by Warhammer
One of the greyhairs intervened, laying her hand on Haldora’s arm and another on Friedra’s as though to physically bridge between the two of them. Haldora recognised her from Undak Grimgazan. It was Lazara Fundunstull.
‘It wasn’t so much a matter of letting them do anything, dearie,’ said the old dwarf lady. ‘They was in and out quicker than a viper in a burrow, and you was in no fit state to go marching off again.’
‘I should have gone,’ said Haldora, but her heart really wasn’t in it. She wanted to be as strong as everyone else but the thought of spending even more time trekking back up the mountain made her weak at the knees. ‘I could have gone.’
‘Of course you could, Haldora,’ said her mother, ‘but it was best that you stayed here.’
Haldora noticed that there was pinkish light coming down one of the window-shafts above the gate.
‘It’s nearly dawn? And they’re not back yet?’
‘Sorry, dear, but no,’ said Friedra. ‘I’m sure they’ll be back soon though.’
‘They better be,’ said Haldora, ‘or they’ll not get here before the orc horde.’
Concerned by this, Haldora fetched up her axe and shield where she had left them by the bench. She trotted to the steps leading out to the tower on the left flank of the gate, tagging on to the end of a line of armoured dwarfs heading up the stairs.
Nobody said anything as she reached the rampart, but there were a few curious and confused glances when others saw her braided hair and lack of beard. Moving to the parapet, Haldora ignored the other dwarfs and leaned over the wall to look south down the valley.
‘Nothing yet,’ she muttered to herself. Turning, she called out to the dwarfs manning the viewing tubes on a circular platform set behind and above the wall, reached by a spiral ironwork staircase. ‘Any sign of the expedition that went out looking for the Angboks and Grimssons?’
‘Nothing so far,’ the reply drifted back.
Haldora sighed heavily and leaned on the rampart, her shield dangling over the edge, axe on the stones. The night gloom was rapidly dissipating, and now and then she looked south, fearing to see the dark blotch of the greenskin army spreading up the valley. When not doing that, she cast her gaze north, towards the muted green of the lower groves on the opposite slope, fear turning to hope.
Though the sun was encroaching upon the Dragonbacks, it was hard to keep her eyes open. The night’s turmoil, and that of the day before, was dragging at her thoughts and body. Several times she was forced to rouse herself, stamping her feet and letting cold water trickle from her flask down the back of her neck.
When the orange glow of daybreak finally fell upon the stones of the Lower Gate towers, Haldora heard raised voices below, in the hall behind the gates. She couldn’t make out what was being said, but soon word was passed up the steps.
‘Anyone hear from the watchtowers?’ asked a dwarf standing by the archway. ‘The king’s messengers are seeking account of what’s been happening.’
‘I came from Undak Grimgazan,’ said Haldora. The dwarf looked at her with a furrowed brow. ‘Really, I came in with the others last night.’
‘Right you are, lass,’ said the dwarf, who could not have been more than a year or two older than her.
‘My name is Haldora,’ she said primly, picking up her axe. ‘Take me to one of these messengers.’
She followed the dwarf as he headed down the steps, and saw that her mother and the other womenfolk had been gathered together around three dwarfs huddled about a woven standard bearing the runes of the Rinkeldraz clan – cousins somewhat removed from the king, no doubt.
‘Come with us,’ one of them said when Haldora introduced herself. ‘And the rest of you that thinks they can tell the king what’s going on.’
Haldora wasn’t sure what to make of the messengers. They seemed gruff, almost accusing.
‘We’re not going anywhere,’ she said. ‘Our families are still out there, searching for missing clanfolk.’
‘There’s wild talk from the Lower Gate to the east depths, and we need to find out what’s happening,’ said another of the heralds. ‘Anybody else here that can tell us?’
Haldora shot a near-panicked look at her mother.
‘We’ll wait here, dear,’ said Friedra. Her fingers were absent-mindedly plucking at the hem of her tunic, leaving it frayed, and Haldora realised just how nervous her mother was. Someone had to go to the king to answer his questions, and it looked as though Haldora would have to be the one to do it.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll go with them, but you send word the moment – the moment! – pa or Skraffi or Nakka come back, do you hear?’
