Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘At first the Angboks and their allies set up farms in the wildlands to the south, and dug a few open pits where they found small quantities of ore. It was nowhere near as grand a life as in Karak Eight Peaks, but they were folk easily pleased with their own space and time, and the Rinkeldraz thanes didn’t boss anybody around or get ideas above themselves.

  Barley was sown and harvested, among other crops, and beer was brewed and a few watermills were built along Blind River to make flour. The wildlands back then were called that because of all the flowers and grasses, not because of orcs and goblins. That would come later. For the time the colony fared well if not exceptionally, and news went back to Karak Eight Peaks of this with the wagons of beer.

  It was perhaps at this time that the Angboks and the others started getting a reputation, living on the plains and farming rather than mining, but they didn’t care. And there were other clans that thought this seemed a good idea. This was back before the war with the elves, of course, and the plains dwarfs had much dealing with the folk of Ulthuan, before the Great Betrayal.

  More folk grew the colony over the years, and they all bided the rules of the Rinkeldraz and other clans that had come before and it was a nice time for all. But things can’t stay like that forever, not with more folk trying to grow the same thing and build their own mills and brew their own beer, and soon the Angboks realised that they hadn’t gotten away from anything. They spoke to the Rinkeldraz thanes and a few others and it was decided to keep heading west again, all the way to the mountains this time, leaving the newcomers to enjoy the fruits of the plains.’

  Skraffi’s warnings, that the appearance of a troll signified far worse events to come, fell on deaf ears. Such occurrences were rare, especially at such a bountiful time of year when most trolls could find plenty to eat without daring dwarf lands, but they were not without precedent. Gabbik, at the urging of Haldora, persuaded the council of thanes to send a few patrols into the woods, though nobody found the troll. There were even a few whispers that Skraffi had made up the story to generate interest in his mead, though nobody ever said this to his face, nor mentioned why Haldora would support such an outlandish tale. After that, everybody hoped their lives could return to normal.

  Gabbik, like any sensible dwarf, was never really ready to believe anything until he had seen it with his own eyes or heard it with his own ears, or at least spoken with another dwarf who had first-hand experience. News of turmoil in the old mountains to the north seemed a distant concern, especially with new seams opening every day and the trading season with Karak Eight Peaks, Barak Varr, Karak Izril and Karak Azul about to reach its peak period. He was a voice of reason, warning everybody against over-reaction, urging them to keep to their work at the gold seam.

  Concerns for other parts of the dwarf realm were brought back into sharp focus when proof of the disaster at Karak Varn arrived with the first survivors. They were guided to Ekrund by goat herders, traders, troll hunters and rangers, a few at first but growing in number as spring became summer. The Ekrundfolk had a reputation for being insular, but the king ordered that the chambers and halls of the Dragonbacks were opened to any that needed respite and refuge.

  Friedra, in her role as matron of Valaya for the Angboks, volunteered to be amongst those standing ready to provide comfort and assistance to the arriving refugees, and Haldora pledged herself to help her mother. They received word one evening, not long before sunset, that a group of Karak Varn exiles would be arriving at the East Gate shortly, and that some were in a particularly bad way. Mother and daughter hurried to the gate hall attended by a coterie of younger nieces and nephews with blankets filled with more blankets, ale, bread and small comforts like beard combs and jellied mushrooms.

  Haldora left her mother to supervise the unloading of these wares and made her way up the winding staircase to the watchtower overlooking the eastern approach. The sky was clear, sprayed with stars, the white moon low on the horizon and now the rising of the red moon. In the starlight the road glittered like a river, winding back and forth down the eastern flank of Mount Bloodhorn. In the last dying purple light of the day Haldora could see a broken column of figures moving up the road, several dozen dwarfs led by a pair of rangers carrying gleaming blue lanterns.

  Much further out, beyond the light of the lamps, she could see the dim glow of flames in the far distance – campfires out in the wildlands of those still on their way. In places they looked like ruddy reflections of the constellations above.

  ‘How many is that?’ Haldora asked, turning her attention to the gatekeeper standing guard in the niche beside her. His beard reached his waist with broad streaks of grey – a veteran of several centuries.

  ‘Two hundred, maybe a few more,’ the dwarf replied. He set his axe on the rampart in front of them and stroked his hand down his beard. ‘Word is there are at least as many again still out in the wildlands.’

