by Nick Kyme
Furgil sighed, ‘Dreng tromm,’ wringing his cap in his dirt-stained hands.
Gotrek returned to the messages from his reckoners. Almost forgetting Furgil was still present, he hurriedly dismissed the ranger.
‘Thank you for bringing this to me, Furgil. You have my authority to double all of the ranger patrols on the trade routes. Keep a sharp eye for me, lad.’
Furgil nodded and was gone, leaving the High King alone with Thurbad.
‘Thoughts?’ he asked the captain of the hearthguard.
‘Someone is trying to break down the peace we have with the elgi.’
‘Not unexpected, especially when our accord with them is on such fragile ground.’
‘Their settlements expand as trade between us grows,’ said Thurbad. ‘It was only a matter of time before the other thanes objected.’
‘Eight Peaks and Ungor pledge their allegiance to “difficult times ahead”.’ Gotrek held up a pair of missives he had retrieved from the pile amongst the scratchings of the reckoners.
‘Very politic of them both,’ Thurbad observed. ‘They must be seen to support you if they then want to go on and usurp you.’
‘Indeed.’ Gotrek had taken out his pipe. Upon touching his lips the cup flared into life, casting the rune of zharr engraved on it into sharp relief.
‘But the attack on the trade routes is troubling. How many know of those roads?’
‘Not many, or so I thought. It dates back to the old pact, the one during Snorri Whitebeard’s days.’
‘The elgi prince, their ambassador?’
‘Malekith, aye.’
‘Where is the elgi now?’
‘Dead, disappeared? I have no idea, Thurbad. The records pertaining to him ended when he left the Karaz Ankor two thousand years ago. They are practically myth.’
‘Someone knows.’
Gotrek got up out of his chair and walked over to where a huge map of the dwarf realms was hung up on the wall like a grand tapestry. The map was old, torn in places, burned at the edges and curling slightly. The dark ink etched upon it in certain areas was not so old. In fact, it was very recent.
‘I cannot justify sanctions against the elgi for a few acts of disorder.’
Thurbad joined him at the wall.
‘Are you asking me or telling me, my king?’
Gotrek left a pause to consider. ‘Telling. But I need you to ensure the hearthguard are all armed and ready to act immediately should they be required.’
Thurbad bowed. ‘Always, my king.’
Returning his attention to the map where not only the dwarf holds and settlements were depicted, but the elf ones too, he said, ‘I hope this is just a spate of disorder, that these are just the rash acts of a few dissenters.’
Gotrek was a wise king. Unlike some, he realised the stark differences between elves and dwarfs would always result in a difficult peace, but unlike others he wasn’t willing to go to war with them over it. Fighting the elves for the Old World would harm both races. It was foolish. Despite all of that, he was deeply troubled by everything he had seen and heard.
He pointed to the map with his pipe.
‘How many elgi do you think are in my realm, Thurbad?’
‘Too many to count easily, my king.’
From the sheer number of settlements, outposts, even cities, Gotrek knew it must rival the dwarf clans. Though he would not speak it to Thurbad, for the briefest moment he wondered if he had made a grievous error in being so genial to the elves. He wondered if he had allowed an enemy to creep into his hold halls invited and now that enemy was unsheathing his dagger to plunge it into the king’s back.
Releasing a long plume of smoke that obscured the crude depictions of holds and cities on the map with an all-consuming fog, he said, ‘Have the guildmasters instruct our forges to begin stockpiling weapons and armour.’
‘Are we headed for war, my king?’
It was a reasonable question, but one Gotrek chose to answer with flippancy so as not to alarm his captain of the hearthguard unduly.
‘Don’t be an ufdi, Thurbad. There will be no war between elgi and dawi. There must be no war, but I will have our armouries full anyway.’
Slamming his clenched fist against his breastplate, Thurbad left to make his preparations.
The High King was alone.
Gotrek traced a gnarled finger along the sketched trade routes on the map and then the roads and byways to and from the elven settlements.
