by Warhammer
Bagrik watched the gatehouse fall and the hearth guard rush forward to meet the elven spearmen within. The high ridge was an excellent vantage point to view the battle from and the king took in the full spectacle. Even as the elves fought, as they spat arrows from their tower walls, unleashed arcane fire and lightning and thrust with gleaming spears and swords, Bagrik could tell that this was the final push. The dwarf army was on the brink of breaking through.
Three long days, and the cusp of victory was within his grasp. It did nothing to satisfy him, it did not slake his thirst for vengeance, nor did it quieten his anger. No protracted siege this; no picket lines had been erected, no wells blocked or provisions destroyed or tainted. Full assault. That was all. Come his reckoning at Gazul’s Gate, the final portal before admittance into the Halls of Ancestors and the dwarf afterlife, Bagrik would be held to account for the blood expended.
He cared not.
‘My king,’ the voice of Grikk Ironbeard, captain of the ironbreakers, interrupted Bagrik’s thoughts. Grikk bowed low before his king as he announced himself. Not one inch of the ironbreaker’s body could be seen beneath the all-encompassing suit of gromril. Even his face was concealed behind a stylised dwarf mask. Only Grikk’s wiry black beard was visible. It was a necessary precaution. As an ironbreaker, Grikk was responsible for guarding the dwarf underway, a dangerous underground road between the holds that was fraught with many monsters. Today, Grikk had a different task. But it was one for which his ironbreaker armour and his skills as a tunnel fighter were ideally suited.
‘Rugnir and the sappers are ready. The final assault can commence.’
Bagrik nodded, his gaze drifting over to the south wall of the city where Rugnir and the hold’s engineers were tunnelling in preparation to undermine it. Bagrik had five throngs of clan warriors held in reserve, together with the hold’s longbeards to exploit the breach when it came.
Bagrik’s gaze remained fixed as he replied gruffly.
‘Secure the tunnel, kill any opposition.’
‘Yes, my king.’
Grikk departed swiftly, the sound of clanking armour left in his wake.
Bagrik watched a moment longer before he gave the order to advance. An entire phalanx stood upon the flat ridge, clan warriors and hearth guard all. Ten thousand more dwarfs. The hammer with which to crush the elves beneath the anvil of warriors already breaking through the elven defences below. War horns blared down the line one after the other, raising a thunderous clamour. The dwarfs’ march towards the elven city was resolute and relentless. Bagrik went with them, brought to the forefront of the attack and into the cauldron of battle by his shield bearers.
Regarding the bloody fire-wreathed vista, the swathes of dead, the wanton destruction levelled at two great civilisations, Bagrik couldn’t help wonder.
How did it all come to this?
CHAPTER TWO
FATEFUL MEETINGS
Karak Ungor was the northern-most fastness of all the mountain holds of the Karaz Ankor, the everlasting realm of the dwarfs. The rocky edifice of stone and bronze was a monument of dwarf tenacity and their expertise in the building of impregnable fortresses. For over two thousand years, Karak Ungor had stood stalwart against ice storms, cataclysm and the predations of greenskins. In the eyes of the dwarfs, this was but an eye blink in the grand chronology of history, for the mountain dwellers made things to last and endure the capricious ravages of time and conquest.
In the vastness of the hold’s outer gateway hall, a small welcoming committee awaited their guests from across the Great Ocean. These dwarfs were little more than specks in a huge expanse of stone, standing before the immense gate that led out of the hold and into the northern Worlds Edge Mountains.
Gigantic figureheads of the ancestor gods that were carved into the rock of the mountain loomed over them. Grungni, Valaya and Grimnir, the greatest of all the ancient deities of the dwarfs, each dominated one of the three open walls of the chamber. Craggy-featured, the ancestors were stern and imposing as they regarded their descendants as if in silent appraisal. No dwarf would ever wish to be found wanting under their gaze.
The fourth wall was taken up almost entirely by the great gate. It was encompassed by a sweeping arch of bronze, and inlaid with runes of gold and myriad gemstones dug from the mountain. The gate itself was a huge slab of smoothed stone with copper filigree describing an effigy of two dwarf kings upon their thrones. It was a magnificent sight and the main entrance into and out of the hold. Either side of it were a pair of statuesque hearth guard, their faces hardly visible beneath their stout, half-face helmets and braided beards. Each carried a broad-bladed axe, resting against the pauldron of their ancient armour, their stillness belying their readiness. One bore a large bronze-rimmed warhorn at rest next to his chest. He was the gate warden and the hold’s chief herald.
