They passed through the great gate that marked the separation of this level. The gate was open, and guarded by parallel lines of scowling statues, clasping axes and shields tight to their bodies. From the heights, Felix thought that they must resemble pieces for some large game. Dwarfs came in and out of the gate, moving about their business. There were a few thousand dwarfs in Karak Kadrin, Felix estimated, though likely fewer now. The Slayer Keep was one of the largest of the northernmost holds, and Ungrim and his forebears had worked assiduously to create a web of alliances and trade agreements to further lengthen the hold’s reach.
Past the gate, braziers had been lit, and the dim light allowed Felix to see the massive friezes which dominated the mighty walls of the outer chamber. Scenes from the golden age of dwarf history were depicted with intricate skill on a canvas that was staggering in its size and Felix fought to drink it all in. The poet in him hungered to stay and learn, but he did not think their escort would look kindly on a request to gawp at the walls.
Nonetheless, he could not keep a single, ‘Beautiful,’ from slipping from his lips.
‘Yes,’ someone said. Felix turned, and saw a dwarf woman striding towards them, her golden hair bound around her head like a crown, her hands folded beneath her bosom. She was too alien to be attractive, but Felix reckoned that she was a great beauty nonetheless. Warriors stood to either side of her, dressed simply and in utilitarian gear, but they looked as deadly as the hammerers. ‘It is beautiful, Felix Jaeger. And you have our thanks for seeing that it stayed such.’ She swept a hard gaze across the hammerers. ‘We will see Gurnisson to his accommodations.’ The tone brooked no argument.
‘Rinn, we cannot–’ one of the hammerers began.
‘You have my oath that no harm will befall her,’ Gotrek said. His big hands had knotted into fists at his side.
The hammerers exchanged looks, and then one handed Felix’s sword to one of the dwarf woman’s guards. The hammerers turned and marched away. A sad, small smile crept across the dwarf woman’s plump features. ‘Hello, Gotrek,’ she said.
‘My lady,’ Gotrek said, inclining his head. There was a gleam in his eye Felix had never seen before.
‘I am given to understand that we have you to thank for turning the tide and breaking our enemy’s back.’
Gotrek shrugged and looked away, as if the conversation bored him. The woman snorted, as if she had expected such rudeness. She turned to Felix. ‘I regret that it has come to this. If you would both follow me?’
‘Perhaps it’s none of my business,’ Felix began.
‘It’s not,’ Gotrek interjected.
‘But who are you, if I might ask?’ Felix said, ignoring the Slayer.
‘You can’t,’ Gotrek snapped.
‘I am Kemma Ironfist, man of the Empire – queen of this hold and wife to Ungrim, mother to Garagrim and friend to Gotrek Gurnisson. Or at least I was.’ She looked at Gotrek inquiringly. Gotrek nodded abruptly, after a lengthy hesitation.
‘Aye, you are at that.’
‘Follow, please,’ she said, turning. Her men followed, but not closely. Felix studied them covertly, noting the way they carried themselves. They were clan warriors, grim-faced and hardy-looking. Felix looked from the warriors to their charge. Why had the queen come to meet them? A sudden thought occurred to him – could this, whatever it was, have to do with the mysterious grudge that Ungrim seemed to bear Gotrek? He looked at Gotrek, trying to see something, anything, in the Slayer’s scowling, battered features. But nothing revealed itself.
They did not go down, as he expected, but instead, up. ‘Don’t dwarfs use dungeons?’ he said, after a time.
‘Aye, but what sense would there be in putting them below?’ Gotrek said. ‘It never ceases to amaze me how you manlings can take a sensible proposition and invert it.’
‘They are not dungeons,’ Kemma said, not looking back. ‘We do not take prisoners.’
‘Surely there must be,’ Felix said. ‘You have to have a place to put criminals… enemies?’
‘The clans take care of their own, in whatever way they see fit. Offences against Karak Kadrin are punished swiftly. It is the way of our hold. But there are… places, where we can put those whose fate has yet to be decided.’
‘That sounds entirely too ominous to be healthy,’ Felix said, the levity feeling out of place in the silence of the corridors they walked. It never failed to intimidate him, that silence. Dead or alive, dwarf holds were quiet. Human cities and fortresses were filled with noise. This was too much like being in a tomb.
