Grudgebearer

by Gav Thorpe

  Smoke filled the air, and occasionally there was a distant reverberating thump, as of a cannon firing. As the head of the dwarf army crossed the crest of the line of hills, Barundin and the others were greeted by an unexpected sight.

  An army encircled Uderstir. Under banners of green, yellow and black, regiments of halberdiers and spearmen stood behind makeshift siege workings, avoiding the desultory fire of handguns and crossbows from the castle walls. The noise had indeed been a cannon, ensconced in a revetment built of mud and reinforced with gabions made from woven wood and filled with rocks. The nearest tower was heavily damaged, its upper parts having fallen away under the bombardment, leaving a pile of debris at the base of the wall. Bowmen unleashed tired volleys against the walls whenever a head appeared, their arrows clattering uselessly from the old, moss-covered stones.

  Several dozen horses were corralled out of range of the walls, and the armoured figures of knights could be seen walking about the camp or sitting in groups around the fires. It was immediately obvious that the siege had been going on for some time now, and that dreary routine had become the norm. Whoever was leading the attacking army was in no hurry to assault the strong walls of Uderstir.

  Barundin gave the order for his army to form up from their column of march, even as the dwarfs were spied and the camp below was suddenly filled with furious activity. As the war machines of the dwarfs were unlimbered and brought forward, a group of five riders mounted up and rode quickly in their direction.

  Barundin marched forward with his hammerers, flanked to the left by Arbrek and to the right by Hengrid Dragonfoe, who held aloft the ornate silver and gold standard of Zhufbar. They stopped just as the slope away down the hill began to grow steeper, and awaited the riders. To their left, Dran and the hold’s rangers began to make their way down the slope, following the channel of a narrow stream, out of sight of the enemy camp.

  The riders came up at a gallop, riding beneath a banner that was split with horizontal lines of green and black, with a lion rampant picked out in gold, standing atop a bridge. On an embroidered scroll beneath the device was the name ‘Konlach’.

  The riders stopped a little way off, perhaps fifty yards, and eyed the dwarfs suspiciously, their horses trotting back and forth. Barundin could see that they carried long spears, and carried heavy pistols in holsters upon their belts, in their boots and on their saddles.

  ‘Who approaches King Barundin of Zhufbar?’ shouted Hengrid, planting the standard firmly in the ground and pulling his single-bladed axe from its sheath.

  One of the riders came forward to within a spear’s throw of the king. He was dressed in a heavy coat, with puffed and slashed sleeves, showing green material beneath its black leather. He wore a helmet decorated with two feathers, one green and one black, and its visor was pulled down, shaped in the snarling face of a lion. He raised a hand and lifted his visor, revealing a surprisingly young face.

  ‘I am Theoland, herald to Baron Gerhadricht of Konlach,’ he said, his voice clear and loud. ‘Are you friend to Uderstir? Have you come to lift our siege?’

  ‘I most certainly am not a friend of Uderstir!’ bellowed Barundin, stepping forward. ‘Those thieves and cowards are my enemies through and through.’

  ‘Then you are friend with Baron Gerhadricht,’ Theoland said. He waved a hand to a large green and yellow pavilion at the centre of the camp. ‘Please, come with me. My lord awaits you in his tent. He offers his word that no harm will come to you.’

  ‘The words of manlings are meaningless,’ said Hengrid, brandishing his axe fiercely. ‘That is why we are here!’

  Theoland did not flinch. ‘If you would but come with me, this can all be settled quickly, I am sure,’ said the herald, turning his horse. He looked over his shoulder at the dwarfs. ‘Bring as many retainers as you feel comfortable with. You will not find our hospitality lacking.’

  As the riders cantered away, Barundin looked to Hengrid and Arbrek. The old runelord simply shrugged and grunted.

  Hengrid gave a nod towards the camp. ‘They’ll not try anything daft with another army arrayed on their flank,’ said the thane. ‘I’ll come with you if you like.’

  ‘No, I want you to stay and keep command of the army should I not return,’ said Barundin. ‘I’ll go alone. Let’s not show these manlings too much respect.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Hengrid.

  Barundin took a deep breath and walked down the hill, following in the hoof prints left by the riders. He ignored the stares of the soldiers and peasants as he strode purposefully through the camp, his gilded armour gleaming in the autumn sun, which peeked occasionally from behind the low clouds.