Above the quartet of warriors, patrolling a stone platform that rose over the great gate arch, were ten quarrellers with crossbows slung across their backs. These dwarfs were the interior gate guard, the first line of defence of the hold and from whom the call to arms would be raised should it come under attack.
Morek, at the edge of the welcoming party, fidgeted restlessly in his armour. He had wanted to double the troops on the gate and supplement it with a cohort of thirty more hearth guard by way of a show of strength and intent, but the queen would not have it – they were negotiating trade with the elves, not war.
Queen Brunvilda, wife of the great king Bagrik, was at Morek’s right, occupying the centre of the delegation. She was royally attired with deep blue robes, fringed with gold and threaded with runes of copper and bronze. Upon her brow she wore a simple mitre with a single ruby in the middle. Her long hair was the colour of tanned leather, bound up in concentric knots and pinned in place invisibly. Around her waist was a bodice of leather that squeezed her matronly figure and accentuated her ample bosom. It was augmented by a gilded and bejewelled cincture. Her eyes were grey like slate but held warmth akin to the forge fires of the lower deeps. All told, Morek thought she was a remarkable woman.
The dwarf thane had his own claim to royalty, albeit a weak one. His clan was a distant cousin to that of High King Gotrek Starbreaker. There was noble blood in his veins, though he had never sought a regal claim, always content to serve the kings and queens of Ungor.
To the queen’s right was Kandor Silverbeard, a merchant, diplomat and the royal treasurer. Kandor wore expensive garments of emerald and tan, a testament to the profit of his gold gathering and silver-laced tongue. He was festooned with gilded accoutrements, including a lacquered wood cane encrusted with gemstones. Though Morek had no clue why Kandor needed it; the merchant could walk perfectly well without a stick. Kandor’s reddish beard was well groomed and immaculately braided, his hair combed and pristine. Despite himself, Morek brushed down his armour surreptitiously with a gloved hand in an effort to make its gleam more lustrous. He saw the merchant look askance at him, halting Morek’s pre-emptive preening in its tracks. The captain of the hearth guard’s response was gruff and inaudible.
The rest of the party was made up of ten more hearth guard, the only additional warriors the queen had conceded to, imposing in their ranks behind them. None of the dwarfs had spoken for some time since their arrival in the outer gateway hall, though a dulcet chorus of hammers striking anvils carried from the lower deeps on air heavy with the smell of soot and thick with forge-warmth.
Morek broke the silence.
‘Your elgi guests are late.’
Kandor Silverbeard didn’t look over as he answered.
‘They will arrive soon enough, Morek. Don’t you have any patience?’
‘Aye, I’ve plenty. I could stand here until Grimnir returned from the Northern Wastes and still wait another fifty years if needs be,’ barked Morek, feeling challenged as he levelled his steely gaze at the imperious merchant.
‘They are guests of our hold, Thane Stonehammer, not merely that of Kandor Silverbeard’s,’ s
aid Queen Brunvilda, her tone soft yet powerful.
‘Of course, my queen.’ Chastened, Morek averted his gaze from her, feeling a sudden burning at his cheeks, and was glad his armour largely hid his face. ‘But we dwarfs have strict habits and routines. All I’m saying is lateness is no way to gain our favour.’
‘Their ways are not our ways,’ the queen counselled, though she didn’t need to remind Morek of the fact. To his mind, elves were utterly unlike the dwarfs in both appearance and demeanour. These stargazing explorers were not content in their own lands it seemed, and deliberately sought out others to satisfy some innate wanderlust. Morek thought them effete and brittle; he fancied they would be ill-suited to life within the hold. He smirked beneath his faceplate at the thought of their discomfort and hoped they would soon leave as a result of it.
‘It begs the question then, my lady, how we ever think an agreement can be reached between our peoples?’ Morek returned, choosing his words carefully so as not to offend his queen.
Kandor answered for her.
