and returned it to the fire.
Speaking through the magic of rune stones was not so easy. Ranuld leaned heavily on his staff, standing before the dokbar, and saw little of Thorik Oakeneye. It was as if some great arachnarok, like the beasts that once roamed the deeps, had spun its silken threads across the shield’s surface and obscured it from sight. As if he were trapped at the bottom of a long well, Thorik’s voice was muffled and echoed. As Ranuld listened, his expression clouded.
Thorik spoke of a ‘great shaming’, of ‘misdeeds’ and ‘foulness beyond countenance’.
Throughout his report, which must have taken a great deal of strength to send, Ranuld tugged his beard, muttering, ‘Dreng tromm, dreng tromm…’
Perfidy beyond reckoning had been done.
When Thorik was finished, Ranuld looked his fellow runelord in the eye.
‘The conclave must gather at Karaz-a-Karak.’
Thorik nodded.
‘As soon as I reach the Sea Hold, I will make all haste.’
‘War has come, unleashed by the arrogance of youth,’ Ranuld said. ‘The gronti-duraz must walk. Together we will wake them from slumber.’
‘Tromm, my lord.’
‘Tromm,’ uttered Ranuld, bowing his head as Thorik faded and the dokbar returned to silver once again.
Regarding the silent ranks of stone golems, Ranuld prayed to Grungni that they would listen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Mustering the Throng
‘Stand aside!’
Rundin’s voice was laced with threat, but the three goldmasters did not yield.
‘King Grum has insisted he not be disturbed,’ protested one.
‘War has come to the Karaz Ankor,’ said Rundin. ‘All dawi must stand and fight, including the skarrens.’
‘Edicts of the mountains do not bind the hills,’ said a second.
‘I am the king’s protector,’ declared Rundin, shoving aside the dwarfs, who were wise enough not to resist.
‘He is alone, what does he need protecting from?’ asked another.
Rundin threw open the doors to the counting house, sparing the goldmasters a final scathing glance.
‘Himself,’ he answered, stepping inside.
The counting house was dark, even the lamps had been doused, and it stank of sweat. Another stench accompanied it, something acerbic that stung the nostrils.
Rundin’s nose wrinkled when he identified what the smell was.
‘Grungni’s oath…’ he muttered, realising just how far his king had fallen.
Skarnag Grum was crouched naked before a candle flame, surrounded by gold. He almost bathed in it, watching the coins trickle from his grasp, delighting in the way they flashed as they caught the light.
‘Gorl is galaz is gorlm and bryn…’
In Khazalid there were over four hundred different words and expressions for gold. Grum was reciting every single one in a fevered cantrip.
‘…is konk is ril and frorl and kurz…’
‘Valaya’s mercy,’ Rundin breathed, stepping into the corona of light cast by the candle. ‘What has become of you, my noble King Grum?’
At the mention of his name, the king of the hill dwarfs looked up with rheumy, manic eyes.
‘Run-din.’ His mouth struggled to form the word, drooling saliva.
Holding back his anguish, Rundin knelt beside the king.
‘Yes, my liege,’ he said, cradling his cheek like a father to a beardling. ‘It is me.’
Capricious as winter snow, Skarnag Grum recoiled from his protector, his face a mask of accusation.
‘Why are you here?’ he snapped, gathering his gold to him, spilling piles of it and snatching at the errant coins. ‘You want my gold, don’t you? You want it!’
Rundin stood up, shaking his head.
‘No, my liege,’ he said calmly. ‘But you must leave this place. Come with me now.’
Skarnag’s eyes narrowed. ‘So you can slip in when I’m absent. You have the look of a skaz about you, Rundin.’ He stood, a filthy loincloth the only scrap of clothing to preserve a shred of dignity. ‘My protector turned skaz,’ he said, jabbing a finger, ‘coveting my gold from afar, waiting for his chance to steal it! Is that it? Eh? Eh!’
Rundin did not want to see any more. He turned around, the king cursing his every step until he sank back down amidst his hoard.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Rundin paused as he reached the door. Skarnag Grum was still muttering,
‘And renk is glam and hnon is geln and bruz…’
The goldmasters were waiting for him on the other side, their faces caught between fear and admonishment.
‘There will be consequences for what you did,’ said one.
‘Defiance of the king is an act worthy of grudgement,’ said another.
Rundin did not meet their eyes. Such wretched dwarfs who had
so utterly failed their king were unworthy of his attention.
‘Whatever that dawi was in there,’ he said, leaving the goldmasters in his wake, ‘he is not our king.’