  ‘Four hundred folk. Little ones too,’ Haldora added, seeing children amongst the refugees, a few of them so young they were being carried by mothers or fathers. They were less than a stone’s throw from the gate now, and Haldora could see some of the new arrivals were hurt, limping or with arms in slings, heads bandaged. A few dwarfs were coming out of the gate, bearing cups and kettles of mulled ale. Steam curled from the pots and a babble of grateful voices rose to meet them. ‘I best go back down. See what we can do.’

  ‘Patch them up and send them on, I reckon,’ said the guard. Haldora subjected him to a scowl but he was unrepentant. ‘Troublemakers, mark my words. I have cousins still in Karak Eight Peaks. Said that when them that was escaping Karak Ungor came there was anarchy – not enough beds, beer, fuel.‘

  ‘There are enough beds here, and as much fuel and beer as is needed,’ said Haldora, heading back down the steps.

  The first refugees had crossed the threshold by the time Haldora had descended to the gate hall. A few gatekeepers looked on, hammers at the ready, watching for any trouble, but most of the dwarfs were there to welcome the exiles with hot drinks and food. Such gifts were gratefully accepted.

  Haldora broke stonebread into manageable chunks and handed them out while one of her cousins ladled soup into wooden bowls. An aging female dwarf wrapped in a thick red shawl approached holding the hands of two youngsters who could not have been more than nine or ten years old apiece. There was a look in the grandmother’s eyes that Haldora had never seen before, a blankness as though completely devoid of emotion. The children’s expressions were easier to read: fear.

  ‘Come, sit down awhile,’ said Haldora, putting the bread aside to lay a few blankets on the floor. The children flopped down with sighs but their guardian remained alert, eyes roaming around the gate hall. ‘You’re safe now.’

  The old dwarf’s eyes snapped to Haldora’s, bright and cold blue, so piercing, so different from the warm gaze of Gramma Awdie.

  ‘Safe?’ The word came in a harsh whisper. ‘Safe? Safe for now, you mean.’

  ‘Safe, for as long as you want to stay,’ said Friedra, who brought over two bowls of broth and spoons and gave them to the children. The infants started to wolf down their food until a sharp word from the elderly dwarf slowed them.

  ‘Your grandchildren look tired, but well enough,’ Haldora said.

  ‘Not my grandchildren,’ said the old dwarf. She nodded thanks as Friedra fetched another bowl of soup and then she sat down with the children.

  ‘Whose are they? Are their parents here?’ Haldora asked, looking around to see if any other dwarfs were looking for the children.

  ‘Don’t know. Found ‘em on the south shore of the lake, in the camp. Nobody else was paying ‘em any mind so I figured to watch out for ‘em.’

  ‘That was very good of you,’ said Friedra. ‘It must have been frightening, and confusing. There’s others that would have just looked to themselves.’

  ‘Aye, there were some, but not many.’

  She fell silent for a little
while and ate. Haldora turned her attention to other new arrivals, some of them injured, some drawn and fatigued.

  ‘More?’ Haldora asked when she saw that the old dwarf had finished her soup.

  ‘There’ll be plenty more that need it,’ the other dwarf replied with a shake of her head. ‘There couldn’t have been more than a thousand reached Barak Varr before us but the gates was closed. We had nothing. They gave us pots and fish and some faggots of wood but there was no more room we was told. I don’t know if those that came after were able to get even that. When the waters came in it was like the sluice gate of a mill opening. The lower deeps was drowned in just a few days. Terrible it was. Terrible.’

  ‘How many?’ asked Haldora. The old dwarf looked at her sharply, misunderstanding. ‘How many more are following?’

  ‘Most went south, right down the mountains towards Karak Eight Peaks and Karak Drazh and around them parts.’ She motioned towards a particularly burly-looking dwarf standing talking to one of the gatekeepers under the shadow of the gatehouse itself. ‘That’s Thane Broddi, said we’d do better crossing the wildlands and coming to the Dragonbacks. Plenty of room to settle in at Ekrund he said. Welcoming folk, he reckoned. Seemed a sensible plan at the time.’

  ‘He’s not wrong,’ said Friedra.

