The Great Betrayal

by Nick Kyme

  Feldhar Crageye, Negdrik Irontooth, Durgnun Goldbrow, these were the ancients that Ranuld sought next. Agrin Fireheart was second in venerability only to Ranuld. He had already answered the summons and was on his way from Barak Varr, but more were needed.

  Ungrinn Lighthand, Jordrikk Forgefist, Kruzkull Stormfinger… Leagues upon leagues separated the distant holds but through the shield that would be as nothing. Ranuld wondered how many more would heed the call and come to the conclave. With regret, he realised that some would not, that some would already be dead. Old magic was leaving the world, never to return. And like all who are privy to secret knowledge, he feared what would happen when it did.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Reunions

  Even as the bronze doors slammed violently in his wake, Snorri felt the first pangs of regret. His ire, so quick to rise in the Great Hall, cooled quickly when faced with the quiet introspection of what he had done and said.

  Bringing the name and memory of his mother into the argument was low. He regretted that, but couldn’t retract it.

  Pride and the slightest undercurrent of persistent annoyance kept him from turning around and apologising immediately, but a lot of those words, although harshly given, were true.

  Gotrek Starbreaker was Lord of the Underdeep, High King of all the dwarfs, and he cast a long shadow. Snorri felt eclipsed by it. He had wanted to tell his father about the prophecy he had heard, of his foretold greatness, how he had fought the ratkin in their warrens and the threat they might mean for the hold, but instead he had chosen to swagger in and expect his place to be waiting.

  Being discarded at the back of the assembly, in the seat reserved for the hill dwarfs of all creatures, had been a barb too hard to excise before they had exchanged words. Now they could not be withdrawn, as every dwarf knows. In any other circumstance, a grudge would have been made against Snorri but a father was not about to do that to his son.

  Instead he would endure his wrath, and hope that like his own it faded.

  Neither, of course, would admit they were in the wrong. It was not the dwarf way.

  In the end, Snorri was glad the flickering darkness barely leavened by the ensconced braziers hid his face, although he could still feel the cold glare of accusation from the hearthguard that had been waiting outside.

  The veteran warriors were not the only ones waiting for him upon leaving the Great Hall. A familiar figure approached from farther down the corridor, moving with long and light steps like a dancer. Warm and welcoming, his face did not mirror the dwarf’s even slightly. A scowl distorted Snorri’s expression, only partially hidden by his beard. He had at least removed his axe for the audience with his father and looked slightly less belligerent than the last time he had seen Prince Imladrik.

  In lieu of his armour, the elf wore pearl-white robes trimmed with the fire-red commonly associated with Caledorian princes. A circlet of silver with a sapphire in the centre replaced his war helm and he carried no visible weapon. Clean and dressed, he had obviously been at Karaz-a-Karak for several hours already, perhaps even days. As the elf walked down the wide corridor towards him, Snorri wondered for what purpose.

  No elf would ever be invited to the rinkkaz. Even in the pursuit of peace his father wouldn’t break that sacred oath. Imladrik’s presence in the hold halls must be for some other reason. Whatever the cause, Snorri found he resented it just as he resented the prince. After the dragon had turned on him, Snorri felt ridiculed and secretly blamed the elf for what happened. It only affirmed what he had always suspected, that you could never trust an elf or its beast.

  Though he walked the hold halls unarmed, Imladrik had several retainers who were waiting for him at the threshold of Everpeak. Each was fully armoured, helmed and wore a long sword scabbarded at the waist. Short cloaks of dragon hide hung from their backs, not trophies but rather the honourable leavings of shed scales from the oldest and mightiest of the drakes.

  The retinue reminded Snorri of elves masquerading as dragons, hoping perhaps to yoke some element of their obvious power. It drew a sneer to his lips at the sheer hubris of the notion.

  Master of dragons and dragon lackeys, thought Snorri, allowing the bitter curl to grow for the prince’s benefit. Heading towards the Great Hall, the elf was obviously here to meet with his father. More talk of peace and harmony, no doubt. Snorri’s fists clenched.

  ‘We meet again, Prince Lunngrin.’

  Snorri didn’t return the nod of greeting, nor did he dawdle to exchange pleasantries.

