by Gav Thorpe
He looked around the group as if noticing their stares for the first time. “My noble kinsmen,” he began, his white beard wagging as he spoke. “I believe I have discovered something of import.”
They waited for him to continue.
“Well, what is it?” asked Thane Snorbi of the Drektrommi, a stout warrior even for a dwarf, known for his somewhat heated temper. “Don’t keep us waiting like a bunch of idiots.”
“Ah, sorry, yes,” said Thagri. “Well, it appears that my predecessor, Loremaster Ongrik, was slightly amiss in his book-keeping. Your father, I have just found, recorded a last grudge several years ago. It was in his journal, but Ongrik witnessed it, which is why it wasn’t with all the other documents.” He waved the smaller book he was carrying.
“Last grudge?” asked Godri, one of the youngest thanes present.
“It’s an old tradition, not used much in recent centuries,” explained Thagri with a wistful smile.
“Your father was very much a traditionalist in that regard. Anyway, the last grudge was recorded by a dwarf as a vow to settle it before his death, or if he could not do so, then to bequeath the settlement of that particular grudge to his heir. It started during a bit of wrangling many, many centuries ago during the Time of the Goblin Wars, to avoid breaking an oath because of an untimely death during all the fighting with the grobi scum.”
“Are you suggesting that I record this grudge as a last grudge and avoid my responsibilities?”
asked Barundin, eyes narrowing.
“Of course not!” spluttered Thagri, truly indignant. “Besides, a king can’t record a last grudge until he’s been in power for a hundred and one years. If we let kings have last grudges all over the place, the system would become a complete joke.”
“So what does it have to do with this debate?” asked Harlgrim.
“The last grudge is the first grudge that the heir must try to right,” said Arbrek, speaking as if he had just remembered something. He looked at Thagri, who nodded in confirmation. “Before you do anything else, you must avenge your father’s last grudge or dishonour his wishes.”
“Why didn’t he tell me he had done such a thing?” asked Barundin. “Why did he only write it in his journal?”
Thagri avoided the king’s gaze and fiddled with the clasp of the book of grudges.
“Well?” demanded Barundin with a fierce stare.
“He was drunk!” blurted Thagri with a desperate look in his eyes.
“Drunk?” said Barundin.
“Yes,” said the loremaster. “Your father and Ongrik were close friends, and as I’ve read this very morning in my late master’s own diary, the two of them drank with each other frequently. It appears that the pair of them, this particular day, had drunk rather more than was normal even for them and had begun reminiscing about the Time of the Goblin Wars and how they wished they had been there to give the grobi a solid runking. Well, one thing led to another. Ongrik mentioned the last grudge tradition and your father ended up writing it in his journal, swearing to avenge the depredations against Zhufbar.”
“What, precisely, did my father swear?” asked Barundin, his heart heavy with foreboding. “He didn’t vow to retake Karak Yarn or something like that?”
“Oh no,” said Thagri with a shake of his head and a smile. “Nothing quite that grand. No, not that grand at all.”
“Then what was his grudge?” asked Harlgrim.
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“Well, a last grudge is not a new grudge at all,” explained Thagri, placing the journal on the floor at his feet and opening the book of grudges. “It’s an oath to fulfil an existing grudge. There was one in particular that your father was always annoyed by, particularly when he was in his cups.”
The loremaster fell silent and the others were quiet as they saw a pained expression twist Barundin’s face.
The king wiped a hand over his lips. “Grungankor Stokril,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.
“Grunga…” said Harlgrim. “The old mines to the east? They’ve been overrun by goblins for nearly two thousand years.” He fell silent as he saw Barundin’s look, as did the others except one.
“Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan?” asked Snorbi. “That’s connected to Mount Gunbad now.
Thousands, tens of thousands of grobi there. What did King Throndin want with that doomed place?”
The thane looked at the pale expressions on the other dwarfs and then stared at Thagri. “There’s a mistake,” insisted Snorbi.