‘You are a warrior, Morek, so I shall leave the defence of the realm to you,’ he said, turning to look at the captain of the hearth guard. ‘But I am a merchant and ambassador, so I ask you to leave matters of trade and diplomacy to me. This pact will succeed. What’s more, it will strengthen our realm and ensure its continued prosperity.’
‘You’d do well to remember that all dwarfs are charged with the protection of the hold,’ Morek replied. ‘And do not think me so foolish as to be unaware of your eye for profit in this.’
‘As royal treasurer, it is for the wealth of the clans of Ungor that I–’
‘Enough!’ said Queen Brunvilda, halting Kandor’s retort before it could continue, ‘Our guests are here.’
Slowly, a portal within the great gate was opening. Much smaller than the gate itself, the portal was the true entryway into the hold. The grand doorway of Karak Ungor had not been opened in over two thousand years, not since it had first been founded and the entirety of the hold’s armies had marched forth to join the forces of the then High King, the venerable Snorri Whitebeard. Dwarfs and elves had come together then, too, but despite the intractable nature of the dwarfs, things had changed during that time and alliances were now being forged anew.
A clarion call resonated throughout the large chamber as the gate warden blew hard on his warhorn, announcing the arrival of the elves. At his signal, his fellow warriors stood to attention, the stamp of their booted feet in perfect unison, and the quarrellers stopped patrolling as they observed an honourable stillness before their new allies from across the sea.
The elves were fey creatures, tall and proud, whose pale skin shimmered with an otherworldly lustre. They glided across the dwarf flagstones as light as air, their white and azure robes fluttering on some unseen breeze. There was a stark and wondrous beauty about them, powerful and frightening at the same time. Yet to Morek’s eyes, they seemed delicate and thin. Despite their unearthly aura, what could these lofty creatures possess that the dwarfs had any need of?
The party of elves was led by what Morek assumed was an ambassador amongst their people. He was dressed in white robes. Golden vambraces, worn for decoration, gleamed beneath wide sleeves trimmed with tiny sapphires. The ambassador’s hair was the colour of silver and rested upon either shoulder evenly, and though his smile was benign, sadness lingered behind his eyes that he could not hide.
A warrior wearing ceremonial half-armour of fluted plate and overlapping scale of glimmering silver followed closely behind. His eyes, almond-shaped like the rest of his kin, seemed perpetually narrowed, and a long angular nose spoke of royal bearing. A slender sword, its hilt encrusted with rubies, was scabbarded at a plaited belt at the elf’s waist. Golden hair cascaded from his stern countenance, and a gilded crown set with gemstones framed the elf’s brow as he regarded the hall with haughty indifference. This then was their leader, Morek decided, the elf prince.
Two others came in the prince’s wake, also nobles. One was a male with long, black hair, also enrobed, though his garb was ostensibly more opulent than that of the ambassador. This one had an ill-favoured look about him, and Morek saw the implied threat in the way the elf toyed idly with the hilt of the sword that he wore at his waist.
His companion was a female, similarly attired, though she wore a small circlet of silver around her head. The pair were muttering quietly, in such close consort that Morek found it uncomfortable to watch them. Certainly, the female possessed a… presence that the hearth guard was at once attracted to and repelled by. He had to fight to stop himself from lowering his gaze. The male alongside her, walking with a disdainful swagger, seemed to notice the dwarf’s discomfort and whispered something into the female’s ear to which she laughed quietly. Morek felt his cheeks redden and his annoyance grow.
One other elf stood out from the rest of the entourage that trailed in after the nobles in pairs, an entourage that consisted of musicians, gift bearers, pennant carriers, servants and some fifty elven spearmen. He was bigger than the rest, not just taller, but broader too, and seemed the most ill at ease with their newfound surroundings. His straw-coloured hair was wild and bound into a series of plaited tails. A thick pelt of white fur was draped over his muscled shoulders and he wore scale armour over which was a gilt breastplate. A long dagger was sheathed at his hip and a doubled-bladed axe slung across his back.
The bodyguard, Morek thought, noting the way that this elf surveyed the chamber, searching every darkened alcove for threats and enemies. Perhaps, Morek wondered, not all elves were so weak and fanciful. Was it possible he had misjudged them?
