by Warhammer
Kulft nodded. The dwarf king looked back at the chest and then glowered at the few dwarfs that had taken hesitant steps up the stairway towards the chest. Kulft gestured for his companions to close the lid before any trouble started. He had heard of the dwarf lust for gold, but had mistaken it merely for greed. The reaction had been something else entirely, a desire for the precious metal that bordered on physical need, like a man finding water in the desert.
‘While I accept this generous gift, it is not for gold that the King of Zhufbar shall march forth,’ said Throndin, standing up. ‘We know of these orcs. Indeed, last year they were met in battle by dwarfs of my own clan, and the vile creatures took the life of my eldest son.’
Throndin paced forwards, his balled fists by his side, and stood at the top of the steps. When he next spoke, his voice echoed from the far walls of the chamber. He turned to Kulft. ‘These orcs owe us dear,’ snarled the king. ‘The life of a Zhufbar prince stains their lives and they have been entered onto the list of wrongs done against my hold and my people. I declare grudge against these orcs! Their lives are forfeit, and with axe and hammer we shall make them pay the price they owe. Ride to your lord, tell him to prepare for war, and tell him that King Throndin Stoneheart of Zhufbar will fight beside him!’
The tramping of dwarf boots rang from the mountainsides as the gates of Zhufbar were swung open and the host of King Throndin marched out. Rank after rank of bearded warriors advanced between the two great statues of Grungni and Grimnir that flanked the gateway, carved from the rock of the mountain. Above the dwarf army swayed a forest of standards of gold and silver wrought into the faces of revered ancestors, clan runes and guild symbols.
The thud of boots was joined by the rumbling of wheels and the wheezing and coughing of a steam engine. At the rear of the dwarf column, a steamdozer puffed into view, its spoked, iron-rimmed wheels grinding along the cracked and pitted roadway. Billows of grey smoke rose into the air from the fluted funnel as the traction engine growled forwards, pulling behind it a chain of four wagons laden with baggage and covered by heavy, cable-bound, waterproof sacking.
The autumn sky above the Worlds Edge Mountains was low and grey, threatening rain, yet Throndin was in high spirits. He walked at the head of his army, with Barundin to his left carrying the king’s own standard, and marching to his right, the Runelord Arbrek.
‘War was never a happy occasion in your father’s day,’ said Arbrek, noticing the smile on the king’s lips.
The smile faded as Throndin turned his head to look at the runelord. ‘My father never had cause to avenge a fallen son,’ the king said darkly, his eyes bright in the shadow of his gold-inlaid helmet. ‘I thank him and the fathers before him that I have been granted the opportunity to right this wrong.’
‘Besides, it is too long since you last took up your axe other than to polish it!’ said Barundin with a short laugh. ‘Are you sure you still remember what to do?’
‘Listen to the beardling!’ laughed Throndin. ‘Barely fifty winters old and already an expert on war. Listen, laddie, I was swinging this axe at orcs long before you were born. Let’s just see which of us accounts for more, eh?’
‘This’ll be the first time your father has had a chance to see your mettle,’ added Arbrek with a wink. ‘Stories when the ale is flowing are right enough, but there’s nothing like seeing it firsthand to make a father proud.’
‘Aye,’ agreed Throndin, patting Barundin on the arm. ‘You’re my only son now. The honour of the clan will be yours when I go to meet the ancestors. You’ll make me proud, I know you will.’
‘You’ll see that Barundin Throndinsson is worthy of becoming king,’ the youth said with a fierce nod that set his beard waggling. ‘You’ll be proud, right enough.’
They marched westwards towards the Empire until noon, the towering ramparts and bastions of Zhufbar disappearing behind them, the mountain peak that held the king’s throne room obscured by low cloud.
At midday, Throndin called a halt and the air was filled with the noise of five thousand dwarfs eating sandwiches, drinking ale and arguing loudly, as was their wont when on campaign. After the eating was done the air was thick with pipe smoke, which hung like a cloud over the host.