‘We’ll send a runner as soon as we know anything, sweet pie,’ said Friedra, using the nickname Haldora had not heard since she had been ten years old. It brought an immediate smile despite everything.
‘Thank you.’ Haldora turned to the messengers. ‘We best get going.’
The heralds shared dubious looks but silently consented and led Haldora out of the hall. She had never been to this part of Ekrund before but in her fatigued state was in no condition to pay too much attention to their surroundings. She plodded after the three other dwarfs, until eventually they came to a group of broad-shouldered youths carrying sedan chairs in one of the minor hallways. These too were decked in the colours and emblems of the king and Haldora was quickly but diligently escorted to one of the chairs and helped to climb aboard. A foursome of well-muscled retainers hefted her up onto their shoulders and, with the messengers similarly ensconced in their own transports, they moved away.
It took some getting used to the swaying and up-and-down, rocking from side to side, juddering with the thudding of the dwarfs’ boots on the stones of the tunnel. Haldora had heard that the High King himself was carried aloft on his throne in similar fashion, and she felt privileged to be conveyed in such a manner. Just to hire the labour would have cost more than Haldora could conceive, never mind the workmanship that had gone into the ornately carved chairs and the thick wutruth poles that bore them aloft.
It would take the best part of the day to reach the king’s halls – it was amazing that the messengers had arrived so swiftly. The answer to this became evident as they crossed from the Lower Gate to the second deeps, passing along a bridge that soared over a chasm down which rumbled an underground river nearly a hundred paces wide. At the far end were more liveried dwarfs waiting on benches.
The sedan chairs were smoothly and efficiently transferred from one team to the next. As the new bearers started off at a jog, she leant over in her seat to look back, seeing the previous teams flopping gratefully onto the chairs, while maidens with pitchers of frothing beer emerged from a side chamber.
Sleep tugged at her eyelids again and this time she did not try to fight it. Not only would it be an impossible task, she knew she would need all her strength to give the king the attention he deserved. After a while she became accustomed to the motion of the sedan chair and she tried to relax, telling herself over and over that her father and grandfather would return safe and well. Eventually her tiredness conquered once more and she slipped into a fitful sleep, woken only twice more when the bearer teams changed.
When they reached their final destination and she was roused by polite coughs from her bearers Haldora found herself being lowered to a wooden stage built on the floor of a small but beautifully tiled chamber. The walls and floor were covered by a single mosaic depicting in miniature the grand hall of Karaz-a-Karak. Haldora only knew this because she had seen other versions in carvings and etchings as wall decorations in the halls of other clans.
Without further explanation, clearly still hastening to their lord’s command, the messengers flanked Haldora and led her through a curtained portal into a tunnel that sloped gently upwards. She could see an archway ahead through which crept sunlight, and her guardians took her out onto a balcony cut into the mountainside.
Everything was carved from the naked rock, from the awning-like protrusi
on above held up by six stout pillars lining the exterior wall to the oblong balcony itself, easily thirty paces wide and twice as long, surrounded by a crenulated battlement as tall as Haldora.
The view took her breath away, as they had come out near the parapet at one end of the loggia and she could see to her left a huge waterfall spilling down from above. The spray touched her cheek, and the roar, which she had been able to hear but not identify coming up the corridor, was thunderous. All around were the peaks of the Dragonbacks and from the position of the sun she realised that they were somewhere on the west side of Mount Bloodhorn, in mid-afternoon. She tried to look up to the source of the immense waterfall but a nudge from one of the messengers reminded her that time was pressing.
As she turned away her breath was caught again, this time by the robed figure sitting on a throne on a shallow plinth at the far end of the balcony.
The king.
