by Gav Thorpe
Coming to the rear of the castle, they found the main hall. It was built into the foundations of the wall and from the same huge stone blocks. It was roofed with red-painted tiles, chipped and worn and slicked with moss. A great double door stood open at the near end, the gloomy firelight of the inside barely visible within. Laughter and singing could be heard.
Entering, they found that the hall was much longer than it appeared, burrowing under the wall and into the roots of the mountain beyond. Along the length of the walls were four huge fireplaces, two on each side, the smoke from the fires disappearing up flues that had been dug through the wall and the mountain slope. The room was full of tables and benches, and there were several dozen people inside, many in the uniforms of the garrison, some dressed in the manner of the pilgrims the dwarfs had seen in the pass the last two days.
There was an empty bench near the far end, close to one of the fires, and a stone counter that ran nearly the whole width of the hall. Small grates were built into the counter, over which pots boiled and shanks of meat on spits roasted gently. The aroma made Barundin’s mouth water and he realised that it had been a while since he had really filled his stomach, having had nothing more than trail rations and what game the rangers had caught whilst on the journey south.
“Hungry?” said Dran.
Barundin nodded enthusiastically. “And some beer!” the king said, and there were grunts of agreement from the other dwarfs. “We’ll need plenty of it, I bet. Manling beer is little more than coloured water.”
“We need to pay,” said Dran, with a pointed look at the king.
“I’ll come with you,” Barundin agreed with a sigh.
As the rangers took places around the table, looking slightly ridiculous on the manling benches, their feet dangling above the ground, Dran and Barundin walked to the counter. There were a man and a woman behind it, arguing. The woman saw the two dwarfs approach and broke off the conversation.
“You’ll be wanting a hearty meal after your travels, I’ll warrant,” she said. “I’m Bertha Felbren, and if there’s anything you’ll be wanting, just shout for me. Or my lazy oaf of a husband, Viktor, if you can’t find me.”
“We have twenty-one hungry stomachs to fill,” said Dran with a nod to the table full of dwarfs.
“Bread, meat, broth, whatever you have, we’ll take.”
“And your best ale,” added Barundin. “Lots of it, and often!”
“We’ll bring it over,” said Bertha. “If you’re wanting rooms, I’ll ask around for you. Most folk that come through here camp in the pass, but we’ll be able to find enough beds if you wish.”
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“That would be grand,” said Dran. The Reckoner looked at Barundin and gestured with his head towards Bertha. Barundin didn’t responded and Dran repeated the gesture, this time with a scowl.
“Oh,” said Barundin with a sheepish grin. “You’ll want paying.”
Sweeping back his cloak, Barundin lifted up the chainmail sleeve of his armour and slipped the gold torque from around his upper arm. He took a small chisel from his belt, carried for just such a purpose, and chipped off three silvers of shining metal. He pushed them across the counter to Bertha, who looked at the dwarf with wide-eyed surprise.
“Not enough?” said Barundin, turning to Dran for guidance. “How much?”
“I think you’ve just paid them enough for a week,” said Dran with a grin.
Barundin fought the urge to grab the gold back, his fingers twitching as Bertha swept up the shards of precious metal, quickly depositing them out of sight.
“Yes, whatever you want, just give Bertha a shout, any time, day or night,” she said breathlessly, turning away. “Viktor, you worthless donkey, get out the Bugman’s for these guests.”
“Bugman’s?” said Dran and Barundin together, looking at each other in amazement.
“You have Bugman’s ale here?” said Barundin.
“Aye, we do,” said Viktor, walking over to the counter, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Not much, perhaps a tankard each, I’m afraid.”
“It’s not Bugman XXXXXX, is it?” asked Dran, his voice dropping to a reverential whisper.
“No, no,” laughed Viktor. “Do you think I’d be stuck out here with this hag of a wife if I had a barrel of XXXXXX? It’s not even Troll Brew, I’m sorry to say. It’s Beardling’s Best Effort.
Nothing fancy for you folk, I’m sure, but much more to your taste than our own brew.”
“Beardling’s Best Effort?” said Barundin. “Never heard of it. Are you sure it’s Bugman’s?”
“You can inspect the cask yourself, if you don’t believe me,” said Viktor. “I’ll bring it to the table with some mugs for you.”
“Aye, thanks,” said Dran, nudging Barundin in the side and signalling for them to return to the table.
The meal was pleasant enough, consisting of tough stewed goat’s meat broth, roast lamb and boiled potatoes. There was plenty of bread and goat’s cheese with which the dwarfs could vanquish the last vestiges of their appetites, in anticipation of the ale to come.
Although it was by no means the quality associated with most of the beer from the Bugman brewery, it was certainly finer than the manlings’ own brew. Having been starved of proper dwarf beer even at home for nearly twenty years, the dwarfs supped the Beardling’s Best Effort in a cautious manner. Each mouthful was greeted with much contented umming and aahing.