They came to a set of circular stairs, rising upwards in a gentle curve. The work seemed too delicate to be dwarfish, and Felix said so. Gotrek grunted, but Kemma said, ‘It is, now. But once our artisans could make the very stones dance with a grace and beauty that would make you weep, human. We have lost much.’ She stopped with her hand on the curve of the wall. ‘We stand to lose much more.’
‘So the priest said,’ Gotrek muttered.
‘Then you understand why Ungrim does as he must,’ Kemma said.
Gotrek looked at her. ‘I understand. I do not like it, but I understand.’
She pressed a hand against his arm and Gotrek shrugged it off. The queen pulled her hand back. ‘I never thanked you, Gotrek Gurnisson.’
‘There was never a need to do so,’ Gotrek said stiffly. ‘I made an oath, Lady of Karak Kadrin.’
The queen frowned, though whether at his words or at his tone, Felix couldn’t say. He shivered as a gust of wind crawled through the stairs. A moment later he saw where it came from. The stairs led to a small balcony, built high on the mountain peak. It wasn’t large, but there was room for four or five people. There was a stone fire-pit, long cold, and a large, wide outcropping sheltered that and most of the balcony from the weather. Ancient curtains made from thick wool and furs did the rest. Fresh water, carried from hidden aqueducts and pipe-work, bubbled in a stone bowl set into the floor and there was another hole that Felix assumed was some form of primitive privy. Two pallets, stuffed with straw and covered in fur blankets, had been prepared for them.
The balcony was in a place where three peaks leaned close to one another. Felix could see more balconies studding the distant peaks at various points, and, even more impressive, great faces carved into the very stuff of the mountains, rendered visible by moonlight and watch-fires. They were glowering edifices whose construction must have taken generations. He wondered why he had never noticed them before and then realized that they were hidden by the folds of the mountains, visible only when one looked at them directly, as he was doing now. He felt a sense of age, and unworthiness, as if all of the contempt and obstinacy of dwarf-kind had been chiselled into those haughty, proud faces.
‘Who are they?’ he said softly.
‘The first kings of Karak Kadrin,’ the queen said. She gestured upwards. ‘There are others above us, and on the opposite peaks. Our ancestors put their stamp here for all time, marking these mountains as ours for eternity. When Karak Kadrin finally falls, her kings shall gaze down upon her ruin and keep watch unto the end of all things.’
‘And you think that will happen?’ Felix said.
‘Everything dies, human,’ she said. ‘Everything cracks, crumbles and collapses. We cannot weather eternity, no matter how much we might wish otherwise.’
‘That doesn’t stop some of us from trying,’ Gotrek said, suddenly, harshly. ‘Fate is for men and elves. Dwarfs make their own way.’ He looked at her steadily. After a moment, she looked away. Gotrek stumped past her and out onto the balcony, fists swinging. Felix followed him but turned.
‘What–’ he began, even as the heavy door crashed shut, shutting them out of the hold. ‘Oh,’ he said, pulling his cloak tighter about him. ‘I see what you meant,’ he continued, looking at Gotrek.
The Slayer didn’t answer him. Instead, Gotrek’s single eye was fixed north, and he stalked to the edge of the balcony and stood, staring out. Felix sighed and sat with his back ag
ainst the rocks. ‘Still, compared to some of the holes we’ve been confined in, this is fairly pleasant.’
‘We used to hold elves here, during the War of Vengeance,’ Gotrek said, still looking out.
‘Why did she come to greet us, do you think?’ Felix said, carefully.
Gotrek, true to form, didn’t answer.
‘What did you do to Ungrim? Or he to you?’
Still no answer. The Slayer’s shape was a blotch in the dim light. He might as well have been a part of the balcony. Felix sighed again and settled back, wrapped in his cloak. At least we’re not going north, he thought, with some relief. Sometime between that thought and the next, he fell asleep.
As ever after a battle, his dreams were unpleasant things, the colour of rust and smelling of spoiled meat. In them, he strode across an uneven, mist-shrouded landscape, sword in hand. He was hunting something, but he knew not what. And as he hunted, something kept pace with him, leathery wings flapping. Hands traced the contours of his shoulders and a voice like honey poured over an open wound whispered into his ear, guiding his hands as he swung his sword – not Karaghul, a different blade, red and weeping – out, spilling the blood of hairy, grasping things which came for him out of the mist. As he fought, the mist cleared, letting him glimpse the ground he walked on and what it was made of and he awoke suddenly, his breath strangled in his lungs.
