by Nick Kyme
‘Not all the realms of the dawi, though,’ said Snorri, his eyes never leaving the ranger who lowered his gaze in shame.
‘No, not all. Not yet.’
‘You know something my father and I do not?’
‘Only hope, my prince. Hope in an old friend to do what is right. That is all.’
Snorri laughed. ‘I expected my father to be less understanding.’
‘Oh, make no mistake, my prince, grudges against Thagdor, Brynnoth and Valarik have been writ. Retribution for their transgression will be taken in wergeld or actual blood, the Starbreaker has avowed it, but not until the war is done.’
‘They best hope it claims them, then,’ muttered Snorri, knowing well his father’s wrath.
Furgril merely nodded.
‘Tromm for the beer, but I should be on my way.’
Snorri didn’t answer immediately. His mind was elsewhere, back during his carefree days of adventuring with Morgrim in the lower deeps. He glanced down into the encampment, knowing his cousin was somewhere below, preparing for the march. It would have to wait, Snorri decided.
‘Tell my father we will hold here for a week but no more. If his throng hasn’t reached us by then we will have to march.’
‘I’ll tell him, my prince.’
Furgil was already on his way, signalling to his rangers who waited silently for him below, when Snorri called out to him.
‘You are a loyal servant of the Karaz Ankor, Furgil. It’s a pity your countrymen are not like you.’
Furgil paused but didn’t answer. He left as quietly as he’d arrived, headed east to the host of the High King.
‘Summon my war council,’ Snorri said to the hearthguard once Furgil had gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
War of the Beard
‘That is what they are calling it, my king.’
‘Even for elgi that is bold,’ said Gotrek. ‘They mock us with the very name of this conflict.’
Thurbad didn’t disagree, so just nodded.
After a short rest in the Mootlands of the half-folk, the army of Karaz-a-Karak and its vassal lords was preparing to move on. Furgil had recently returned bringing news of the prince’s intention to wait for his father. A week was not long, however, and winter ground made for a difficult march, even for dwarfs. Time could not be wasted if they were to meet Snorri’s deadline.
Gotrek cast a mantle of red velvet, trimmed with eagle feathers, over his shoulders. Thurbad attached the pauldron pins, then tightened the clasps of the king’s gromril armour so it hugged his waist.
He groaned. ‘Been too long vacillating in my throne room,’ said Gotrek. ‘Must have gotten fat.’
‘Winter padding, my king.’
Gotrek smirked at the hearthguard, who hadn’t even paused to acknowledge his joke.
‘Aye, something like that.’
He would have preferred a hold hall, a roaring hearth at his back as he donned his armour, but out on campaign a tent would have to suffice. Gotrek scowled at its weakness, wishing for solid stone above and about him. The wars with the greenskins and the monsters of the Ungdrin were vicious affairs, cramped, brutal and close up, but at least they were beneath ground. Sky and forest were not to the High King’s liking, and made him uneasy.
‘Should I have marched before now, Thurbad?’ he asked candidly.
Now the hearthguard paused, halfway to buckling a leather weapons belt.
‘You may speak your mind,’ Gotrek told him. ‘Have no fear of grudgement.’
Thurbad looked the High King in the eye. ‘No, my king. You did what was necessary to protect the Karaz Ankor. A calm head should always prevail over a rash one, or so my father always said.’
‘Then he was a wise dawi, your father.’
‘Tromm, he was.’
‘It would have spared Grimbok his fate, your hearthguard too and the life of Gilias Thunderbrow, if I had thrown in with my son and marched.’
‘He is in the Hall of the Ancestors now,’ said Thurbad. ‘I could wish no more for him than that. As for the others…’ He looked away for a moment, and Gotrek knew he was picturing the wretched dwarfs, their beards shorn, their ancestry taken from them. Even in death, their shame would cling to them like a miasma, bound forever to Gazul’s Gate through which the unquiet could not pass.
Gotrek put his hand on the hearthguard’s shoulder.
‘We will avenge them.’
Thurbad nodded, buckled the High King’s belt and stepped back.
‘You are klad, my king,’ he said, handing Gotrek his axe.