  He came to the tent of the baron and found Theoland and his guard of honour waiting outside. The baron’s flag fluttered from a pole next to the pavilion. Without a word, Theoland bowed and held open the tent flap for Barundin to enter.

  The material of the tent was thick and did not allow much light inside. Instead, two braziers, fuming and sputtering, illuminated the interior. The floor was covered with scattered rugs, hides and furs, and low chairs were arranged in a circle around the near end of the pavilion. The remainder was hidden behind heavy velvet drapes.

  The tent was empty except for Barundin and a solitary man, wizened with age, who sat crooked upon one of the chairs, his eyes peering at the newly arrived dwarf. He raised a palsied hand and gestured to a small table to one side, on which stood a ewer and some crystal glasses.

  ‘Wine?’ said the man.

  ‘No thanks, I’m not staying long,’ said Barundin.

  The man nodded slowly, and seemed to drift away again.

  ‘Are you Baron Gerhadricht?’ asked Barundin, walking forward and standing in the middle of the rugs.

  ‘I am,’ replied the baron. ‘What business does a dwarf king seek in Uderstir?’

  ‘Well, first off, I’ve a matter to bring to you,’ said Barundin. ‘You’re from Konlach, right?’

  ‘I am the Baron of Konlach, that is correct,’ said Gerhadricht.

  ‘Then where’s our timber?’ said Barundin, crossing his arms.

  ‘You’ve come all this way with an army for some timber?’ said the baron with a laugh. ‘Timber? Can’t you see we’ve got a war to fight? We don’t have any spare timber!’

  ‘We have an agreement,’ insisted Barundin. ‘I don’t care about your wars. We have a contract between us.’

  ‘Once Uderstir is mine, we shall make up the deficit, I assure you,’ said the baron. ‘Now, is that all?’

  ‘One does not dismiss a dwarf king so easily!’ snarled Barundin. ‘I’m not here for your timber. I’m here for those bloody cowards, the Vessals. I mean to storm Uderstir and take what is mine by right of grudge.’

  ‘What is yours?’ said Gerhadricht with a hiss. ‘What claim do you have to Uderstir? Mine goes back many generations, to the alignment of Konlach and Uderstir by my great-great-great uncle. Uderstir is mine by right, usurped by Silas Vessal with bribery and murder.’

  The tent flap opened and Theoland entered. ‘I heard raised voices,’ he said, looking between the baron and Barundin. ‘What are you arguing about?’

  ‘Your inheritance, dear boy,’ said Gerhadricht. He looked at Barundin. ‘My youngest nephew, Theoland. My only surviving kin. Can you believe that?’

  ‘He looks a fine enough lad for a manling,’ said Barundin, eyeing up the baron’s herald. ‘So you think you have a claim to Uderstir?’

  ‘My great-great-great grandfather was once baron here,’ said Theoland. ‘It is mine by right of inheritance through my uncle and his marriage.’

  ‘Well, you can have whatever’s left of Uderstir once I’m through with the Vessals,’ said Barundin. ‘I have declared right of grudge, and that’s far more important than your manling titles and inheritances. Baron Silas Vessal betrayed my father, leaving him on the field of battle to be killed by orcs. I demand recompense and recompense I shall get!’

  ‘Grudge?’ said the baron wit
h scorn. ‘What about rights of law? You are a dwarf, and you are in the lands of the Empire. Your wishes are of no concern to me. If you agree to assist me in the shortening of this siege, I will gladly hand over the Vessals to your justice.’

  ‘And one half of the coffers of Uderstir,’ said Barundin.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ snapped Gerhadricht. ‘You would have my nephew be a pauper baron, like one of those scrabbling wretches of the Border Princes or Estalia? Ridiculous!’

  ‘Uncle, perhaps…’ started Theoland, but he was cut off by the baron.

  ‘There will be no more bargaining,’ said Gerhadricht. ‘That’s my best offer.’

  Barundin bristled and looked at Theoland, who shrugged helplessly. Baron Gerhadricht appeared to be contemplating the worn designs of one of the rugs.