As he sat bolt upright, every muscle in his body seemed to cry out at once and then fall to muttering steadily as he tried to work some limberness back into his stiff limbs. Felix clambered awkwardly to his feet, his cloak falling away. He stretched, listening with dismay to the symphony of pops and cracks that were his only reward for a life hard lived. A twinge of pain shot through his shoulder, reminding him that it had been flopping loose from its socket only a day or so before. The balcony was swept with a thin light, dripping through the clouds overhead.
Grunting, he rubbed the sore joint and blinked blearily. ‘Gotrek,’ he called.
‘Here, manling, where else would I be?’ Gotrek said. The Slayer still stood in the same place where Felix had last seen him before he dropped off into an uneasy slumber.
Felix yawned and shook his head, trying to dislodge the dangling rags of disturbing dreams. He had been exhausted, and for good reason. ‘How long will they keep us here, do you think?’ Felix said, joining Gotrek at the balcony. One glance over the edge was enough to set off his vertigo, and he turned away, stomach heaving, and set his back to the stern faces carved into the slopes opposite.
‘Until the day is won or lost,’ Gotrek said. He spat over the edge. ‘Until Ungrim meets his doom or returns in victory.’
Felix grunted and ran his hands through his ratty blond mane. ‘Why didn’t you make the oath, Gotrek?’ he asked, not looking at the Slayer.
‘I could not. Leave it alone, manling.’
‘Right, well, what can we expect, then?’ Felix said, heeding the warning in Gotrek’s voice. ‘Random beatings or will they just leave us to starve?’
Gotrek peered at him. ‘Dwarfs do not starve prisoners.’
‘No? Glad to hear it. Did I mention that I’m hungry? They do remember that men need to eat more often than dwarfs, I hope.’
As if in answer to his question, the door to the balcony opened with a screech. Felix jerked to his feet, half-formed plans of diving through the aperture fading as he took in the squat shapes of the king of Karak Kadrin and his bodyguards. Gotrek turned more slowly.
‘Well, Gurnisson? Ready to make your oath, I trust. It’ll be your last chance before I leave,’ Ungrim said, his thumbs hooked in his belt, his chest puffed out.
‘You’re wearing armour,’ Gotrek said.
Ungrim’s eyes narrowed. He wore a light shirt of gromril mail, and his helm-crown, with its curving horns. ‘And what if I am?’
‘You have never understood what it means to be a Slayer,’ Gotrek said, disapprovingly. Felix looked askance at him, wondering if he had heard Gotrek correctly. Even Ungrim looked surprised. Then, that surprise became anger.
‘I know more than you think, Gurnisson,’ he said. But before he could say more, Felix said, ‘Please pass my compliments on to your queen, mighty Ungrim.’ It wasn’t a smart thing to say, but Felix knew enough of Slayers to know that both Gotrek and the king were positioning themselves to figuratively charge one another. And if that happened, even if Gotrek won, the results wouldn’t be pleasant for either him or, most importantly, Felix.
Ungrim’s jaw clamped shut and he transferred his glare to Felix, who tried to hold tight to his nonchalant poise as the Slayer King looked at him. It was hard, especially when Gotrek added his own glare to the equation. ‘Mind your own business, manling,’ Gotrek growled.
‘Enough of this,’ Ungrim snapped. ‘If you will not swear the oath, here you will stay. I will order your release upon my return and not before.’ Felix wanted to ask what would happen should Ungrim not return, something the king seemed intent on, but he held his tongue.
Ungrim hesitated then, despite his bluster. ‘Gurnisson, is it so heavy an oath?’ he said, half turned away. ‘For old times’ sake, can you not make it?’
‘Would the debt between us be settled then, Ungrim Ironfist?’ Gotrek asked, arms crossed, his one eye baleful.
Ungrim’s hands clenched. ‘Yes,’ he said, between gritted teeth. The bodyguards shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the discussion.
‘Then no,’ Gotrek said, turning away. ‘Go find the doom that should be mine, Ungrim.’
Ungrim growled and turned, half reaching out. Then, his hands dropped and he left the balcony, back stiff, chin jutting. The guards closed the door behind them and Felix heard the lock click shut. He let loose a frustrated breath. ‘What did you do to him?’ Felix said.