‘Too many to count,’ he murmured, echoing Thurbad’s words. He prayed to Grungni. ‘Let it not be war, noble ancestor. Let it not.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Clash of Arms
Sweat soaked his eyes but he dared not blink. A roar filled his ears, muffled by plate, so loud he could barely hear his heavy-beating heart. Steel clashing against steel was a constant drone. The stink of blood, of piss and dung lingered in his nostrils, unfettered by his nose guard. Heat like a second skin cleaved to his body, stealing away breath. Fire burned nearby, the acerbic tang of it on his tongue, the reek of smoke and soot, the crackle and snap as the flames went about their purifying work.
This was battle against a hardened foe, with limbs already numb from the killing that lay around him in chopped-up heaps. Greenskins by the score, too many to tell, too few to matter. But this was no goblin or orc before him with blade aimed at his chest.
When an attack came, it came like lightning on a clear day. Fast and utterly by surprise. Morgrim snarled in pain, the force of the blow’s impact against his shield so hard it jerked his shoulder.
No time to think, just time enough to hurt.
A second strike, overhead and two-handed, kept him on the defensive back foot as he used the haft of his warhammer to parry.
Weather it, endure.
Battered relentlessly, though there was precision and skill to each carefully crafted attack, the dwarf knew he would soon run out of battlefield in which to retreat.
He is stronger than he looks…
So did Prince Imladrik.
The elf was a blur of silver, every thrust and lunge, slash and cut choreographed in a deadly dance for which Morgrim was his unwilling partner. In the brief exchange, several blows had already penetrated the dwarf’s armour. A gash below his eye throbbed. His breath was forced and ragged.
The elf was winning.
Corpses lay all about them, putrid and stinking, their spilt blood just as dangerous underfoot as any blade. Broken spear hafts jutted from the earth like bones reaching from the grave. Each was deadly as a lance if fallen upon. Smashed shields added to the general battlefield detritus. Through his dimming view, Morgrim saw the silhouettes of other figures moving in the battle fog but they couldn’t help him.
The dwarf was alone in this.
It was a mercy the elf was not riding his dragon. Should the beast have been involved, it would be a much shorter contest. As it was, Morgrim was hardly making a decent fight of it. Defeat looked all but certain.
He lashed out, caught the elf just below his knee and drew a cry of pain from the prince’s mouth. Fevered shouting around the battlefield intensified. Though muffled through his helm, the sound of the elf’s discomfort brought a smile to the dwarf’s lips. Morgrim roared his defiance, tried to press the slim advantage fate had provided, but Imladrik was a consummate swordmaster and recovered quickly. A dazzling series of ripostes aimed against the dwarf’s left side made him overcompensate with the shield, left him exposed on the right. Morgrim narrowly avoided being disarmed as the elf swept his longsword in under the dwarf’s guard and tried to hook the hammer away. Twisting his wrist, Morgrim barely caught the blade against his hammer’s haft. Shavings of wood and metal cascaded where the elf’s weapon bit. He fashioned his resistance into a shoulder barge that caught Imladrik in the chest and drew out a grunt. A hard shove to foll
ow up pushed the combatants apart, and they regarded each other across the charnel field through the eye-slits of their war helms.
Morgrim’s, horned and wrought of dwarf bronze, was not only lower but was also bowed compared to the elf’s upraised helmet of glittering silver ithilmar.
‘If you wish to concede,’ gasped the dwarf between breaths, ‘then I’ll ensure your honour remains intact when my hammer falls.’
Though he hid it well, Imladrik’s breathing was laboured too. He lifted the dragon visor of his helmet with a gauntleted hand.
It was the same armour he had worn when they had first met outside Karaz-a-Karak. How different things were now.
‘Amusing,’ the elf replied. Sweat dappled his forehead. Just a little, but Morgrim saw it catch the light in little pearls of perspiration.
So he does tire.
That at least was some encouragement.
Prince Imladrik went on, ‘I would offer you the same courtesy but think you would probably not take it.’
