by Nick Kyme
The ranger was about to break one of his own rules. He plucked an arrow from one of the bodies, placed it carefully in his satchel for when he’d need it later.
‘No. I’ll travel faster on my own.’
The raider ship was several miles behind them, sunken to the bottom of the river bed, its crew likewise. Weighed down by their armour, over a dozen exsanguinated bodies would putrefy and succumb to the slow rot of the dead.
Drutheira and her coven had been swift about the murder of the vaulkhar and his warriors. Gorged but not yet slaked, the witches’ power swelled with the stolen blood. The way north would be long and not without peril, but there was much to do beforehand. Not least of which was finding Sevekai and his warriors.
Its presence burned into Drutheira’s mind as if by a brand, a settlement was visible on the next rise. Fortified with an outer wall, tower and gate, it was a permanent outpost. Elf and dwarf banners hung from its crude battlements, fluttering on a low breeze blowing in off the distant gulf.
Malchior had not walked far when he began to moan. ‘I am not a pack mule, Drutheira.’ He adjusted the rough satchel on his back and it clanked with the swords and spears within. ‘Could we not have stolen some horses? What merchant travels on foot anyway?’
Malchior no longer had the pale skin of a druchii, nor did he wear the arcane trappings of a sorcerer. A white skullcap enclosed his head, and a skirt of light lamellar mail clad his body. There were vambraces, shin greaves, calfskin boots and a travelling cloak that attached to small pauldrons on his shoulders. Healthy sun-kissed skin described a rough but noble face.
He still wore a viper’s smile, no enchantment could conceal that, but his appearance was already different from the one that had sailed into the Black Gulf from Naggaroth.
‘And why must I be the beast of burden when she carries nothing?’
Ashniel had undergone a similar transformation, but wore a circlet instead of a skullcap with a diadem at its centre. Her distaste at the pearl-white robes beneath her breastplate was obvious in the sneer on her face. She grinned darkly at Malchior’s displeasure, though.
Drutheira flashed a deadly glare at Malchior. ‘Because I need her abroad in the settlement, doing the dark lord’s work. You are welcome to explain to him why you disagree with that.’
Malchior fell silent, but Ashniel was unafraid to show her disgust.
‘My skin crawls with this pretence.’ She too carried nothing save for the jewelled athame at her waist and the small flask concealed beneath the belt of her robes.
‘Silence,’ hissed Drutheira. Her own disguise was akin to that of her coven, albeit more impressive and ostentatious. She had no skullcap or circlet, but wore a gilded cuirass and a velvet cloak with ermine trim. She’d kept her raven hair, masquerading as a noblewoman with two servants. Her eyes were on the outpost and the guards occupying its tower and in front of its gate. Dwarfs and elves; it was a strange sight to behold such apparent harmony. Each of them carried either a bow or crossbow.
‘We can be seen from this distance. Do not fail me here,’ she warned them both, her voice changing mid-sentence. Gone were the barbed tones of the druchii and in their place the more lyrical, lilting cadence of the asur.
‘Besides,’ she said, allowing the slightest dagger of a smile. ‘What need have I of horses when the two of you carry all of my wares and do my bidding?’
Malchior hid his sneer behind a bow, though Ashniel was more brazen and showed her displeasure openly. Drutheira could not have cared less.
‘Remember your roles,’ she said, hiding her contempt for the nearest guard behind a warm smile. She purposefully kept her eyes off the archers in the tower, as not to do so would arouse potential suspicion. ‘We are weaponsmiths, servants of Vaul from across the sea and the rugged hills of Cothique.’
‘Must we play as rural peasants, Drutheira?’ whined Malchior. ‘Why not vaunted nobles of Saphery or Lothern?’
‘Because nobles of Ulthuan would not be caught dead in a hole like this,’ she said through her teeth. ‘And they would certainly possess horses. Of course, if you want to be flayed then by all means please continue complaining.’
Malchior spoke no further, but gave a deathly glance to Ashniel who didn’t bother to hide her amusement.
As she approached the gate Drutheira tried to ignore the nocked bows, the ready swords and axes loose in their scabbards. She made the rune of sariour with her empty hands, adding a shallow incline of the head in mellow greeting.