  ‘He didn’t reckon on the greenskins though, did he?’ The dwarf’s expression turned sour. She looked at the youngsters, who were dozing on the blanket on either side of her, and dropped her voice. ‘Goblins found us about ten days ago. Been trying to pick off small groups. Thane Borrick took a party out hunting one night, never came back. And orcs, big ones, attacked the camp just the day before yesterday. That’s why we got so many hurt.’

  ‘Day before yesterday?’ Haldora couldn’t believe the news. ‘You must have been on the road by then, in the eastern hills. There’s no orcs there this time of year.’

  ‘Tell that to Farrin, and Drokki, and Goldhaf, and them others what are dead on the road.’

  ‘How many more?’ Friedra asked, taking up the question that the old dwarf had ignored. ‘How many more are coming to Ekrund?’

  ‘Three, maybe four thousand. Pretty much all that is left.’

  Haldora clamped a hand over her mouth. It seemed like a lot of people to come at once, and suddenly she realised how difficult it would be to accommodate such a number. The thanes at Barak Varr had probably been right to move on the refugees. Her shock increased as she considered how few dwarfs had escaped Karak Varn. She didn’t know for sure how big the lakeside hold had grown, but it had to be at least a hundred thousand dwarfs or more. Some would have gone to Karak Kadrin or Karaz-a-Karak, and some to Barak Varr, but at most perhaps twenty thousand had escaped – less than a fifth of the Varnfolk.

  In comparison Ekrund was relatively small, with only fifty thousand dwarfs living and toiling in its tunnels. Increasing the number of mouths to feed by a tenth in a short time would push resources to breaking limit. Haldora met Friedra’s gaze and saw that her mother had been thinking the same thing.

  ‘Best not to worry about that yet, eh?’ Friedra said quietly. ‘There’s folks enough here that needs our help. We’ll have to wait to see what King Erstukar and the thanes decide.’

  ‘They better decide quickly,’ said Haldora, but she knew such councils were rarely swift to conclude.

  Haldora’s misgivings were proven wrong in one regard – it took less than three days for the king to announce he would convene the council of thanes to discuss the issue of the Karak Varn refugees. Gabbik was invited as representative of Clan Angbok, and with him went Nakka’s father Vadlir, head of the Troggklads, and a few other longbeards including Skraffi.

  It was no quick matter to attend the king’s summons. The Angboks’ mines had pushed far to the south-west of the central halls, leaving at least a two-day hike under the mountains until they reached the chambers of the mighty Rinkeldraz clan in the northern reaches of Ekrund. They set out after the morning digging shift following the king’s missive, each with a pack of supplies to keep them fed and watered. Gabbik was slightly suspicious of the bottles clinking in Skraffi’s bag but made no inquiries – the best would be that it was bottles of mead for the old-timer; the worst would be that he was carrying bottles of mead to offer to the king…

  They made good progress, talking little, but there were some pre-council discussions to formulate the opinion of the Angboks and Troggklads. The consensus was that space could be made in the southern deeps, but the refugees would have to turn disused workings into habitable chambers – dig window-shafts and fire chimneys, install lanterns and apply some masonry skills to rough-hewn mine tunnels. Gabbik had also consulted with the Miners’ Society and along with his fellow thanes had agreed to loan tools and equipment to the refugees on a preferential interest-free system for the next ten years, until they had established themselves. After that they would be charged only depreciation fees and build costs, backdated for the decade. This generosity, he hoped, would be matched by the king and leaders of other clans and mining organisations, not to mention the Brewers’ Guild, the Engineers’ Guild, the temples and the royal vaults. Skraffi had remained pointedly silent when Gabbik had announced this proposal, but the other thanes were more than happy to adopt a similar position for the sake of unity.

  They stayed the first night in the halls of the Gorblanz clan, related to the Angboks through marriage on Friedra’s great-grandmother’s side. As was customary on such visits, Gabbik and the others were feasted and toasted with no expense spared, while Gabbik gifted their hosts with a stunning ruby-inlaid tankard set and a rune-spoon that had once belonged to King Fardar of Karak Eight Peaks. The exact properties of the spoon’s runic inscription had been lost since its creation but Gabbik swore that whenever he used it, his soup was always just the right temperature, not too hot to start and never getting too cold no matter how long since it had been served.

  Old stories frequently swapped were swapped again. Vadlir, something of a bard in his youth and still possessing a passable singing voice, regaled the Gorblanz elders with a poem telling of the recent goblin raid by Gabbik and the others. Gabbik was a little disheartened to hear his part in the expedition covered in barely a verse while Stofrik’s escapades filled five. An almost blow-by-blow account of Nakka’s involvement comprised the remaining forty-eight verses.