‘Aye.’ Morgrim spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground. There was a little blood in it from a cracked tooth. ‘You’d be right about that, elgi.’
‘Thought so,’ said Imladrik, lowering his visor before he took up a fighting stance. ‘I’ll make it quick,’ he added with a metallic resonance to his voice.
Shrilling a war cry, the elf leapt into the air – a feat made all the more remarkable for its suddenness and the fact he was wearing a full suit of armour – and launched a piercing thrust that would have split Morgrim’s shield and armour as one.
Reacting more on instinct than with purpose, Morgrim hurriedly sidestepped and caught the bulk of the blow against his shoulder. It stung like all the fires of Grungni’s forge and he barely held on to his shield. A hammer swing smote air but the elf was gone. Eyes darting, Morgrim caught a silver blur in his peripheral vision but was too slow to prevent the longsword splitting his shield in two. It was hewn from stout oak, banded by iron, and still the elf’s sword cut it apart as if it were rotten wood. Such was the power behind the blow that Morgrim lost his footing and his hammer. On his back, barely catching breath, he went to grab the weapon’s haft when he felt the chill of elven steel at his neck.
Morgrim slumped, let the hammer go and accepted his fate.
‘Grimnir’s hairy balls,’ he spat, baring his neck. ‘You have me, elgi.’
Imladrik’s eyes were diamond sharp within the confines of his war helm.
Morgrim growled, ‘Finish it, then.’
The elf’s belligerent mask slipped.
The dwarf smiled, then broader still.
‘Well met, Prince Imladrik.’
Withdrawing his blade, the elf lifted his dragon visor. He was smiling too. Sheathing his longsword with a flourish, he bowed and proffered the dwarf his hand.
‘A close match, Thane Morgrim. There is little to choose between elven speed and dwarf tenacity, I think.’
Grunting, Morgrim got to his feet with Imladrik’s help.
In the stalls surrounding the arena battlefield the gathered crowd were cheering them both, but Morgrim failed to feel their acclaim.
High King Gotrek had commissioned a vast auditorium of stone and wutroth to be built in honour of a grand feast and series of games that were meant as a way of healing the frayed relationship between the elves and dwarfs in light of the recent ‘troubles’.
Known as the brodunk, a festival of worship to honour Grimnir and the art of battle, the union of dwarf and elf on this day was hoped to be an auspicious one. In times such as these, with peace hanging by a skein of civility, it needed to be. There were other festivals: brodag honoured Grungni and brew-making, whereas brozan was the celebration dedicated most to Valaya and the bonds of brotherhood between the clans. In retrospect, perhaps it would have been a better choice to try and coincide the feast with the ancestor goddess’s feast day instead.
Upon hearing the news of the caravan attacks and the destruction of Zakbar Varf, many of the thanes had demanded retaliation. Bagrik of Ungor, though now returned to Karak Ungor to meet with ambassadors of Tor Eorfith, had called for calm. He had no wish to disaffect his elven guests before they had even arrived. King Varnuf had kept his own counsel, doubtless seeing where the most favour would fall, whilst Luftvarr and Thagdor demanded retaliation. Thagdor was absent from proceedings but had set up camp close to Karaz-a-Karak to keep closer eye on what Gotrek would do next. Never one to miss out on celebrating a good fight, Luftvarr had stayed. In any case, the journey back to Kraka Drak was a long one. Above all else, the Norse dwarf king was a pragmatic one and would always prefer warm food in his belly to an arduous trek north with only trail rations for sustenance.
Temperate as well as wise, High King Gotrek had resisted the call to arms. Ambassadors from the elven court in the Old World, of which Prince Imladrik was the highest ranking noble, had assured the dwarfs these were isolated acts of malice to try and undermine peace. They too attended the brodunk. Afterwards, Gotrek had echoed Bagrik in calling for calm and so the axes of his vassal lords remained sheathed for now, but the mood was fractious.
It had taken several days of hard dwarf labour to bring the brodunk into being. More than ever Gotrek was convinced of its need and hoped it would reignite camaraderie and genuine bonhomie between the races. The hold was kept running with a bare minimum of miners and craftsmen, the rest were petitioned to create the stage required for the grand feast.