Throndin sat on a rock, legs splayed in front of him, admiring the scenery. High up on the mountains, he could see for many miles, league after league of hard rock and sparse trees and bushes. Beyond, he could just about make out the greener lands of the Empire. As he puffed his pipe, a tap on his shoulder caused him to turn. It was Hengrid, and with him was an old-looking dwarf with a long white beard tucked into a simple rope belt. The stranger wore a hooded cloak of rough-spun wool that had been dyed blue and he held a whetstone in his cracked, gnarled hands.
‘Grungni’s honour be with you, King Throndin,’ said the dwarf with a short bow. ‘I am but a simple traveller, who earns a coin or two with my whetstone and my wits. Allow me the honour of sharpening your axe and perhaps passing on a wise word or two.’
‘My axe is rune-sharp,’ said Throndin, turning away.
‘Hold now, king,’ said the old dwarf. ‘There was a time when any dwarf, be he lowly or kingly, would spare an ear for one of age and learning.’
‘Let him speak, Throndin,’ called Arbrek from across the other side of the roadway. ‘He’s old enough to even be my father – show a little respect.’
Throndin turned back to the stranger and gave a grudging nod. The peddler nodded thankfully, pulling off his pack and setting it down by the roadside. It looked very heavy and Throndin noticed an axe-shaped bundle swathed in rags stuffed between the folds of the dwarf’s cloak. With a huff of expelled breath, the dwarf sat down on the pack.
‘Orcs, is it?’ the peddler said, pulling an ornate pipe from the folds of his robe.
‘Yes,’ said Throndin, taken aback. ‘Have you seen them?’
The dwarf did not answer immediately. Instead he took a pouch from his belt and began filling his pipe with weed. Taking a long match from the pouch, he struck it on the hard surface of the roadway and lit the pipe, puffing contentedly several times before turning his attention back to the king.
‘Aye, I seen them,’ said the dwarf. ‘Not for a while now, but I seen them. A vicious bunch and no mistake.’
‘They’ll be a dead bunch when I catch them,’ snorted Throndin. ‘When did you see them?’
‘Oh, a while back, a year or thereabouts,’ said the stranger.
‘Last year?’ said Barundin, moving to stand beside his father. ‘That was when they slew Dorthin!’
The king scowled at his son, who felt silent.
‘Aye, that is right,’ said the peddler. ‘It was no more than a day’s march from here, where Prince Dorthin fell.’
‘You saw the battle?’ asked Throndin.
‘I wish that I had,’ said the stranger. ‘My axe would have tasted orc flesh that day. But alas, I came upon the field of battle too late and the orcs were gone.’
‘Well, this time the warriors of Zhufbar shall settle the matter,’ said Barundin, putting his hand to the axe at his belt. ‘Not only that, but a baron of the Empire fights with us.”
‘Pah, a manling?’ spat the peddler. ‘What worth has a manling in battle? Not since young Sigmar has their race bred a warrior worthy of the title.’
‘Baron Vessal is a person of means, and that is no mean feat for a manling,’ said Hengrid. ‘He has dwarf gold, even.’
‘Gold is but one way to judge the worth of a person,’ said the stranger. ‘When axes are raised and blood flows, it is not wealth but temper that is most valued.’
‘What would you know?’ said Throndin with a dismissive wave. ‘I’d wager you have barely two coins to rub together. I’ll not have a nameless, penniless wattock show disrespect for my ally. Thank you for your company, but I have enjoyed it enough. Hengrid!’
The burly dwarf veteran stepped forward and with an apologetic look gestured for the old peddler to stand. With a final puff on h
is pipe, the wanderer pushed himself to his feet and hauled on his pack.
‘It is a day to be rued when the words of the old fall on deaf ears,’ said the stranger as he turned away.
‘I am no beardling!’ Throndin called after him.
They watched the dwarf walk slowly down the road until he disappeared from view between two tall rocks. Throndin noticed Arbrek watching the path intently, as if he could still see the stranger.
‘Empty warnings to go with his empty purse,’ said Throndin, waving a dismissive hand in the peddler’s direction.
Arbrek turned with a frown on his face. ‘Since when did the kings of Zhufbar count wisdom in coins?’ asked the runelord. Throndin made to answer, but Arbrek had turned away and was stomping off through the army.