Beyond the Great Hall, which led from the counting house, a long gallery was thronged with hill dwarfs. News had travelled fast of King Gotrek Starbreaker’s declaration of war. Clans were amassing, unsure what to do, waiting for the orders of their king. Orders that Rundin knew would not come.
‘Kerrik Sternhawk!’ he bellowed at one idle-looking warrior. ‘Follow me.’
The dwarf obeyed at once. He was fresh-faced with barely a growth of beard, a youth but one that Rundin knew he could trust.
‘Thane Rundin?’ asked the beardling, falling into step with the king’s protector.
‘You are the Kro’s fastest runner,’ he said. ‘I need you to convey a message of the utmost importance and secrecy. Can you do that?’
Kerrik looked concerned and confused as they left the gallery and walked out into the light, but nodded immediately.
‘Good,’ said Rundin. ‘Relate this exactly as spoken…’
Tracing his finger across a narrow line on the map, Snorri sucked his teeth.
‘Elgi will be thronging the roads,’ he said.
‘And if the last army we fought is any gauge, the numbers will be greater,’ Morgrim suggested.
‘They are bloody greater the closer we get to Tor-chuffing-Alessi,’ snapped Thagdor, finding the elf words difficult to pronounce. Since they were not dwarf holds, they had not bothered to name the elf cities in Khazalid. It had seemed unimportant.
Since Kor Vanaeth they had met the elves in battle three more times. On each occasion the dwarfs had been victorious, but on each occasion they had taken losses.
During the last engagement, a band of swift, bow-armed riders had destroyed several of the Karak Varn war machines. In another, over two hundred clansmen had died to the combined sorcery of three elven mages.
The rearguard, made up of clans from the Sea Hold, had been harried for over six days during the last march. Eighteen warriors lay dead as a result. Despite the best efforts of their rangers, the dwarfs could not bring the perpetrators to heel.
Arrows were the worst – the elves possessed uncanny accuracy. Digging graves for dwarfs slain by arrows had delayed Snorri’s army by several days already.
Snorri turned to King Brynnoth, who had promised further reinforcements from Barak Varr.
‘Any news from your hold, my king?’
‘Some,’ he said, chewing on a thigh bone he had divested of the meat several minutes ago. ‘Four wagons bearing arms and armour were lost whilst crossing the Vaults, a grudge against Dammin Cloud-eye for his ineptitude,’ he grumbled. ‘Another message speaks of foraging in the forest for wood and provisions when the throng was attacked.’
‘Attacked?’ asked Morgrim. ‘We are close to the forest, our route might take us into the neighbouring Grey Mountains.’
Brynnoth’s face reddened. ‘Said it was haunted by unquiet spirits. Trees came alive, they reckon.’
‘I have heard similar tales from our cousins of Karak Norn,’ uttered Valarik fearfully, making the protective sigil of Valaya.
Snorri frowned, unconvinced. Thagdor had to stifle a laugh.
‘Who leads this throng?’ asked the prince.
‘Ungrim Shaftcleaver,’ said Brynnoth. ‘A trusted thane of my hold, or so I thought.’
‘Perhaps he was addled by the sun?’ suggested Drogor. ‘I have seen such things happen before in the Southlands.’
‘In winter?’ said Thagdor, incredulous.
Snorri exhaled ruefully. ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell Shaftcleaver to get his warriors here as quickly as he can. We are now thirty thousand dawi, just over, and there’s still a long way to go to the elgi city.’
‘Which route do we take then, cousin?’ asked Morgrim. ‘The passes through the mountains, risking the wrath of the Fey Forest?’ He glared at Thagdor, who stopped chuckling to offer an apology, before carrying on, ‘Or march down the Brundin Road and walk right up to their gates?’
‘I’ll happily ruddy knock at their doors,’ boasted Thagdor.
‘Aye,’ agreed Ironhandson, who was still sore over the wrecking of his war engines. ‘Let them see us coming. Likely the pointy-ears will soil themselves first and then flee.’
Snorri doubted that. The elves were not as soft-skinned and callow-hearted as any of the dwarfs had believed.
Crouched over the map, his lords arrayed around him, he found he was at an impasse. Though he would never admit it, he had given little thought to what might happen after Kor Vanaeth. So far, he had simply marched onwards, headed for Tor Alessi and fighting whatever stood in his way. Now he had three kings at his behest, as well as their armies. Thirty thousand of his kinsmen were relying on his judgement and leadership. How Snorri wished his father was there at that moment, and felt a prick of regret at their parting and his actions since.
‘Which is it to be then, lad?’ asked Thagdor, stabbing at the map with his finger. ‘Road or mountain pass?’