‘To think,’ said Gotrek as he took the weapon in his hands, ‘we were once allies.’ He ran his thumb over the blade, drawing a ruby of blood that ran all the way along the axe’s gromril edge.
‘Will you punish him, my king?’
‘Snorri did what he thought was right. He predicted war and war we have got, sacking the elgi settlement didn’t cause that. It was already done when our kin died on the road and Agrin Fireheart lost his life. But, yes,’ added the High King, ‘I will punish him.’
Over fifty thousand amassed in the army of the High King. More were coming from the north and south but would not reach them in time. It wouldn’t matter. Gotrek was resolved to meet up with his son and march on Tor Alessi until its walls were down and its people ash on the breeze.
‘War of the Beard,’ he snorted, suppressing a sneer. ‘They are owed, Thurbad. The scales are unbalanced and I mean to redress them with death. It is a different conflict we shall bring to the elgi, not of beards, but a War of Vengeance.’
The kings of Kagaz Thar and Kazad Mingol looked around furtively.
Even surrounded by their warriors, shrouded in the gloom of the shaded glade in the forests beyond Kazad Kro, they looked uncomfortable and slightly afraid.
‘Why have you brought us here, beardling?’ King Kruk asked of Kerrik Sternhawk.
The liege-lord of Kagaz Thar was dressed in a leather cloak fashioned to look like overlapping leaves. His armour was rough and rugged like tree bark and he wore muddy kohl around his deep-set eyes. An unkempt beard framed an angular face with bushy eyebrows and a flat knot for a nose. Gnarled as oak, bitter as a winter storm, King Kruk was far from happy at being summoned by Skarnag Grum. ‘The High King doesn’t venture from the Kro. Ever. What is the meaning of this?’
‘Aye,’ agreed King Orrik. He’d looped his thumbs beneath his belt and rocked back on his heels as he eyed the arboreal gloom nervously. ‘In times of war, we should hole up behind walls, shut our tower doors and gates until this wind of conflict passes by.’
The King of Kazad Mingol wore a tall helm that resembled the towering keep from which his hold hall took its name. His beard was long, bound by clasps of iron, and his moustaches curled in blond loops beneath his nose. His teeth seldom parted when he spoke, a portcullis ever shut, his mouth a tight line that rarely broke a smile. Lamellar armour clad his body, and one of his warriors hefted a large shield that bore the emblem of his hold, a tower fort impervious to attack.
‘Please,’ uttered Kerrik, who could not be further out of his depth if he were swimming the length of the Black Water in full armour, ‘all will be explained soon.’
‘Three hours we have been here already!’ snapped Orrik, glowering at the youth. ‘When do you expect soon to be?’
‘I…’ Kerrik looked around but could find no sign or suggestion of his lord. ‘I don’t know.’
‘This is a lot of krut,’ said Kruk, gesturing to his warriors. ‘I have waited long enough.’
‘You’re leaving?’ asked Orrik, his indignation vanishing. ‘But what of Grum? You would defy his summons?’
King Kruk paused, as did his warriors. Grum was a fearsome and brutal king. Neither Kruk nor Orrik wanted to incur his wrath, but waiting in the forest for something that might never happen
could be just as deadly to their health.
‘It does not sound like Grum to me. Why would he leave his counting house, the warmth of his hall to meet us out here?’ He leaned in close, hissing. ‘There might be elgi, or the Starbreaker’s warriors. And I wish for neither an arrow in the back nor to be pressed into the mountain king’s horde.’
Orrik nodded, seeing the sense in that.
Both were set to leave when a voice rang out of the shadows.
‘Hold,’ it said, as Rundin stepped into the light.
‘Ravenhelm?’ asked Kruk, turning.
Orrik eyed him shrewdly. ‘The High King’s champion. What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for some skarren backbone, but seeing little,’ he snapped. ‘This beardling has more courage.’
Kruk snarled. ‘Be careful, king’s thane,’ he said, gesturing to his warriors.
One hefted his axe until he heard the tautening string of a crossbow.