The solemn beating of drums could be heard echoing along the halls and corridors of Karaz-a-Karak. The small chamber was empty save for two figures. His face as pale as his beard, King Snorri lay on the low, wide bed, his eyes closed. Kneeling next to the bed, a hand on the dwarf’s chest, was Prince Malekith of Ulthuan, once general of the Phoenix King’s armies and now ambassador to the dwarf empire.
The rest of the room was hung with heavy tapestries depicting the battles the two had fought together, suitably aggrandising Snorri’s role. Malekith did not begrudge the king his glories, for was not his own name sung loudly in Ulthuan while the name of Snorri Whitebeard was barely a whisper? Each people to their own kind, the elf prince thought.
Snorri’s eyelids fluttered open to reveal cloudy, pale blue eyes. His lips twisted into a smile and a fumbling hand found Malekith’s arm.
‘Would that dwarf lives were measured as those of the elves,’ said Snorri. ‘Then my reign would last another thousand years.’
‘But even so, we still die,’ said Malekith. ‘Our measure is made by what we do when we live and the legacy that we leave to our kin, as any other. A lifetime of millennia is worthless if its works come to nought after it has ended.’
‘True, true,’ said Snorri with a nod, his smile fading. ‘What we have built is worthy of legend, isn’t it? Our two great realms have driven back the beasts and the daemons and the lands are safe for our people. Trade has never been better, and the holds grow with every year.’
‘Your reign has indeed been glorious, Snorri,’ said Malekith. ‘Your line is strong; your son will uphold the great things that you have done.’
‘And perhaps even build on them,’ said Snorri.
‘Perhaps, if the gods will it,’ said Malekith.
‘And why should they not?’ asked Snorri. He coughed as he pushed himself to a sitting position, his shoulders sinking into thick, gold-embroidered white pillows. ‘Though my breath comes short and my body is infirm, my will is as hard as the stone that these walls are carved from. I am a dwarf, and like all my people, I have within me the strength of the mountains. Though this body is now weak, my spirit shall go to the Halls of the Ancestors.’
‘It will be welcomed there, by Grungni and Valaya and Grimnir,’ said Malekith. ‘You shall take your place with pride.’
‘I’m not done,’ said Snorri with a frown. His expression grim, the king continued. ‘Hear this oath, Malekith of the elves, comrade on the battlefield, friend at the hearth. I, Snorri Whitebeard, high king of the dwarfs, bequeath my title and rights to my eldest son. Though I pass through the gateway to the Halls of the Ancestors, my eyes shall remain upon my empire. Let it be known to our allies and our enemies that death is not the end of my guardianship.’
The dwarf broke into a wracking cough, blood flecking his lips. His lined faced was stern as he looked at Malekith. The elf steadily returned his gaze.
‘Vengeance shall be mine,’ swore Snorri. ‘When our foes are great, I shall return to my people. When the foul creatures of this world bay at the doors to Karaz-a-Karak, I shall take up my axe once more and my ire shall rock the mountains. Heed my words, Malekith of Ulthuan, and heed them well. Great have been our deeds, and great is the legacy that I leave to you, my closest confidant, my finest comrade in arms. Swear to me now, as my dying breaths fill my lungs, that my oath has been heard. Swear to it on my own grave, on my spirit, that you shall remain true to the ideals we have both striven for these many years. And know this, that there is nothing so foul in the world as an oath-breaker.’
Malekith took the king’s hand from his arm and squeezed it tight. ‘I swear it,’ the elf prince said. ‘Upon the grave of high king Snorri Whitebeard, leader of the dwarfs and friend of the elves, I give my oath.’
Snorri’s eyes were glazed and his chest no longer rose and fell. The keen hearing of the elf could detect no sign of life, and he did not know whether his words had been heard. Releasing Snorri’s hand, he folded the king’s arms across his chest and with a delicate touch from his long fingers, Malekith closed Snorri’s eyes.
Standing, Malekith spared one last glance at the dead king and then walked from the chamber. Outside, Snorri’s son Throndik stood along with several dozen other dwarfs.
‘The high king has passed on,’ Malekith said, his gaze passing over the heads of the assembled dwarfs and across the throne room. He looked down at Throndik. ‘You are now high king.’