Sariour symbolised the moon, its aspect that of a crescent. Especially to merchants and traders, it meant ‘fortune’ and would be taken as a positive sign by the guards. But like most elven runes, it had a darker interpretation too. For sariour also signified ‘evil deeds’ and ‘destruction’. The obvious duplicity, the plain threat it embodied amused Drutheira greatly as they passed through the gate and into the settlement without incident.
It was as much a backwater as its exterior suggested but large, with at least a hundred elves and dwarfs trading with one another from wagons, stalls and pitched tents. A few less ephemeral structures could be found farther from the gate. One, an ale house, was wrought from stone. A blacksmith’s was little more than a stone hut, but its anvil and furnace were in constant use. There were also barrack houses and inns, little more than huts themselves but a roof and four walls for weary travellers who needed a night’s rest in a bed and not on the hard ground of the road.
An impromptu market had grown up around a bell house that Drutheira assumed was the domain of some kind of alderman or outpost captain. There were several other structures too, fashioned from wood and at the periphery. Some of these were of elven design and bore such devices as rampant Ellyrian stallions and the rising phoenix of Asuryan.
Above the archway framing the gate a sign swung in the wind on two lengths of chain. Zakbar Varf was written in chiselled runescript. It meant ‘Wolf Hut’ or ‘Wolf Wall’. Drutheira decided that ‘hut’ was a more accurate description of the place.
A dwarf trader with a cadre of guards and wagons in tow and not long arrived himself aroused her attention.
‘This way,’ she muttered. As she was walking towards the dwarfs who were unhitching their wagons and stretching the stiffness from their backs, she gripped Ashniel’s arm. Drutheira’s eyes held the fiery intensity of flaming coals.
She hissed, ‘You know what needs to be done?’
Ashniel nodded slowly.
‘You have everything you need?’
Again, she nodded.
Drutheira held the young witch’s gaze a moment longer, saw the hatred and ambition in her almond-shaped eyes.
She released her, taking a mote of pleasure in the grimace of pain Ashniel failed to conceal.
‘Good,’ said Drutheira.
Like a shadow retreats from the approach of the sun, Ashniel crept away from the others and blended into the crowd.
Silently, Drutheira conveyed a final order to Malchior and the two druchii closed to speak to the dwarfs.
‘Greetings, traveller,’ she said to the dwarf merchant, smiling politely.
He had a grizzled face, more at home on a battlefield than a trading post, and his fair hair showed up the grease and dirt. He grunted a reply of sorts.
Drutheira tried not to sneer. Fortunately for her, the dwarf was busy with his wagons and paid little attention.
‘Are you here to trade, ah…?’ She invited.
‘Krondi,’ said the dwarf, handing a barrel of something to one of his fellow traders. There were runes scorched into the hard wood that Drutheira didn’t understand. ‘Krondi Stoutback.’ He turned and firmly shook her hand.
‘Astari.’
Such physical greetings were not common amongst elves and Drutheira was unable to hide her surprise and discomfort.
‘Apologies for the muck,’ said the dwarf,
misunderstanding. Belatedly, he wiped the palms of his hands on his tunic. ‘Been a long way from Barak Varr. On the road like on campaign, grime tends to get ingrained. Easy to forget it’s there.’
Drutheira smiled again and fed some sorcery into the gesture.
‘That’s perfectly all right. Barak Varr?’ she asked, struggling a little with the pronunciation.
‘The Sea Hold,’ Krondi explained, pointing roughly south with a leathery finger. Under the nail was black with dirt and Drutheira fought to hide her disdain.
She also remembered the bastion the dwarf spoke of, and its defences. She masked her interest with another question.
‘You were a soldier then? A warrior for the king, perhaps?’
‘Aye, milady,’ said Krondi, warming to the elf as his companions unloaded the wagon. Drutheira noticed one dwarf, far off at the head of the wagons, remained seated. He was also hooded and kept to himself, more than most dwarfs usually did. Not a merchant, nor a guard. This was something else. She tasted power and resolved to keep her distance.
‘I fought for the High King,’ Krondi went on proudly, ‘and my own king, Brynnoth of the Sea Hold.’