The loremaster shook his head and handed Snorbi the book of grudges, pointing to the relevant passage. The thane read it and shook his head in disbelief.
“We have a war to prepare for,” said Barundin, standing. There was a fell light in his eyes, almost feverish. “War against the grobi. Call the clans, sound the horns, sharpen the axes! Zhufbar marches once again!”
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GRUDGE THREE
The Rat Grudge
The halls and corridors of Zhufbar rang constantly with the pounding of forge hammers, the hiss of steam, the roar of furnaces and the tramp of dwarf boots. To Barundin, it was a symphony of craftsmanship, suffused with the melody of common purpose and kept in beat by the rhythm of industry. It was the sound of a dwarf hold bent to a single goal: war.
The armouries had been opened and the great rune weapons of the ancestors brought forth once more. Axes with glimmering blades and fiery runes were polished; shields and mail of gromril carved with the images of the clans’ ancestors were hefted once more. Hammers graven with gold and silver hung upon the walls. Battle helms decorated with wings and horns and anvils sat upon bedside tables, awaiting their owners.
The engineers were bent to their craft as the forges billowed with fire and smoke. Keg upon keg of black powder was made in the strong rooms, while artisans of all types turned their minds to great war machines, weapons and armour. Cannons were pulled from the foundries and lovingly awakened from their slumber with polish and cloth. Flame cannons, organ guns, bolt throwers and grudgethrowers were assembled and inscribed with oaths of vengeance and courage.
This was no mere expedition, no foray into the wilds for a skirmish. This was dwarf war, grudge-born and fierce. This was the righteous anger that burned within the heart of every dwarf, young and old alike. This was the power of the ancients and the wisdom of generations set on a single course of destruction.
Barundin could feel it flowing through his veins, even as the spirits of seventy generations looked upon him from the Halls of the Ancestors. Never had he felt so sure of his mind; never had his being been set on something so singular and yet so worthy. Although at first the thought of reclaiming Grungankor Stokril had filled the king with apprehension, it had taken but a few moments, thought to reconsider the idea.
Though it had begun as a necessity so that he might pursue his own goals, Barundin had become wedded to the idea of the purge of Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan—the Warren of Goblin Ruin. It would be a fitting way to start his kingship, and would set the minds of his people for his whole reign. A conquest to reclaim the ancient mines would launch Zhufbar into a new period of endeavour and prosperity. It was more than a simple battle, a stepping-stone to his own needs. The destruction of the goblin kingdom in distant lands would herald his ascendancy to the throne of Zhufbar.
Though the war would be terrible, and the dwarfs implacable in the conflict, life in a dwarf hold did not turn quickly. The preparations for Barundin’s march forth against the goblins had been going on for five years. Such an undertaking could not begin lightly, and no dwarf worth his gold would do so in a hasty, unprepared fashion.
While the engineers and axe-smiths, armourers and foundry workers had laboured, so too had Barundin, the thanes and the loremaster. From the depths of the libraries, the old plans of the mine workings of Grungakor Strokril had been brought into the light for the first time in a millennium and a half. With his advisors, Barundin pored for long weeks and months over the detailed maps. They postulated where the goblin
s would have dug their own tunnels, and where they might be trapped.
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Rangers were sent into the tunnels eastwards, to gauge the numbers of the goblins and their whereabouts. Ironbreakers, veteran warriors of tunnel-fighting, spent time teaching their ways of war to young beardlings, tutoring them in axe-craft and shield-skill. The oldest of the Zhufbar throng taught the youngest the ways of grobkul, the ancient art of goblin-stalking. Miners were tasked with practising demolition as well as tunnel building, so that the goblin holes might be filled and reinforcements waylaid.
Amid all of this, the hold tried its best to continue life as normal. Barundin was assured that work was continuing apace on the brewery, and with no effect from the stronghold’s new war footing. There were still trade agreements to be fulfilled, mines to be dug, orc to be smelted and gems to be cut and polished.
Despite the length of time it had taken so far, Barundin knew that soon his army would be ready.