Without further word, the elf prince walked gracefully through the crowd and out across the nearly empty throne chamber. Word was passed by some secret means throughout the hold and soon the drums stopped. With Throndik at their head, the dwarfs entered the chamber and lifted the king from his deathbed. Bearing Snorri’s body aloft on their broad shoulders, the dwarfs marched slowly across the throne chamber to a stone bier that had been set before the throne itself. They lay the king upon the stone and turned away.
The doors to the throne room were barred for three days while the remaining preparations for the funeral were made. Throndik was still prince and would not become king until his father had been buried, so he busied himself with sending messengers to the other holds to bear the news of the king’s death.
At the appointed hour, the throne room was opened once more by an honour guard led by Throndik Snorrisson and Godri Stonehewer. As once more the solemn drums echoed through the hold, the funeral procession bore the high king to his final resting place deep within Karaz-a-Karak. There were no eulogies, there was no weeping, for Snorri’s exploits were there for all to see in the carvings upon the stone casket within his tomb. His life had been well spent and there was no cause to mourn his passing.
On Snorri’s instructions, the casket had been carved with dire runes of vengeance and grudge-bearing by the most powerful runelords in the hold. Inlaid with gold, the symbols glowed with magical light as Snorri was lowered into the sarcophagus. The lid was then placed on the stone coffin and bound with golden bands. The runelords, chanting in unison, struck their final sigils onto the bands, warding away foul magic and consigning Snorri’s spirit to the Halls of the Ancestors. There was a final crescendo of drums rolling in long echoes along the halls and corridors over the heads of the silent dwarfs that had lined the procession route.
Throndik performed the last rite. Taking up a small keg of beer, he filled a tankard with the foaming ale and took a sip. With a nod of approval, he reverently placed the tankard on top of the carved stone casket.
‘Drink deep in the Halls of the Ancestors,’ intoned Throndik. ‘Raise this tankard to those who have passed before you, so that they might remember those that still walk upon the world.’
By mid-morning the following day, the dwarf army had left the Worlds Edge Mountains and was in the foothills that surrounded the Zhuf-durak, known by men as the River Aver Reach. The thudding of the cargo-loco’s steam pistons echoed from the hillsides over the babbling of the river, while the deep murmuring of dwarfs in conversation droned constantly.
At the head of the column, Throndin marched with Barundin and Arbrek. The king had been in a silent mood since the encounter with the peddler the day before. Whether he was deep in thought or sulking because of Arbrek’s soft admonishment, Barundin
didn’t know, but he was not going to intrude on his father’s thoughts at this time.
A distant buzzing from the sky caused the dwarfs to lift their heads and gaze into the low cloud. A speck of darkness from the west grew closer, bobbing up and down ever so slightly in an erratic course. The puttering of a gyrocopter’s engine grew louder as the aircraft approached and there were pointed fingers and a louder commotion as the pilot pushed his craft into a dive and swooped over the column. Almost carving a furrow in a hilltop with the whirling rotors of the gyrocopter as he dipped toward the ground, the pilot swung his machine around and then passed above the convoy more sedately. About half a mile ahead, a great trailing of dust that rose as a cloud into the air marked the pilot’s landing.
As they neared, Barundin could see the pilot more clearly. His beard and face were soot-stained, two pale rings around his eyes from where his goggles had been. Those goggles dangled from a strap attached to the side of the dwarf’s winged helm, hanging down over his shoulder. Over a long chainmail shirt, the pilot wore a set of heavy leather overalls, much darned and patched.
The pilot regarded the king and his retinue with a pronounced squint as he watched them approach.
‘Is that you, Rimbal Wanazaki?’ said Barundin.
The pilot gave a nod and a grin, displaying broken, yellowing, uneven teeth. ‘Right you are, lad,’ said Wanazaki.
‘We thought you were dead!’ said Throndin. ‘Some nonsense about a troll lair.’
‘Aye, there’s a lot of it about,’ replied Wanazaki. ‘But I’m not dead, as you can see for yourself.’
‘More’s the bloody pity,’ said Throndin. ‘I meant what I said. You’re no longer welcome in my halls.’
‘You’re still mad about that little explosion?’ said Wanazaki with a disconsolate shake of the head. ‘You’re a hard king, Throndin, a hard king.’
‘Get gone,’ said Throndin, thrusting a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’