  ‘I intend to assault Uderstir, baron,’ said Barundin, and his voice was low and calm, on the far edge of anger that is the icy cold of genuine ire rather than the tantrum that most people mistake for rage. ‘Your army can stand aside, or stand betwixt me and my foe. It would not go well for you, should you be in my road.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Barundin turned on his heel and marched out of the tent.

  Footsteps behind him caused him to turn, and he saw Theoland striding after him.

  ‘King Barundin!’ the herald called out, and the king stopped, bristling with anger, his hands pale fists by his side. ‘Please, let me talk to my uncle.’

  ‘My attack begins as soon as I get back to my army,’ growled Barundin. ‘You have that long to convince him of his folly.’

  ‘Please, I don’t want more blood shed than is necessary,’ said Theoland, stooping to one knee in front of the king.

  ‘Remind your uncle that he has broken oath with us on the trade agreement,’ said Barundin. ‘Remind him that he will be lucky to have half the coffers of Uderstir for your inheritance. And remind him that should he attempt to stand in my way, it will not be just the lives of his men that are forfeit, but also his own.’

  With nothing more to say, Barundin stepped around the distraught young noble and marched up the hill.

  The dwarf army was now lined up in front of him, flanked to the north by two cannons, and by the third cannon to the south. The clans were gathered around their hornblowers and standard bearers: a row of grim-faced hammer- and axe-wielding warriors that stretched for nearly three hundred yards.

  As he approached the army, Barundin pulled forth Grudgesettler and held the weapon aloft. The air shimmered as weapons were raised in return, glinting with the pale sunlight, and a throaty grumbling began to reverberate across the army.

  Loremaster Thagri stood ready with the Zhufbar book of grudges open in his hands. Barundin took it from him and addressed his army, reading from the open page.

  ‘Let it be known that I, King Barundin of Zhufbar, record this grudge in front of my people,’ Barundin said, his voice loud and belligerent now that the time of reckoning was at hand. ‘I name myself grudgesworn against Baron Silas Vessal of Uderstir, a traitor, a weakling and a coward. By his treacherous act, Baron Vessal did endanger the army of Zhufbar, and through his actions brought about the death of King Throndin of Zhufbar, my father. Recompense must be in blood, for death can only be met with death. No gold, no apology can atone for this betrayal. Before the thanes of Zhufbar and with Grungni as my witness, I swear this oath!

  ‘I declare grudge upon the Vessals of Uderstir. Leave no stone upon another while they still cower from justice! Leave no man between us and vengeance! Let none that resist us be punished other than by death! Kazak un uzkul!’

  Kazak un uzkul: battle and death. The dwarfs took up the cry, and the horns sounded long and hard from the hilltop.

  ‘Kazak un uzkul! Kazak un uzkul! Kazak un uzkul! Kazak un uzkul! Kazak un uzkul!! Kazak un uzkul!’

  The hills resounded with the war cry and all eyes in the shallow valley below were turned to them as the dwarfs began to march forward, beating their weapons on their shields, their armoured boots making the ground shake as they advanced.

  The boom of the cannons accompanied the advance, hurling their shot high over the heads of the approaching dwarf army. Although smaller than the great cannons of the Empire, the cannons of Zhufbar were inscribed with magical runes by the runesmiths, their ammunition carved with dire symbols of penetrating and destruction. The cannonballs trailed magical fire and smoke, hissing with mystical energy.

  The salvo struck the already-weakened tower, shattering it with three mighty blasts that shook the ground. A fountain of ruptured stone was flung high into the air, raining down blocks of rock and pulverised dust. The walls beside the now ruined tower, unsupported by its strength, buckled and began to crumble. Shouts of alarm and wails of pain echoed from within the walls.

  Barundin aimed straight for the growing breach, some two hundred yards away, advancing steadily over the broken ground. The odd whine of a bullet and the hiss of an arrow went past, but the fire from the castle was lacklustre in the extreme and not a single dwarf fell.

  The men of Konlach parted in front of the dwarf throng like wheat to a scythe, pushing and hurrying each other in their eagerness to be out of the line of march. Grunting and puffing, the dwarfs pulled themselves over the siege defences created by Baron Gerhadricht’s men and poured through the gaps in the earth walls and shallow trenches, reforming on the other side.

  Another salvo from the cannons roared out, and the south wall cracked and shuddered, toppling stones the size of men onto the ground, making the battlements jagged like the broken teeth of an impoverished vagrant.