It would be a force the like of which Zhufbar had not seen in five generations. Of course, Abrek cautioned, such armies as those that had fought during the War of Vengeance against the elves, or had valiantly defended Zhufbar during the Time of the Goblin Wars, would never be seen again.
Dwarfs no longer had such numbers, nor the ancient knowledge and weapons of those times. He warned against underestimating the threat of the goblins. However, the ancient runelord’s pessimism did little to dent Barundin’s growing hunger for the coming battles.
It was then, perhaps only weeks from the date the army was due to march forth, that troubling news was brought to Barundin’s ears. It was from Tharonin Grungrik, thane of one of the largest mining clans, as Barundin held his monthly war council.
“I don’t know what it is, but we’ve stirred something up,” Tharonin told them. “Perhaps it’s grobi, perhaps something else. There’s always a young beardling or two goes missing now and then, lost their way most likely. These past few months, there’s been more not coming back than in the ten years before. Seventeen went down and never returned.”
“You think it’s the grobi?” asked Barundin, reaching for his alepot.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Tharonin told him. “Perhaps some of them followed the rangers back from the east. Perhaps they found their own way through the tunnels. Who knows where they’ve been digging?”
“All the more reason why we have to press on with our preparations,” snorted Harlgrim. “Once we’re through with them, the grobi won’t dare set foot within fifty leagues of Zhufbar.”
“There’s been bodies found,” said Tharonin, his deep voice ominous. “Not hacked up, not a shred of cloth nor a ring or trinket taken. That doesn’t come across as grobi work to me.”
“Stabbed?” said Arbrek, stirring and opening his eyes. The other dwarfs had assumed he was asleep. Apparently he had been deep in thought.
“In the back,” said Tharonin. “Just the once, right through the spine.”
“I’ll wager a fist of bryn that it wasn’t no grobi did that,” said Harlgrim.
“Thaggoraki?” suggested Barundin. “The ratmen are back, do you think?”
The others nodded. Along with orcs and goblins, trolls and dragons, the thaggoraki, mutant ratmen also known as skaven, had contributed to the downfall of several of the ancient dwarf holds during the Time of the Goblin Wars. Twisted, cursed scavengers, the skaven were a constant menace, digging their own tunnels in the dark of the world, unseen by man or dwarf. It had been many centuries since Zhufbar had been troubled by them, the last of the skaven having been driven south by the goblins.
“We’ve laboured too long to be put off by guessing and hearsay” said Barundin, breaking the gloomy silence. “If it is the walking rats, we need to be sure. Perhaps it’s just some grobi that’ve followed the expeditions back, like Tharonin says. Send parties into the mines, open up the closed, barren seams and see what’s down there.”
“It’ll be good practice for the beardlings,” said Arbrek with a grim smile. “If they can catch themselves some thaggoraki, grobi will be no problem.”
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“I’ll talk to the other mining clans,” offered Tharonin. “We’ll split the job between us, send guides for those parties that don’t know the workings out eastward. We’ll delve into every tunnel, root them out.”
“Good,” said Barundin. “Do what you must to keep safe, but find me proof of what’s happening.
It’ll take more than a few rats in the dark to turn me from this path.”
*
A strange atmosphere settled over Zhufbar as news of the mysterious disappearances spread.
Speculation was rife, particularly amongst the older dwarfs, who cited tales from their past, or their father’s past, or their grandfather’s past. The old stories resurfaced—sagas of ancient dwarf heroes who had fought the grobi and thaggoraki.
In meticulous detail, the wisest oldbeards spoke of Karak Eight Peaks, the hold that had fallen to both of these vile forces. Surrounded by eight daunting mountains—Karag Zilfin, Karag Yar, Karag Mhonar, Karagril, Karag Lhune, Karag Nar and Kvinn-wyr—the dwarfs of the hold had thought they were protected by a natural barrier as sure against attack as any wall. In its glory days, Karak Eight Peaks was known as the Queen of the Silver Depths, Vala-Azrilungol, and its glory and magnificence were surpassed only by the splendour of Karaz-a-Karak, the capital.