Orrik looked around. Over twenty of Rundin’s rangers surrounded them, though they had yet to take aim. Silent as shadows, they had crept up on the dwarf host without being noticed.
‘I brought them so you would listen,’ said Rundin.
Grumbling, both kings turned around and settled in to hear what the champion had to say.
‘I’m not here on Grum’s behalf,’ Rundin began.
‘Then whose are you here on?’ Kruk’s eyes narrowed.
‘Our people’s, the skarrenawi.’
‘You mean your own,’ said Kruk. ‘What are you brewing, king’s thane?’
‘He speaks of betrayal, dressed in the cloak of patriotism,’ spat Orrik, hawking up a fat gob of phlegm at the champion’s feet.
‘Aye,’ said Rundin, advancing on the two liege-lords until they were almost nose to nose. ‘I do. But not of mine, of our High King’s.’
‘Thagging traitor!’ Kruk made to move, slipping his hand around the haft of his axe, but Rundin put him down with a swift punch. Now the rangers brought up their crossbows, keeping King Kruk’s warriors in check.
‘I am sorry, my king,’ said Rundin, ‘but I need you to listen.‘ He glared at Orrik who was just releasing the grip of his hammer, adding, ‘Both of you.’
Kruk was rubbing his jaw but got to his feet unaided. Begrudgingly, he conceded.
‘Go on then, speak your piece.’
Rundin nodded and stepped back, adopting a less threatening posture.
‘Our liege-lord is mad. His mind is lost to the yellow fever.’
Orrik was shaking his head, incredulous. ‘What do you mean, “lost”?’
Rundin rounded on him. ‘Gorl and galaz and bryn. Gold, King Orrik. Skarnag Grum had succumbed to the gold lust. He drools in his counting house, oblivious to his kingdom and his people. I entered in search of counsel and found not a king, but a zaki in his place.’
‘Grum has always been covetous, but the fever?’ said Kruk. ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Come and see it for yourselves if you must,’ said Rundin.
Orrik sniffed with mild contempt. ‘Even if he has succumbed to the fever, what care is it of ours?’
‘Our High King is lost, and one of you must take his place.’
The glint of pride shimmered in the eyes of both kings as they weighed up the possibilities. That pride vanished with the champion’s next words.
‘To lead us into the war.’
‘Out of the question!’ Kruk was already leaving. He glared at the nearest ranger, daring him to shoot.
Orrik squared up to Rundin. He was taller than most dwarfs, even the champion, but the extra foot he had on him didn’t make Rundin balk.
‘You’re a fool, Ravenhelm. Why would we go to war when we can batten our hatches and seal our gates? We’ll weather this storm. It’ll blow itself out soon enough.’
‘It won’t,’ Rundin told him. ‘You think the elgi will yield? Did you not hear what their king did to our ambassadors? He shaved them, sheared the hair from their faces like they were hruk. If that is his reaction to a banner of peace, what do you think he’ll do to a host of dawi under the banner of war?’
Now surrounded by his warriors, Kruk looked over his shoulder. ‘The Starbreaker will crush them, send them back across the sea. Why should we get involved?’
‘Because we are dawi by any other name!’ Rundin declared. ‘Our blood runs the same as the mountain clans. We should take up arms, honour them with our pledge of allegiance.’
‘For what?’ asked Orrik, backing down when he realised Rundin couldn’t be intimidated by his size. ‘So our throngs can dwindle in the war, so our hold halls can ring empty, their coffers depleting as they’re spent on armour and blades? There is no profit in war, not for us, not this way. It is Gotrek at whom the elgi have taken umbrage. Let him fight them.’
‘Don’t you think that the war will come to us?’ Rundin asked of Orrik’s back, the other king now departing too. ‘I cannot muster the warriors of Kazad Kro or the rest of the skarrens without your help. With it, we can join with Gotrek, end this war quickly. I know it!’
Neither Kruk nor Orrik answered. They were leaving and the rangers would not stop them. No hill dwarf would draw on another, not without grudge.
‘It will come to us,’ Rundin called after them. ‘Not this day perhaps, maybe not for a decade or more, but war will rage and come to our gates. Alone we will perish, but together we have a chance.’