Gently putting her arm around him, hiding the urge to gag, Drutheira led the dwarf to where Malchior was waiting. She briefly searched the bustling crowds for Ashniel but the witchling was nowhere to be seen. Allowing a half-smile she said, ‘Here, then you’ll know the value of a good blade.’
Krondi began to detach himself, waving Drutheira off.
‘Not here to buy,’ he said, shaking his head as if trying to dispel an itch, ‘but to rest and pick up provisions, possibly sell, before heading on.’
She made a hurt expression, her eyes mildly pleading. Again, she used a little sorcery to enhance her charms. ‘At least look at what I’m offering before you dismiss me, Lord Stoutback.’
Krondi laughed. ‘I’m no lord, but I’ll take a gander at what yer peddling.’ He nodded to Malchior who simply bowed and then unrolled his satchel. Unbeknownst to the dwarf, he was incanting silently beneath his breath.
As the leather satchel was unfurled, a rack of stunning ithilmar weapons was revealed. Jewelled daggers, short swords and spear tips were arrayed in rows. There were shimmering axes, both for felling and throwing, and a few smaller pieces of armour.
One in particular caught Krondi’s eye.
‘Is that…?’ He breathed and looked again, closer. ‘Gromril?’ There was a glint in Krondi’s eye as he met Drutheira’s, but also something else. Anger?
‘How did you come by this?’ It was less of a question and more of an accusation.
‘A gift,’ said Drutheira, drawing closer. Her eyes shone with power. ‘I take it you’re interested then?’
Krondi went back to the gromril blade. It was a sword, an uncommon weapon amongst dwarfs, who preferred hammers and axes. There were no runes, but the star-metal it was forged from was unmistakable.
‘How much?’ he asked, his gaze fixed on the blade.
‘Only a fair price. Does anything else catch your eye?’
‘I’ll take everything. All of it,’ he said gruffly.
Drutheira smiled thinly, and bade Malchior to wrap up the leather satchel.
‘You have made a considerably wise decision.’
She met Ashniel on the outskirts of the settlement, away from prying eyes and ears.
‘Were you successful?’
‘Of course.’ Ashniel presented the athame dagger. Its blade was fire-blackened and the pearlescent gemstones had dulled to the lustre of bare rock. She then showed her mistress the flask, empty of its contents.
‘You used all of it, on the ale and wine?’
An evil smile curled Ashniel’s lips. ‘Even the water.’
‘Then there’s nothing further for us here.’ Drutheira looked to the distant horizon and the storm rolling across it. She could almost hear the thunder of hooves.
Several miles from Zakbar Varf, a host of riders dismounted from a barge. They were hooded and twenty-five strong. Three more such bands were alighting from their own ship nearby. In a hidden grove, a few miles from the trading settlement, they would gather. Sharpening their blades and spear tips, they would wait for nightfall and then ride out.
CHAPTER NINE
Rinkkaz
Over eight hundred dwarfs crowded the room and still it echoed like a tomb.
The Great Hall of Karaz-a-Karak was the single largest chamber in the entire hold. A small town could fit into its vastness. A vaulted ceiling stretched into a gem-studded darkness overhead and columns broad enough to be towers punctuated miles-long walls against which monolithic statues of the ancestors glowered. There was a stern austerity to the hall, despite its roaring hearth and the dusty banners that stirred gently on the hot air.
Three runes arranged in a triangular formation and confined by a circle of copper and bronze sat in the middle of the dwarf gathering. Each rune was wrought from gold and when the light caught them in a certain way they shimmered with captured power. They were devoted to the chief ancestors: Grungni’s rune of oath and honour; Valaya’s of hearth and hold; and Grimnir’s of wrath and ruin. Each described an aspect of the dwarf race, their very essence which made them sons and daughters of the earth. If lore and legend was to be believed, the magic within the runes had been put there by the ancestors themselves. It was latent power, but would protect the dwarfs when needed.
Gotrek Starbreaker looked upon those runes now and tried to remember their lessons.
A dry, rasping voice uttered from parchment lips intruded on the High King’s thoughts.