Prince Ithalred wrinkled his nose at the foul stench of the dwarfs’ domain. A ‘magnificent hold’ he had been told. It looked like little more than a tomb buried into the earth, gladly forgotten but now exhumed for some unconscionable reason. This ‘great gate’ Malbeth had spoken of was little more than roughly hewn stone peppered with gemstones. It had none of the flowing lines, the smoothness and artful consideration of elvish architecture. Worse still, the air was stiflingly hot and thick with acrid fumes. Ithalred smelled oil, tasted soot in his mouth and at once longed for the high silver towers of his realm at Tor Eorfith.
What is this place you have brought us to, Malbeth? he thought, his eyes upon the ambassador’s back as he led them to the awaiting dwarfs.
‘They call this hole in the ground a kingdom?’ Lethralmir whispered to Arthelas, echoing his prince’s thoughts as he strode behind him. The seeress laughed quietly, her musical voice arousing more than just the simple pleasure of companionship in the blade-master.
‘They build such grand chambers, though, Lethralmir,’ she whispered back.
‘Mighty indeed,’ the elf replied sarcastically, casting his gaze about in the gloom. ‘Yet they are so diminutive. Do you think, perhaps, that they are compensating for something?’ he added, smirking.
Arthelas laughed out loud, unable to control herself. A scathing glance from Prince Ithalred silenced them both.
‘Your brother is ever the serious diplomat, is he not, dear Arthelas?’ scoffed Lethralmir in an undertone.
The seeress smiled demurely, and the elven blade-master felt his ardour deepen.
‘Welcome dear friends, to Karak Ungor,’ said Kandor, bowing before the elf ambassador. The dwarf merchant’s gaze extended the greeting to all, in particular the prince, who seemed unmoved by the gesture.
‘Tromm, Kandor Silverbeard,’ said the ambassador warmly, in rudimentary Khazalid, and clasped Kandor’s hand firmly.
‘Tromm, Malbeth. You honour us with these words,’ Kandor returned, glowing outwardly at the elf’s use of the dwarfs’ native tongue – ‘tromm’ was used by way of greeting and a mark of respect amongst dwarfs at the length and quality of their beards. The incongruousness of an elf saying it was not lost on Morek, however.
Honour us? Kandor, you are a grobi-fondling wazzock, the elgi has no beard! If anything, he besmirches us with his hairless
chin, thought Morek, gritting his teeth at the merchant’s obsequiousness, and wondering if Kandor’s ancestral line was tainted with elf blood.
This was not Malbeth’s first visit to the hold. The elf was a ranger, as well as an ambassador, and had travelled from Yvresse on the east coast of Ulthuan, across the Great Ocean and to the Old World. There he had met Kandor Silverbeard, who was delivering shipments of ore southwards to the other holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains. The two had struck up a firm friendship, echoing that of the elf lord, Malekith, and the first High King of the dwarfs, Snorri Whitebeard. It was but an echo of that halcyon time. That former alliance was now cast in an inauspicious light, the traitorous son of Aenarion the Defender having fled Ulthuan before the might of Caledor the First, and now seeking succour in the lands of Naggaroth.
Such things were not of consequence, however, and talk between dwarf and elf had soon turned to trade, and after accompanying Kandor as far south as Mount Gunbad, they had returned north to Karak Ungor. The elf’s stay had been brief, and Morek had never met the ambassador during that time, though he looked as effeminate as he had imagined.
‘We too are honoured, by your generous hospitality,’ the elf, Malbeth, replied before turning to the dwarf queen.
‘Noble Queen Brunvilda,’ he said, bowing. ‘It seems like only yesterday when I was last a guest in these halls.’
‘Aye, Malbeth,’ began the queen, ‘It has only been twenty-three years, little more than a shift in the wind,’ she said, smiling broadly.
Malbeth returned the gesture, before announcing the rest of his kin. ‘May I present Arthelas, seeress of Tor Eorfith and the prince’s sister.’ The demure elf came forward and gave a shallow bow to the queen, before Malbeth continued, ‘Lethralmir, of the prince’s court.’ The ambassador’s gaze seemed to harden as it fell upon the lean-faced blade-master, who gave an overly extravagant bow towards their dwarf hosts. ‘This is Korhvale of Chrace, the prince’s champion,’ Malbeth added. The muscular elf preferred to stand as he was, with his prince in eyeshot, and only nodded sternly.