‘Go back to the Kro, Rundin of the Ravenhelm,’ Orrik replied, slowly disappearing into the wooded darkness. Kruk was already long gone. ‘And serve your king as you pledged oath to do so.’
Rundin seethed. His teeth were clenched, his fists tight as his knuckles cracked impotently. ‘I serve my people,’ he said to the air and the shadows.
‘What shall we do, my lord?’ Kerrik Sternhawk was at his side, wringing his hands fearfully.
‘Go back,’ said Rundin. ‘There is nothing else to do.’ He met the beardling’s gaze. ‘Speak to no one of this.’
‘I won’t, my lord.’
‘I have to convince them, Kerrik, that this is right.’
‘What if you can’t, my lord?’
‘Then we’ll all be doomed, lad. Every thagging one of us.’
The rows of dwarfs marching from the flank of the mountain seemed endless.
Soaring high above a thin layer of cloud on the back of Vranesh, Liandra had never seen so many of the mud-dwellers in one place.
Since the sacking of Kor Vanaeth and her arrival at Tor Alessi, she had learned King Caledor had insulted them. Some grievous slight had made their oafish chieftain decide upon war. Liandra relished the opportunity to wet her blade on the dwarfs, mete out her revenge for what they did to her city.
She was tempted to fly lower, harass the dwarf army’s flanks and rearguard, spit flame over their war machines, but decided against it. A lucky shot from one of their ballistae could shear Vranesh’s wing easily enough, and there were many in the wagon train that followed the armoured dwarf hordes. Doubtless, many more would be marching under the earth, along roads lost to darkness and filth. Perhaps the elves could flood the tunnels and drown a great many mud-dwellers before they even reached Tor Alessi. She decided to suggest it to Prince Arlyr upon her return.
It would almost be worth losing her quarry to see that. The dark elf had been close, the one from the gorge that had left its spoor and eluded her for eight years. In her mind, Liandra had transformed the creature into a spectre of the one that had killed her mother on the burning shores of Cothique. Though the perpetrator of her mother’s murder was dead, this spectre represented everything Liandra hated about the dark elves. After the dwarfs had been defeated at Tor Alessi’s gates, an outcome of which she was certain, she would resume her hunt.
Dark elf, dwarf, it didn’t matter to Liandra. Imladrik was right, she was a
supremacist, utterly convinced of the asur’s superiority over all sentient races. Crushing the dwarfs in the Old World was the first step towards dominion. Then, with a strong and thriving colony on the mainland, the high elves could turn their attention to Naggaroth and the overthrow of Malekith.
Having seen all she needed to, Liandra turned Vranesh about and headed back towards Tor Alessi. In her head, she saw the flames renewed, first at Cothique then Kor Vanaeth. She had seen something else too, a third vision framed in fire, but had banished that one from her thoughts with a shudder. Steel returned quickly, hardening her heart, strengthening her arm and conviction.
‘All of them will burn,’ she whispered to Vranesh.
The beast growled, low and threatening, its voice lost on the wind.
Several days had passed since their close encounter with the dragon rider. Drutheira had no idea why they had been spared, but she had no intention of wasting her reprieve either. She sat cross-legged in front of a pyre of blood-slicked skulls, hunkered beneath the half-broken roof of a ruined outhouse. It had been a trading post before the dwarfs had razed it. There were no bodies, but the raiders-turned-fugitives had discovered several graves buried in the hard earth.
Behind her, Malchior and Ashniel were flensing the skin and meat off the elf riders Sevekai and his warriors had killed. The small band of reavers had been utterly unprepared for the assassins and died without any fight. Their headless corpses would be left to rot, sustenance for the carrion flock already circling overhead.
She was weak. They all were, and she needed the knives and quarrels of the shades for the communion of blood with her dark lord.
Crimson smoke was already coiling from the piled skulls when she summoned the other sorcerers.
‘Come forth, make the circle,’ she hissed, her limbs trembling.
Both her fellow coven members looked gaunt and wasted. Their efforts to hide from the dragon rider had been taxing in the extreme. Malchior was weary, but Ashniel managed to make daggers with her gaze.