  ‘You will find him in a foul mood, elfling.’

  One of the guards stiffened at the flagrant disrespect but Imladrik quietened her with a glance.

  ‘I hope to bear news that will improve it, then.’ Imladrik’s reply was diplomatic, but fashioned so that he wouldn’t seem to be cowed in front of his warriors.

  ‘Doubtful,’ Snorri replied, hiding well his desire to know the elf’s business. ‘He is a curmudgeonly bastard, slow to calm down.’

  ‘I see you possess his fiery spirit too.’

  Snorri ignored the comment as they passed each other. ‘You’ll have to leave your entourage outside,’ the dwarf said, thumbing over his shoulder at the formidable hearthguard standing sentinel before the doors.

  Imladrik stopped as Snorri walked on. A light clanking refrain from his warriors sounded as they did the same, circling the prince protectively.

  ‘Tell me something, lord dwarf,’ he said, ‘what is it exactly that I have done which offends you?’

  Snorri considered walking further. In the end he stopped too but left his back to the elf.

  ‘You left your island and came here.’

  ‘Your father wants peace, so do we,’ he called to the dwarf’s slowly departing figure.

  Snorri’s reply echoed back. ‘My father wants many things. And not all of your kind desire peace. That’s what concerns me, dragon master. You’re squatters, nothing more. The Old World belongs to the dwarfs and will do always.’

  The elf didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say, though it took all of his resolve not to rise to anger as the dwarf wanted. Instead he carried on in silence, ruminating on all he had heard.

  ‘I will not be the last dwarf to speak it, either,’ said Snorri to himself, and went to find Morgrim.

  Alehouses were sombre places, more akin to temples than bawdy drinking holes. Sitting by the roaring hearth, the air thick with the reek of hops and wheat, dwarfs came here to worship. For aside from gold, there were few things the sons of Grungni vaunted as highly as beer. But they were also discerning creatures, and would not put up with swill or any brew which they deemed weak or unworthy of their palate. Grudges, bloody ones, had been made for less than a brewmaster who served another dwarf a poor beer.

  As Snorri entered the hall, a dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him, glittering like jewels. Several of the dwarfs acknowledged the prince, uttering a sombre ‘tromm’ in Snorri’s direction. Others were too lost in grim reverie to notice.

  A strange gloom pervaded in the drinking hall where scores of dwarfs clasped gnarled fingers around foaming tankards of clay and pewter. It was a half-light, a gloaming that settled upon patrons and furnishings alike. Long rectangular tables filled the main hall, surrounded by stout three-legged stools and broad benches. An antechamber, the brew store, fed off one side of the expansive drinking hall and was festooned with wide, iron-bound barrels. Every barrel was seared with a rune describing the beer’s name and potency. Only the ones behind the bar and the alehouse’s brewmaster were tapped.

  Brorn Stoutnose was cleaning his tankards with a thick cloth behind a low wooden bar. Deliberate, exact, there was ritual to the task he performed and he muttered oaths to the ancestors as he did it. Several other cloths, one for drying, one for polishing, another for wringing, sat snugly beneath a thick belt girdling an impressive girth nurtured by many years of dedi
cated quaffing. Nodding at the prince of Karaz-a-Karak, he gestured with raised chin to one of the low tables where two dwarfs were in hushed conversation.

  ‘Of all the brew halls in the karak, you managed to find the soberest,’ said Snorri.

  Morgrim looked up sternly from his tankard, which he’d only half drained, but couldn’t suppress a wry grin. ‘I see you escaped your father’s wrath more or less intact.’

  At mention of the High King, Snorri’s face darkened. ‘Words were exchanged,’ he said, and read from his cousin’s face that Morgrim knew some of those words were regretful.

  ‘Did you tell him about the rats of the underdeep?’

  ‘The elgi sit at the forefront of his mind, and the precious peace he has fought so hard to win. I even saw that elfling prince on his way to the Great Hall.’

  ‘Imladrik?’

  ‘Yes, but not his drakk. I cannot even imagine where he would have stabled such a creature.’

  ‘Likely it nests in one of the peaks. He must have business with your father.’