Snorri rubbed his beard. Both ways were perilous, and so far no rangers had returned from their scouting to offer any idea of the sort of numbers the dwarfs faced at Tor Alessi. It was their largest settlement, but Kor Vanaeth had fallen easily enough. Surely, this Tor Alessi would capitulate in similar fashion.
‘Cousin,’ muttered Morgrim, ‘you must make a decision.’
Snorri answered through clenched teeth, ‘I am thinking.’ He had settled on a course and was about to tell his generals when a shout came from deeper in the camp. Through the parting throngs, there hurried a beardling, a runner.
‘Prince Snorri,’ he gasped, struggling for breath. The youth kneeled until Snorri told him to get up and spit out whatever he had come to tell him. ‘Rangers, my liege,’ said the youth, ‘from Karaz-a-Karak.’
At some instinctive sign Snorri looked up over the runner’s shoulder and beheld a face he hadn’t seen for some time. Despite the obvious tension associated with the ranger’s arrival, he smiled.
‘Tromm, Furgil.’
Supping deep of the black beer in his tankard, Furgil smacked his lips and sighed.
‘Been a while since I had the taste of proper ale on my tongue,’ he said. ‘Grog has been all we had to sustain us for the last two weeks.’
The pathfinder had arrived in camp with nineteen other rangers, all well-worn and travel-weary but clearly having seen little actual battle. Apparently, they had skirmished with orcs and goblins of the mountains, even seen a band of elven riders in the distance, but little else. Wisely, their enemies were moving away from the dwarf holds of the Worlds Edge. Should they not, they would be trampled by a shield wall of some fifty thousand dwarfs or more. Warriors were amassing; the High King had called the clans and declared war.
When he had heard of the ambassador’s shaming, he and his guardians, Snorri had spat numerous oaths of vengeance. Grimbok was no friend to him, but he was a dwarf and no son of Grungni should endure such mistreatment. When his apoplexy had passed, he fell into a deep introspection, chewing at his beard as his father might have done in a similar situation.
Snorri reclined on a leather-backed throne sitting in the lee of his tent. A hearthguard stood nearby, eyes fixed on the horizon line that presaged storm. Grey, black clouds streaked low and fast, swelling with each passing moment and filling the sky with an endless gloom.
‘A wretched day to march,’ said the prince, drawing on his pipe. He was fully armoured, only his war helm resting against the leg of his throne, and shifted uncomfortably in his full panoply of battle. ‘I would prefer a steam bath and the attention of a buxom rinn.’
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ remarked Furgil, taking another pull of the black beer and leaving the foam to evaporate on his beard. ‘Except the bath, of course. An annu
al dunkin is just fine for me, my prince.’
‘Am I still your prince?’ Snorri asked curtly. ‘You have brought message of my father, his intention to make war, but said nothing of his mood.’
The tent was pitched on a rugged hillock that offered a decent view of the encampment. With his back to his lord, Furgil swept his gaze across the numerous snapping pennants, clan icons and banners that were mounted on the army’s tents. Dwarfs were massed outside them, some sparring, others merely sitting. They encircled fires, clutching tankards like he was, smoking or muttering. Some recounted grudges, others sang songs or bemoaned the weather and the air. Dwarfs were not so fond of air, at least not that which smelled of grass and river and bird. They longed for heat, for ash and smoke, for the reek of the deep earth.
There were a host of machineries, mostly under tarp but some being tended by engineers and their journeymen. He saw ballistae and catapults of varying size and girth. Many bore the rune of Karak Varn.
‘You have gathered quite the host,’ said Furgil, turning to face Snorri at last, ‘and, yes, you are still my prince and always shall be.’ He bowed his head, low in respect and fealty. ‘Your father is angry,’ he said, ‘and asks me to bid you wait for his army to reach you before marching further.’
Snorri scowled. ‘I will not be cowed by him, Furgil. When you return, you must tell him that. This–’ he gestured to the throng of dwarfs below, ‘–is my army. He may have declared war but it is I who have waged it first.’
‘As you wish, my prince. I merely convey the message.’
Snorri’s scowl turned into a questioning frown, and he leaned forwards. ‘Have all the holds mustered?’
Furgil nodded, draining his tankard before answering. ‘Aye. As well as the clans of the capital, your father the High King has Karak Drazh and the mining clans of Gunbad and Silverspear with his banner. Even Varnuf of the Eight Peaks marches, along with the holds of the south. North, there’s King Grundin and a contingent from Karak Ungor who have already suffered from elgin perfidy.’
Snorri raised an eyebrow in query.
‘Bagrik, their king, was slain by treachery,’ Furgil explained. ‘The length and breadth of the Worlds Edge, even the Vaults, the Grey and the Black, are bound to this war.’