Fear gripped her, greater than anything she had experienced since facing the wolves with the rangers. This was King Erstukar Rinkeldraz, overseer of Ekrund, the richest and most powerful dwarf west of the old mountains. She had expected to see an advisor, perhaps, or one of the princes if she had been lucky. They were here also, two handsome dwarfs, one standing to the side of the throne – Rodri, many years her senior, and his brother, Horthrad, a few years her younger. Rodri eyed her impassively, almost dismissively, but Horthrad gave her a surprised look and a smile that sent a shiver of a different kind down her back. His beard and hair were thick and black, and as Horthrad stroked a hand down his chin in contemplation she saw rings with gems the size of peach stones on each finger. A coterie of grey-bearded runesmiths and loremaster-types huddled around the opposite side of the king. They appeared far less welcoming.
‘Approach,’ said a hammer-bearing captain in full war regalia.
She did so, bowing and curtseying every other step, unsure what the correct decorum was when in the presence of so much royalty. She tried to keep her gaze on Erstukar, though not meeting his eyes, but she kept looking around, trying to work out where she was and who was who.
The messengers overtook her and presented themselves with florid bows before the king, sweeping their beards aside with graceful gestures as they did so.
‘Name yourself,’ said the king’s guard. ‘State your purpose.’
‘Haldora Angbok, your majesty,’ she said, addressing her answer to Erstukar. She flapped a hand at the heralds. ‘I was brought here by your messengers.’
‘Angbok?’ A greybeard with eyebrows that protruded past the brim of his felt hat said the word slowly, his blue eyes intent upon her, their colour a rarity amongst the Ekrundfolk and thought to be a gift of Valaya. Certainly by his garb – a heavy apron stitched with metal thread over sturdy trousers and shirt – he appeared a crafter of some kind and Haldora assumed he was a runesmith. She heard her name being muttered by some of the others, and there were exchanges of looks that she could not decipher.
‘Yes, Angbok,’ Haldora said. She curtsied again, just to be sure, flustered that her name caused so much consternation.
‘She was in the outer towers?’ Horthrad asked the messengers. They all bobbed their heads in answer.
‘So was claimed,’ one of them replied.
‘We need a warrior’s account,’ said Rodri. ‘Not the ramblings of some miner’s wife.’
‘I believe that is what we are going to have,’ said the king, eying Haldora closely. The mutterings silenced as the king waved for her to approach, the messengers stepping away to one side to allow this to happen. ‘The Angboks are a strange breed, it seems. Can you not see from her garb that she is a warrior?’
Haldora thought he might be poking fun at her, but Erstukar seemed sincere.
‘She wears armour and bears a shield, that does not make her a warrior,’ said Rodri.
‘I’ve killed near a score of goblins these last two days, how many have you?’ Haldora snapped, tired of this treatment.
‘And you have landed another fell blow,’ laughed Horthrad, punching his older brother on the arm. ‘One well-deserved.’
‘Enough prattling,’ said Erstukar. His piercing stare fell on Haldora. ‘Tell me, Haldora Angbok, what has been happening to the south?’
She recounted, as briefly and accurately as she could recall, the events of the last few days, from being posted to Undak Grimgazan and the missing patrol right the way up to the flight to the Lower Gate. During this time servants came up and relieved Haldora of her axe and shield, replacing them with buttered bread, a round of soft cheese and a stein of water, for which she was most grateful.
‘Wyverns?’ said one ageing advisor. He looked up into the cloudless sky past the columns as if to see such a beast right there.
‘How many, did you say?’ Erstukar said quietly. ‘How many orcs?’
‘A hundred thousand, your majesty,’ Haldora replied. ‘Or so the greybeards reckoned it.’
‘Preposterous,’ was the verdict from Rodri. ‘They must have been drinking.’
‘A little,’ Haldora admitted, ‘but I saw with my own eyes enough orcs to cover the wildlands from sight’s end on the left to the right.’
‘Fifty thousand or a hundred thousand, it matters not,’ said the runesmith. ‘It’s a horde, and one that needs dealing with.’
The council set to debating the matter and Haldora felt herself overlooked, her testimony finished. She tried to follow the conversation of her elders and betters but they kept talking all at once, and often at crosswise purpose, arguing over not only the veracity of her account, and her usefulness as a witness, but also the best course of action given a variety of likely and unlikely scenarios.