  ‘Indeed, but what?’ Glancing over to the other stool, Snorri addressed the dwarf sitting opposite his cousin. ‘And who might you be?’ He took in the bronze pauldron, the sigils on his belt and armour. ‘Strange trappings for a dawi.’

  Morgrim introduced them. ‘This is Drogor…’

  ‘Of Karak Zorn,’ said Drogor, rising to offer a hand to the prince. ‘My lord.’ His eyes flashed in the firelight from the hearth. ‘I can see the blood of kings in you.’

  Morgrim clapped Snorri on the back, so hard it made the prince’s eyes bulge a little.

  ‘This is Snorri Lunngrin, Prince of Karaz-a-Karak.’

  Drogor bowed deeply. ‘I am honoured, my lord.’

  ‘Karak Zorn in the Southlands?’ asked Snorri, ignoring the flattery. His eyes narrowed, only half shaking the other dwarf’s hand. ‘How is it you are here, yet your king was absent from the rinkkaz?’

  ‘Drogor is only here by the mercy of Valaya, cousin,’ said Morgrim.

  ‘My party and I were ambushed south of Karak Azul,’ Drogor explained. His eyes dipped slightly. ‘I alone lived to tell of it.’

  ‘Dreng tromm,’ uttered Snorri, suspicions fading. ‘Was it grobi?’

  ‘They were… archers, cousin.’

  Snorri regarded Morgrim sternly.

  ‘Elgi?’

  Morgrim shook his head then looked at Drogor, who answered, ‘Perhaps. The arrows were not crude enough for grobi or urk, though I didn’t wait for the killers of my kin to reveal themselves.’

  Snorri’s gaze was on the table at the two slowly warming tankards of ale, but he wasn’t thirsty. When he looked up, his face was creased with concern.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, but you should seek an audience with my father and tell him what happened to you and your kin,’ he said to Drogor. ‘There has been no word of Karak Zorn for years, and then there is the matter of your ambushers.’

  The sound of a door opening arrested the dwarfs’ attention.

  A familiar figure had just entered the alehouse, and was looking around.

  ‘Furrowbrow,’ Snorri scowled. ‘What does he want?’

  When the runesmith’s gaze alighted on their table, he began to walk towards them.

  ‘Looks like he wants you, cousin,’ said Morgrim.

  Folding his arms in a gesture of annoyance, Snorri said, ‘Aside from his master, I have never known a more saturnine dawi.’

  ‘He is certainly dour,’ agreed Morgrim.

  ‘Why the perpetual frown though, cousin? Perhaps his gruntis are too tight, eh?’ Snorri leaned over to speak to Drogor. ‘What do you think, Dro…’

  But the dwarf from Karak Zorn was gone. Snorri thought he saw him at the back of the drinking hall, disappearing into a pall of pipe smoke, lost to the gloom.

  ‘Let’s hope that wasn’t because of something I said,’ Snorri remarked, and turned to face Morek Furrowbrow.

  ‘My lords,’ uttered the runesmith, bowing. Though he was Ranuld Silverthumb’s apprentice, Morek was older than both the nobles. Grey hairs intruded on his dun-coloured beard and at his temples. Wrinkles under his eyes suggested a lack of sleep, but also a weight of years yet to burden the other two dwarfs. And then of course there was his forehead and the lines of consternation worn there almost continuously.

  Peering past the two nobles, Morek scrutinised the darkness at the back of the hall. The alehouse was over half full and there were many patrons who chose the anonymity of that part of the drinking hall, but Morek’s eye was fixed upon one and one alone.

  He couldn’t say why.

  ‘Who was that dwarf?’ he asked.

  Morgrim glanced over his shoulder. ‘Which dwarf, this place is full of– Ah,’ he said, realising who the runesmith meant. ‘An old friend, come back from Karak Zorn.’

  Morek glanced at Morgrim. ‘The Southlands? I thought that hold was cut off from the rest of the Karaz Ankor.’

  Snorri chipped in, ‘Yes, the Southlands. An expedition made it to Karaz-a-Karak, if you can count one dwarf as an expedition that is. Are you here to see me, runesmith?’

  Regarding Snorri askance, Morek said, ‘At the behest of my master, I am to fashion a gauntlet for you. Given your injuries, I need to see your hand in order to forge one that fits.’