  Final drinks were had, breakfast plans made and finally a little after the lamps were doused at midnight, Gabbik lay his head on his grit-filled pillow and got some sleep. They woke early the next morning, stirred by a lifetime of shifts down the mines. The window-shafts were still dark in the pre-dawn gloom but the folk of the Gorblanz clan were up and about too, stoking the fires and laying out the long banquet table for a breakfast send off that would ensure nobody doubted their hospitality. Their thanes, Snodruk and Gotan, joined the expedition as it set out with bellies full of porridge, eggs and bacon, beards still spattered with goat’s milk.

  A similar turn of events repeated itself at lunchtime with the Skallarssons, and the following night in the chambers of the Nordekkers. By the time Gabbik and his companions found themselves at the Central Hall their group numbered twenty-three.

  Only two or three times a year did Gabbik come to central Ekrund, usually on Miners’ Society business. It changed very little, having been delved beneath the Dragonbacks some fifteen hundred years earlier. The Central Hall was square, nearly a thousand paces to a side, the ceiling ten times the height of a dwarf and held up by marble pillars of deep red and blue. Unusually for a dwarf hall, the ceiling was four domes that blistered out onto the surface, each split by twenty long, narrow windows that allowed sun and moon to light proceedings below.

  The floor was an immense mosaic of tiles each no bigger than a thumbnail. The design shifted from pictorial representations of the ancestors to geometric patterns, runic instructions and more illustrations of forge scenes and miners at work. Gangs of beardlings were at work replacing damaged tiles; the tip-a-tip-tap of th
eir small hammers provided the background rhythm to the hubbub of several hundred dwarfs passing through.

  Benches made of ancient wutruth tree – brought from the old mountains because it would not grow in the Dragonbacks – stretched along the centre of the hall in a cross, and many dwarfs were sat on the buttock-polished wood smoking, talking, eating sandwiches or boiled eggs and generally relaxing. Pedlars with bootblack, hot sausages, metal polish, ale, souvenir cups, gold and silver torqs and rings, different ales, spiced kuri, small beers, troll-bone beard comb, goblin-bone toothpicks and orc-skull chamber pots – anything and everything that could be easily carried on a tray around a dwarf’s neck or trundled on a handbarrow.

  ‘Seems busier than I remember,’ said Skraffi. He looked up and Gabbik followed his gaze. There were red and black and green and purple streamers hung between the pillars. ‘And they weren’t there neither.’

  ‘King Erstukar’s birthday soon,’ said Gotan Gorblanz. ‘Getting everything ready for the big five-oh-oh.’

  ‘Kruk!’ said Gabbik. ‘Damn my beard, I’d almost forgotten. Skraffi, remind me about a gift for the king when we get back. Not that we can afford much, mind you.’ Skraffi opened his mouth but Gabbik recognised the look in his eye and cut him off. ‘And we’re not giving him mead. Something small but well-crafted. There’s a ladle went with that rune-spoon if I remember right.’

  ‘You can’t pass off an old heirloom ladle to the king on his five hundredth birthday,’ grumbled Skraffi. ‘And I tell you what, you can’t think of nothing he hasn’t got already. Mark me words, lad, there ain’t another thane in Ekrund would present the king with mead.’

  ‘There’s a reason for that,’ said Gabbik. The thought of having to pay for something else, or give away one of the treasures locked in the clan vault, sent a tremor of unease through Gabbik. He had been prudent for all these years, careful never to invite too many thanes to visit, always bearing down on the mining costs and the domestic expenses. He hadn’t done that for fun, and he certainly hadn’t done it to blow a small fortune trying to impress other thanes with the expense of his gift to the king. ‘What does the king want with gold and diamonds, anyway? He’s got more than enough of them. Bronze is coming back, I hear say. Very undervalued at the moment, is bronze. And tin. Versatile it is, good for plenty of jobs. I bet the king would like nothing better than to not have to worry about losing all them silver and gold and electrum tobacco boxes he has. A nice tin tobacco box, that he can squash and scratch, put down where he wants, not need guarding every moment, that’s a fine gift. A small one, fits in a waistcoat pocket, like.’