‘I saved his life.’
Ungrim stalked from the clan-hall, satisfaction etched onto his face. Thungrimsson followed at a more sedate trot. ‘At least someone is doing what I ask of them!’ the Slayer King growled. He had demanded a meeting with the thanes of the more reluctant clans after visiting Gurnisson, and the anger fanned by the latter had helped him with the former. Ungrim had been in fine form, browbeating the thanes into providing him with the warriors and treasure needed to organize the grandest of Grand Throngs.
‘Did you truly expect Gurnisson to change his mind?’ Thungrimsson said.
‘Yes,’ Ungrim said.
‘May I speak frankly?’
‘No,’ Ungrim said.
Thungrimsson ignored him. ‘More fool you.’
Ungrim stopped and turned, glaring at his hearth-warden. He pointed a finger, shook it, and then dropped his hand without replying. He turned back and continued walking. Thungrimsson followed. ‘Besides, it’s not like you require the blessings of an outlaw like Gurnisson, is it?’
‘Leave it, Snorri.’
‘Not unless you’re having doubts about Axeson’s prophecy,’ Thungrimsson pressed.
‘I said leave it, hearth-warden,’ Ungrim grated. ‘There is no doubt in my mind, no cracks in my conscience.’
‘I wish I could say the same, father,’ Garagrim said, stepping out of an adjoining corridor and falling in beside them. Ungrim stopped and looked at his son.
‘What do you require, Garagrim?’
‘The Slayers wished me to petition you. They wish to muster with the throng, and as War-Mourner, it is my duty to pass on their desire.’ Garagrim gave his father a gimlet stare, and added, ‘Unless, of course, you’re worried that they too might steal your glory.’
Ungrim glanced at Thungrimsson. ‘See to the preparations, hearth-warden. The prince and I must speak.’ Ungrim waited until Thungrimsson had vanished down the corridor before jerking his head towards a set of stairs. Garagrim followed him as Ungrim started down the stairs.
‘You are upset,’ Ungrim said, tracing the flow of the wall with his hand.
‘Not upset, confused,’ Garagrim said.
‘And you think I should explain myself?’
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‘I think you owe me that much, yes,’ Garagrim said.
The stairs wound around and down and the silence gave way to the echo of hammers ringing against metal. A wash of heat ambushed them in the bend and Ungrim led his son out onto a viewing balcony. Below was one of the great clan-forges. Red fires were stoked in the dim light as water-wheels creaked and anvils sang with the sounds of artifice. Once war was done, most dwarfs returned to work, mining, crafting or, as below, forging new tools and weapons and essentials to replace those lost in the siege. Indeed, a dwarf hold was never more productive than in the days following a great battle.
‘Does a king then owe a prince?’ Ungrim said.
‘A king owes all of his people, regardless of rank,’ Garagrim said firmly, arms crossed, jaw thrust out. Ungrim looked at him.
‘I’ve heard those words before, from another,’ he said. ‘Gurnisson, in fact.’ He grinned as a look of discomfort passed across his son’s face. ‘He was a big believer in what a king owes. Even before he took his oath, if the stories are true.’ The grin faded. ‘I am paying my debt to you, Garagrim, though you do not see it that way.’
‘I took the oath–’
‘Against my wishes,’ Ungrim said. ‘Against your mother’s wishes. In one rash action, you deprived her of a son and me of an heir.’
‘I did it for you, and mother. I did it to remove the stain of our shame. To free you,’ Garagrim said, not looking at his father.
‘Do you understand why we still have our shame, boy?’ Ungrim said. ‘There have been plenty of opportunities over the centuries for one of us to die gloriously, but glory is not for kings.’
‘You said that,’ Garagrim said sourly.
Ungrim’s hand snapped out, catching his son on the back of the head. Garagrim jerked forwards and then spun, eyes blazing. Ungrim jabbed him in the nose with a finger. ‘And I shall continue to say it until I am dead or you understand. You were right before, boy. Kings owe their people, and it is a debt that can never be paid, not in full. It renews itself each day, and I will pay it until I fall, and then you will pay it, and your children and your children’s children, until the world cracks and burns. We have responsibilities, and those responsibilities outweigh our own desires.’
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 23