  Snorri showed off his bandaged wound and smiled. ‘Well, it won’t need all the fingers.’

  Morek wasn’t really listening. His eyes had returned to the shadows at the back of the drinking hall, but the dwarf from Karak Zorn was gone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  City of the Hill King

  Perched like an ugly bird of prey on a rocky tor, the city of the hill dwarfs glowered down on the boulder-strewn valley around it with disdain. Its watchtowers and stout walls offered a peerless view that stretched for miles, all the way to the edge of a treeline where the forest became a sea of fir and pine. Flanked by jutting crags of rock, the only way to gain an audience with the king of the hill was to climb. After the High King of Karaz-a-Karak had visited with two hundred of his warriors, Skarnag Grum had commanded the old sloped concourse demolished. Back then entire wagon trains, two abreast, with mules and trappings, could be let up to his gates. Now, if Gotrek Starbreaker returned to try and cow the hill king in his own hall again he would do so without his throne and all his retainers.

  A narrow path wended the last few hundred feet to the city gates, but even this was treacherous. A long fall awaited any dwarf who slipped on the scree underfoot and sharp rocks that bullied onto the trail at intervals made safe navigation difficult. The hill dwarfs mainly used ropes and baskets dangled from the walls to send and receive supplies. It was awkward, but Skarnag Grum would have it no other way.

  Defensively, the approach to Kazad Kro was both well watched by scores of crossbowmen but also forced attackers and visitors alike into a single file.

  Its message was simple, Leave us alone. Although King Grum did welcome trade, he preferred it to camp outside his halls. Tents and temporary lodgings were a common sight ringing the borders of Kazad Kro. Anything so as long as the gold kept flowing into his coffers.

  Krondi had felt far from welcomed as he made his last weary steps into the city. A fat tongue of gold shimmered underfoot in the light of a low sun. Here, in the kingdom of the hill dwarfs, the streets were literally paved with gold. Flagstones and viaducts of the soft metal were everywhere, a proud boast and a declaration of wealth. To Krondi it looked wasteful and ostentatious. He had been on the road for three days already, with the sore back and the blistered feet to prove it. But despite his fatigue he would not allow the rough threshold of Kazad Kro to deter him from seeking out the justice of the king. According to its captain, Zakbar Varf was under the auspice of the hill kings and any charge of poor dealings or a plea for reckoning would have to go to them.

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nbsp; Not since his old campaigning days had Krondi felt the same wrath and desire to enact vengeance against an enemy as he did now. Of the party that had left Zakbar Varf, he alone had walked the long road to the summit of Kazad Kro. Every step he took, his ire for the indignity visited upon him at the trading outpost had increased.

  After what felt like another day, he had at last reached the great gilded gate of the city. A huge effigy of the king was emblazoned upon it in relief, and the guards on the wall had granted admittance reluctantly. Wary eyes had watched him as he passed beneath the vaulted stone arch, and an escort of warriors had met him as soon as he set foot into the city proper. Krondi didn’t know what had transpired when the High King had come to Kazad Kro but it had certainly soured the attitude of some of its citizens.

  For outsiders, hill dwarfs were hard to distinguish from those who lived beneath the earth under the mountains, but Krondi could see the differences well enough. Fairer haired with sun-baked skin, they stood a little taller or less stooped on account of the fact they didn’t spend all of their days crawling through tunnels. But they weren’t as broad and the layer of soot and grit commonplace under the nails of all but the best preened of dwarfs wasn’t present in the hill folk.

  In spite of these differences, Krondi had still felt a kinship with them as he passed through their smithies and fletchers, markets and jewel-cutters, and hoped the king would have the same empathy for his mountain brethren too.

  Sadly, the old dwarf campaigner would be disappointed.

  Krondi was now kneeling in the hold hall of the king himself, his back still aching, his feet still sore and his pride more wounded than ever.

  ‘Lower…’ the voice uttered again, hoarse with age or overuse, putting him in mind of a crow by the way it rasped. It wasn’t hard to imagine beetling little eyes like black pearls, the suggestion of a hooked beak in the shape of the king’s nose, the avian sweep of his cheekbones and receding hairline, black fading to pepper grey at the fringes.