She was shocked when she felt a hand on her arm.
‘Refreshments?’ asked Prince Horthrad.
Up close he was just as handsome, his eyes flint grey, the hand by her elbow strong but gentle, the fragranced oil in his hair so different from the fire smoke, lard and coal dust she was used to. Nakka never had oil in his hair. Well, not the fragranced kind. Thinking of him made her suddenly feel guilty and, as politely as she could, she tugged her arm from Horthrad’s grip.
‘Pardon?’ she said.
‘Refreshments,’ the prince said again, indicating a trestle that had been brought out and laid with fine ceramic plates and dishes, and crystal tankards on silver trays.
‘Beer please,’ she said. ‘Just something light, like an Owd Lorkki’s or Badger’s Delight.’
‘I’m not sure we have either of those,’ Horthrad said with a grin. ‘Perhaps some Star Amber?’
‘I’ll give it a try,’ said Haldora. She took the proffered cup and looked back at the king and his advisors. ‘What’s going to happen?’
‘Haven’t got a clue,’ confessed the prince. He took a drink from his tankard. Foam bubbled on his beard as he listened attentively for a moment. ‘Seems as though Rodri is keen to lead the army out and meet the orcs head-on, while Nordok is advocating that we pull back everybody behind the great gates and leave the Lower Gate defences. The others are siding with one or the other.’
The debate was certainly spirited and the council’s voices were getting louder and louder, while their gestures became more forceful. Beards were wagged, stroked and tugged, all part of the complex negotiations that were progressing – just as dwarfs are likely to look to the companion with the longest beard for advice and leadership, so the dwarfs arguing with each other were prone to trying to make their beards look as long, big and important as possible to lend weight to their arguments.
Rodri in particular was agitated, sometimes pounding a fist into his other palm and on several occasions flat out jabbing his finger at his father, who seemed unimpressed by this behaviour.
‘He came of age right at the end of the war with the elves. They retreated back across the sea before he had a chance to see battle and he’s been trying to prove himself ever since,’ explained Horthrad, finishing his beer. A steward appeared as if by magic and whisked
away his empty tankard. Haldora was left to put her empty cup back on the trestle.
‘You don’t feel you have something to make up for, to prove you’re equal to the longbeards?’ she asked.
‘I’ll prove myself in other ways,’ said the young prince, tapping the side of his head. ‘Been studying my runes and my engineering, see? Rodri can go chasing orcs as much as he likes. My legacy will be something even grander – a revolutionary type of catapult or a grand hall or maybe even a new type of rune. Sorry, I think they’re waiting for me. I suppose I better show willing.’
Haldora watched Horthrad join the rest of the council. He seemed quite different to the other dwarfs she knew. There was something in him that she recognised about herself – the desire to make her own destiny.
‘We have a duty,’ one of the longbeards said. ‘Is it not an oath of the king to protect Ekrund? The Lower Gate is part of Ekrund, your majesty.’
‘I do not need to be reminded of my oaths,’ Erstukar replied, thumping the arm of his throne.
‘Orcs are cowardly creatures at heart,’ said Rodri. ‘One good charge and we’ll send them straight back into the wildlands. Give them some cold iron and they’ll not trouble us again.’
‘I fear it is too late for that,’ said Haldora. The council members turned in unison, eyes widening with surprise.
‘You have something to add, young maiden?’ asked the apron-clad dwarf, whom she now realised was none other than the runelord Nordok Stormhammer. He was famed beyond Ekrund, and had once even served a commission for the High King at Karaz-a-Karak. His startling eyes bore straight into her thoughts, quicker than an Angbok digging gold. ‘You come to the king’s assembly bearing not just news but counsel?’
‘I…’ Haldora took a deep breath and saw Horthrad give her a wink, lending her much-needed strength. ‘I don’t want to talk out of turn– ‘
‘Too late,’ muttered Rodri.
‘ –but I really think you need to take what I said seriously.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked the king. ‘How are we not taking you seriously?’