But the earthquakes and volcanic eruptions that preceded the Time of the Goblin War rent the Eight Peaks and threw down many of the walls and towers that had been erected there by the dwarfs. For nearly a hundred years, orcs and goblins attacked the hold from above. The beleaguered dwarfs were already under threat from below by the skaven, and gradually they were pushed towards the centre of the hold, assaulted from above and below.
The final, vile blow came when the skaven, arcane engineers and manipulators of the raw stuff of Chaos, warpstone, unleashed poisons and plagues onto the besieged dwarfs. Sensing that their doom was nigh, King Lunn ordered the treasuries and armouries locked and buried, and led his clans from the hold, fighting through the greenskins to the surface. To this day, short-lived expeditions ventured into Karak Eight Peaks in attempts to recover the treasures of King Lunn, but the warring night goblin tribes and skaven clans had destroyed or turned back any attempt to penetrate the hold’s depths.
Such talk did nothing but darken the mood of Barundin. Though none had yet brought it up, he could sense the mood of the thanes was changing. They were preparing to dig in, as the dwarfs had always done, to fight off the skaven threat. It was a matter of days before the first real evidence that the skaven were close by in any numbers would be found, and then the thanes would suggest that the march against Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan be postponed. They would have good reason, Barundin knew well, and he had his own doubts. His greatest fear, though, was that the impetus that had begun to stir the hold would be lost again.
Barundin was young in dwarf terms, less than one hundred and fifty, and older heads than his would call him impetuous, rash even. His growing dream of conquering the lost mines, avenging his father, and leading his hold boldly into the future would slowly wither away. His centuries, such as the ancestors granted him, would be bound to Zhufbar, watching the world outside fall into the grip of the orcs, his people afraid to venture forth over what were once their lands, their mountains.
These thoughts stirred a deep anger in Barundin, the latent ire that lay dormant within every dwarf. Where the greyhairs would wag their beards, growl into their cups and speak of the lost glories of the past, Barundin felt the need to seek reparation, to act rather than talk.
So it was that the King of Zhufbar waited with growing trepidation for every report from the mines. Tharonin Gungrik had assumed authority over the investigations, being the oldest and most respected of the mine-thanes. Each day, he would send a summary to Barundin, or report in person when his many duties allowed.
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Each account made Barundin’s heart sink.
There were tales of strange smells in the depths, of fur and filth. The most experienced miners spoke of weird breezes from the deeps, odd odours that no dwarf-dug tunnel contained. With senses borne of generations of accumulated wisdom, the miners reported odd echoes, subtle reverberations that did not bear any relationship to the dwarfs’
own digging. There were scratching noises at the edge of hearing, and odd susurrations that fell quiet as soon as one began listening for them.
Even more disturbing were the tales of peculiar shadows in the darkness, blacker patches in the gloom that disappeared in the light of a lantern. No dwarf could swear by it, but many thought they had half-glimpsed red eyes peering at them, and a growing sense of being watched pervaded the lower halls and galleries.
The disappearances were becoming more frequent too. Whole parties had gone missing, the only evidence of their abduction being their absence from the halls at mealtimes. Neither Tharonin, nor Barundin or any of the other council members could discern a pattern in the disappearances. The current mine workings covered many miles east, north and west, and the older mines covered several leagues.
It was a disconcerted Tharonin that addressed Barundin’s council when they were next gathered.
The thane had come to the king’s audience chamber directly from the mines, and he still wore a long shirt of gromril mail and his gold-chased helm. His beard was spotted with rock dust and his face grimy.
“It is bad news, very bad news,” said Tharonin before taking a deep gulp of ale. His face twisted into a sour expression, though whether this was because of the beer or the news that he bore was unclear.
“Tell me everything,” said Barundin. The king leaned forward with his elbows on the table, his bearded chin in his hands.