In the convivial atmosphere, the dwarfs began to relax. As night fell outside, Bertha built up the fires and lit more candles, and the hall was awash with a warm glow and the gentle hubbub of voices as more folk of the castle, soldiers and visitors, entered. Maids came in, young lasses from the soldiers’ families, to serve the growing crowd, and in one corner a minstrel broke out a fiddle and began to play quietly to himself. The dwarfs were left to their own devices for the most part, disturbed only by the enquiries of Bertha and Viktor checking that they were well served.
Barundin was nudged by Dran, tearing him away from the silent contemplation of his pint, and he looked up to see the gathered patrons parting to allow Rimbal Wanazaki to pass through. The engineer looked much the same as he had when Barundin saw him in the foothills west of Black Water; his beard was longer, his eyes red-rimmed through the grime and soot that stained his tanned skin. He held a lump hammer in one hand and an oil can in the other.
“Evening lads, nice of…” The engineer’s voice trailed off as he caught sight of Barundin, sitting with a stern expression on his face, his arms crossed tightly. “Well, blow me!”
“Sit down, Rimbal,” said Dran, standing up on the bench to reach for the tankard of ale they had kept aside for the engineer. “Have yourself a drink.”
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Wanazaki cautiously wormed his way between the Reckoner and Barundin, and took the ale with a grin.
“You’re not here to check on my health, are you?” said Wanazaki, and Barundin noticed that his tic was very pronounced now, his whole body twitching occasionally. “You’d think that after all that happened, you’d be the last people I’d want to see, but bless my mail, you are a welcome sight!
These manlings are fine enough folk once you know them, but they’re so difficult to get to know, so flighty. One year they’re a youngster you can bob up and down on your knee, a few years later, they’re married and leaving. There’s no time to enjoy their company. They’re always in such a rush to get things done.”
“You’re coming back with us,” said Dran, laying a hand on Wanazaki’s shoulder. “Plenty of good company back in Zhufbar.”
A panicked expression fixed on the engineer’s face and he shrugged off Dran’s hand and stood up, backing away from the group. “Well, it’s nice of you to visit me and everything, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Wanazaki, his voice rising in volume with the level of his fear. “The guild… I can’t… I’m not going back!”
This last was a shout in the Reikspiel of the manlings, which turned the heads o
f the others in the hall. There were angry murmurings and a crowd began to gather around the dwarfs.
Captain Dewircht pushed his way through the growing group and stood at the end of the table, his demi-halberd gripped in his right hand.
“What’s the commotion here?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”
“Rimbal is coming back with us to Zhufbar,” said Dran, his voice emotionless.
“It seems that he isn’t so keen on the idea,” said Dewircht as a knot of soldiers closed around him, more forcing their way through the crowd. “Maybe you should think about returning without him.”
“Yeah!” said another man, faceless in the throng. “Old Rimbal here doesn’t need to be going nowhere. He’s good enough right here.”
“He must return to Zhufbar to account for himself said Dran. “I am the Reckoner, and I do not come back empty-handed.”
“He lives in lands that are free to him, to do as he pleases,” said Dewircht. “It is his choice whether he comes or goes, not yours.”
“No, it is mine,” growled Barundin. “He is my vassal, oath-sworn and honoured, and I command him.”
“And who would you be?” said Dewircht. “Who would dare issue commands in a fortress of the Emperor, in from the wilds and nameless?”
Barundin stood up and jumped onto the table, unclasping his cloak and tossing it aside to reveal his silver and gold inlaid armour, glowing subtly with rune power. He pulled forth his axe and held it in front of him. Awe and surprise swept across the hall.
“Who am I?” he roared. “I am Barundin, son of Throndin, King of Zhufbar. Do not tell me of rights! What right have you to deny me, who sit and feast in a hall hewn from the rock by dwarfish hands? What right have you to deny me, who stand guard upon walls laid by dwarfish masons?
What right have you to deny me, who keep these lands only by the unseen might of dwarf axes, whose lands were once those ruled over by my ancestors?”
“A king?” laughed Dewircht, astounded. “A king of the dwarfs comes here? And if we still deny you, what then? Will you declare war on the whole Empire?”
At their captain’s words, a few soldiers drew their weapons and some raised crossbows, pointing at Barundin. Quicker than one would expect from a dwarf, Dran was stood on the bench, a throwing axe in one hand. He stared at Dewircht and the soldiers.
“Your captain dies the moment one of you moves against my king,” the Reckoner warned, his scarred face crumpled in a menacing scowl.
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Barundin looked at Dewircht then lowered his axe and hung it on his belt again. “There will be no fighting here, today,” said the dwarf king. “No, it would not be so simple for you. If you do not surrender up the renegade engineer to me, I shall return to Zhufbar. There I shall call for the loremaster to bring forth our book of grudges. Within its many pages shall be recorded the place of Siggurdfort, and the name of Captain Dewircht.”