  Now only a hundred yards away, the dwarfs raised their shields in front of them, as arrows and bullets came at them with greater frequency and accuracy. Most of the missiles bounced harmlessly away from the shields and armour of the dwarfs, but here and there along the line a dwarf faltered, dead or wounded.

  To the left, the gate opened and a troop of several dozen knights sallied forth. They quickly formed their line, lances levelled for the charge. Hengrid left Barundin’s side and commanded several of the handgun-armed Thunderer regiments to wheel to the left, facing this new threat. The king forged onward, now only fifty yards from the walls, as another cannonball struck the castle, its cataclysmic impact tearing a hole several yards wide to the foundations of the wall. The king saw spearmen gathering in the breach, preparing to defend the gaping hole.

  The thundering of hooves to the left announced the cavalry charge, met with the crackle of handgun fire. Barundin glanced in their direction and saw the knights bearing down on the Thunderers, who had not bothered to reload, but instead drew hammers and axes ready for the attack.

  It never came.

  On the flank of the knights emerged Dran and his rangers, stepping out from the reeds and scattered bushes of the stream’s bank. With crossbows levelled, they formed a hasty line and fired, unable to miss at such close range. A quarter of the knights were toppled by the volley, and others fell as their horses tripped on falling bodies and crashed into each other.

  Without pause, the rangers slung their crossbows, drew large double-handed hunting axes and stormed forwards. Their charge disrupted, their impetus lost, the knights tried to wheel to face this threat, but they were too disorganised and few of them had their lances at full tilt or were moving at any speed when the dwarf rangers hit. With Hengrid leading them, the Thunderers shouldered their weapons and moved forward to join the melee.

  Barundin was the first into the breach, bellowing and swinging his axe. Spear points glanced harmlessly off his rune-encrusted gromril armour, their points sheared away by a sweep of Grudgesettler. As the hammerers pressed in beside him, he leapt forward from the tangle of rock and wood within the breach, crashing like a metal comet into the ranks of the spearmen, knocking them over. Grudgesettler blazed as limbs and heads were severed by a mighty swing from the dwarf king, and as the Hammerers pressed forward, their deadly war-mattocks smashing and crushing, the spearmen’s nerve broke and t
hey fled the vengeful dwarfs.

  Once inside the castle, the dwarfs made short work of the fighting. Dozens of manlings had been slain by the collapse of the tower and wall, and those who remained were shocked and no match for the heavily armoured, angry host that poured through the gap in the wall. Many threw up their hands and dropped their weapons in surrender, but the dwarfs showed no mercy. This was not war, this was grudge killing, and no quarter would be given.

  Hengrid breached the gates with Dran, having routed the knights, and the defenders gave themselves up in greater numbers. Swarms of women and children huddled in the crude huts inside the walls, shrieking and praying to Sigmar for deliverance. The dwarf army surrounded them, weapons drawn. Barundin was about to give the signal for the execution to begin when a shout rang out from the broken gateway.

  ‘Hold your arms!’ the voice commanded, and Barundin turned to see Theoland mounted upon his warhorse, a pistol in each hand, his visor lowered. ‘The battle is won, put up your weapons!’

  ‘You dare command King Barundin of Zhufbar?’ bellowed Barundin, forcing his way through the dwarf throng towards the young noble.

  Theoland aimed a pistol at the approaching king, his arm as steady as a rock. ‘The body of Baron Obius Vessal lies outside these walls,’ he said. ‘These are my people now, my subjects to protect.’

  ‘Stand against me and your life is forfeit,’ snarled Barundin, hefting Grudgesettler, whose blade was slicked with blood, the runes inscribed in the metal smoking and hissing.

  ‘If I do not, then my honour is forfeit,’ said Theoland. ‘What leader of men would I be, to allow the slaughter of women and children? I would rather die than stand by and allow such base murder.’

  Barundin was about to reply, but there was something in the boy’s voice that caused him to pause. There was pride, but it was tinged with doubt and fear. Despite the steadiness of his aim, Barundin could tell that Theoland was frightened, terrified in fact. The lad’s courage struck Barundin heavily, and he glanced back to see the wailing women and children, huddled under the shadow of the north wall, the bodies of their fathers and husbands around them. In that moment, his anger drained away.