‘Such a rare gathering of kings and thanes is a strong sign of a liege-lord’s strength, even though they bicker like beardlings.’
The voice put Gotrek in mind of forgotten halls, lost holds and leatherbound tomes caked in dust.
Looking down from his throne, he met the rheumy eyes of the oldest dwarf in Karaz-a-Karak, he of the longbeards who was simply called ‘the Ancient’.
‘Tromm, old one.’ The Ancient was wise beyond reckoning, his age uncounted and unknown except by the High King’s Loremaster. ‘Should it not concern me that my vassal lords snap at each other like jackals?’ he asked in a sideways fashion. He needn’t have been so surreptitious, for the dwarf nobles were not paying any attention.
The rinkkaz was a sacred oath that bound all kings. Barring recent death, war, plague or invasion, the council of kings was observed by all of the dwarf holds and occurred every decade. But it was also a chance to settle old scores or revive grudges that were never truly forgotten. For every rinkkaz, which often lasted several days, the incumbent High King would allow a period of grudgement for the other kings to vent some spleen. It made later discussion swifter and more amiable.
Gotrek was patient. He had to be. The Ancient never answered quickly and always considered every word. He would often say, at length, it was why he had lived for as many centuries as he had. In the end his breath came out of his wizened mouth like a pall of grave dust.
‘Better they bite at one another than sharpen their teeth on your hide.’
Leaning over, Gotrek whispered conspiratorially, ‘They would find it leathery and tough if they did, old one.’
The Ancient laughed at that, a grating, hacking cough of mirth that brought up clods of phlegm.
Gotrek slapped him on the back, loosening whatever was lodged in the old dwarf’s throat, and received a nod of thanks. He regarded the throng in front of him.
No fewer than seven dwarf kings, not including the High King himself, were in attendance. If a king could not be present at the rinkkaz then a delegate, an ambassador, lord or high thane, even a regent, was sent in his stead. Only the kings of the hill dwarfs were absent, a fact that was noticed by all.
‘Yet again, Skarnag makes his insolence plain to the realm…’ muttered Ranuld Silverthumb
. The runelord was seated on the opposite side of the High King, wisdom and knowledge to his left and right. Only the captain of the hearthguard was closer, but the imposing figure of Thurbad was absent for the moment. ‘Wazzock.’
Since their expatriation from the Worlds Edge Mountains, Skarnag Grum and his fellow lords had not once attended the rinkkaz.
‘He might surprise us yet,’ muttered Gotrek, though without conviction. His gaze strayed to the distance, where he could just make out the bronze doors to the Great Hall, but he wasn’t about to hold his breath in expectation of them opening.
Bedecked in his finest runic panoply, a staff of wutroth and banded gromril clenched in his left fist, a helm of gilded griffon feathers upon his beetling brow, Ranuld cut as stern a figure as his liege-lord.
‘I’d suggest we march on Kazad Kro and bring the rinkkaz to his gates if it were not for my weary back and legs.’ Ranuld grimaced as he said it, and Gotrek smiled to himself. The runelord was much more hale and hearty than he let on. ‘Besides,’ he added, thumbing over his shoulder, ‘the Ancient would never make it.’
A snorting, nasal dirge was coming out of the old dwarf’s mouth. None in the hold could snore so loudly.
Ranuld frowned, waggled a finger in his ear. ‘Like a boar rutting with an elk.’
Gotrek stifled a laugh then asked, ‘Did you find what you were looking for in the old halls?’
The runelord shook his head, ‘No, my High King.’
Ranuld Silverthumb was amongst the High King’s royal retinue and occupied one of ten seats reserved for the high council. At Gotrek’s edict, all of his advisors were present including his Loremaster and Grudgekeeper, both of whom scribed in leatherbound books cradled on lecterns in front of them, thick parchment pages cracking as they were turned. As well as the Master of Engineers, who sat with a thick belt of tools around his waist, there was also the Chief of Lodewardens, he who was responsible for the mines and therefore much of the hold’s wealth and prosperity, and the Chief of Reckoners who ensured that grudgement was meted out and reconciled on the behalf of the clans of Karaz-a-Karak, including the royal clan of Thunderhorn, against other clans and other dwarfs if needed.