Mules pushing great, rounded millstones had flattened the ground. Stonecutters, rockbreakers and lodemasters dragging stone from the mines, fashioning pillars and walls, flagstone plazas and wooden stalls had worked days on end to bring the High King’s desires to fruition. Many grumbled but respected their liege-lord enough to keep their misgivings private. It was no easy thing to put this burden on his clans, on his hold, but Gotrek did it because he believed lasting peace would only be maintained with sacrifice and toil. These, at least, were not strange concepts to a dwarf.
Flags and banners were nailed up, most bearing the solemn iconography of the dwarfs – the forge, the hammer and axe, the faces of their ancestors – but others depicted dragons, eagles and horses, the imagery of their elven guests.
Mouth-watering aromas emanated from feast halls where dwarf cooks and brewmasters slaved to create victuals for their kin and guests alike. Fluttering in a light breeze coming off the nearby mountains, pennants on the roofs of tented pavilions carried the runes of the elven houses present for the festivities. Other tents sewn together with rough dwarf fabric had the faces of the ancestors stitched in gilded thread and carried banner poles surmounted by clan icons of bronze, silver and gold.
Coal pits provided warmth and light, for the arena was outdoors in order to better suit the elves, a concession which had earned favour from the visitors but not the more truculent dwarf kings. Grundin of Karak Kadrin had been particularly vociferous on this point. There were roasting pits in which boar and elk were prepared for feasting later. Shields describing the clans and warrior brotherhoods festooned the walls of the structure, which was based on a large central arena with several smaller ones attached to it via a series of open tunnels. Even when building an auditorium meant to be open to the elements, dwarfs could still not deny their natural instincts to be enclosed.
At first the elves had balked at the solidity of the auditorium, its stout walls, viewing towers and gates. To the elves it was not so different from a fortress. Certainly, the regal quarters afforded to the dwarf kings in particular were well fortified. Indeed, if attacked, it was highly likely the dwarfs could muster a garrison and defend it like one.
Yes, the clans of Everpeak had gone to great efforts to fashion a stage worthy of their king. It was a pity then that the first major contest upon it had ended in defeat for the dwarfs.
Through the brazier smoke at the edge of the mock battlefield, Morgrim could tell there were m
ore elves than dwarfs rejoicing at the display. One in particular, a stern female wearing crimson scalloped armour, gave Imladrik a nod, which the prince returned. She didn’t linger, merely waited long enough to show her quiet applause for his victory before disappearing into the crowd. As was typical of their race, the elves were restrained in celebration but the sense of triumph they evinced was palpable.
It was like a slap in the face for Morgrim. Shame reddened his cheeks and he was glad his helm obscured them. Not daring to look towards the High King’s royal pavilion where Snorri and his father were watching, he kept his eyes on his hammer and pretended to tighten the leather straps around its haft.
Imladrik appeared to sense what the dwarf was thinking.
‘There’s no shame in this. If your shield hadn’t broken, if you’d have swung when you tried to dodge… Well,’ the elf admitted, ‘things could have turned out very differently. If it matters at all, you pushed me to the limit of my endurance, Morgrim.’
They clasped forearms in the warrior’s greeting, something not usual amongst elves but common in the dwarfs, resulting in another cheer. Over thirty dead greenskins and one troll, chained to a lump of stone, littered the arena. It was the warm-up act, according to the High King. From their faces, some of the elves had found such wanton butchery in the name of ‘entertainment’ distasteful.
‘You treat them with such disdain,’ said the prince, echoing the apparent mood of his kin.
They stood in the middle of the battlefield together, deciding to allow the more raucous spectators to calm before leaving the arena. Armourers from both sides were heading towards them to help them out of their trappings, take their weapons and ensure they were cleaned and readied for the next bout.
Morgrim shrugged, barely glancing at the disappointed faces of his own retinue. ‘They’re just vermin. Good sport for our axes.’