The king turned on the rest of the crowd, his eyes ablaze with anger. “With an army I shall return,” said Barundin. “While you protect Wanazaki from his judgement, the grudge will stand. We shall tear down the walls that we built, and we shall kill every man inside, and we shall take your watery beer and pour it into the dirt, and we shall burn down the wooden hovels you have spoiled our stones with, and we shall take your gold as recompense for our trouble, and the engineer will still return with us. And if not I, then my heir, or his heir, until the lives of your grandfathers have passed, your names shall still be written in that book, the wrong you do us unavenged. Do not treat the ire of the dwarfs lightly, for there may come a day when your people again look to us as allies, and we might then open our books and see the account you have made for yourselves. In this place, upon the very slopes where our ancestors fought and died together in an age past, you would deny me for the sake of this rogue?”
The speech was followed by a deep, still silence across the hall. Dewircht looked between Barundin and Dran, and then his gaze fell upon Rimbal Wanazaki.
The engineer looked worried, and glanced up at the king. He walked forward and stood in front of the captain. “Put down your weapons,” said Rimbal. “He is right, everything he says.” He turned to the king. “I do not want this, but even more I do not want what you will surely do. I shall fetch my things. What of my gyrocopter?”
“If you give me your word to stay with me until Zhufbar, then you may fly it back,” said Barundin.
“My word?” said Wanazaki. “You would take the word of an oathbreaker?”
“You are not yet oathbreaker, Rimbal,” said Barundin, his expression softening. “You never were, and I do not think you will be one now. Come home, Rimbal. Come back to your people.”
Rimbal nodded and turned back to Captain Dewircht. He shook the manling’s free hand with a nod, and the people in the hall parted again to allow him to leave, his head held proudly, his steps brisk and firm.
65
GRUDGE FIVE
The Goblin Grudge
Steam and smoke billowed from the chimneys of the brewery, swiftly appearing from gold-edged flues and out into the mountain sky. The great oast towers glistened in the light of the morning sun, and miles of glinting copper piping sprouted from the stone walls and coiled about each other.
The brewery had been built on top of the foundations of the original site, extending out from the southern side of the hold, high up the mountain overlooking Black Water. From the cavernous interior of Zhufbar the building spilled across the mountainside, a massive edifice of grey stone, red brick and metalwork. A narrow, fast torrent of water spilled down from the mountainside above, disappearing into the depths of the brewery, for the dwarfs only used the freshest spring water in their beer-making.
As the construction had neared completion, the master brewers and their clans had read their old recipe books and orders for the finest ingredients had been sent to the other holds and the lands of the empire. The vast storehouses of the brewery were now brimming with barrels of different malts and barleys, yeast and honey and sundry other ingredients, some of them clan secrets for many generations.
Barundin stood atop a stage made from empty barrels, a great host of dwarfs around him, in front of the brewery entrance. Beside him stood the brewmasters and the engineers, Wanazaki amongst them. The itinerant dwarf had renewed his oaths with the Guild and, in and act of clemency, they had spared him the humiliation of the Trouser Leg Ritual and banishment. Instead he had agreed to work on the rebuilding of the brewery for free, and act that would quell the act of even the most rebellious dwarfs. With Wanazaki’s aid, work had progressed apace and now, only three years since his return, the brewery was finished.
In his hand the king held grains of barley, which he scrunched nervously in his palm as he waited for the crowd to settle. The sun was warm on his face, even this early in the morning, and he was sweating heavily. As quiet descended, Barundin cleared his throat.
“Today is a great day for Zhufbar,” the king began. “A proud day. It is a day when we can once again make a claim to our ancestral heritage.”
Barundin held up his hand and allowed the grains to dribble through his fingers, pattering against the wooden barrel beneath his feet.
“A simple seed, some might think,” he continued, gazing up above the crowd to the mountains beyond. “But not us, not those that know the real secrets of beer-making. These simple seeds contain within them the essence of beer, and in that the essence of ourselves. It is in beer that we might judge our finest qualities, for it requires knowledge, skill and patience. Beer is more than a drink, more than something to quench a thirst. It is our right, its making passed down to us from our oldest ancestors. It is the lifeblood of our people, our hold. The ale that we shall drink will have been long in the making, tested for its qualities, proven in the taverns.”
Barundin flicked the last few grains from his hand and turned his gaze to the assembled dwarfs, his expression fierce.
“And just as an ale must pass the test for
it to prove its qualities, so to must our warriors,”
Barundin told them. “The skaven have been crushed, their menace to us passed. Our brewery is 66
rebuilt and this very day the first pints of fine ale shall begin their lives. These tasks are done, but there is one great task that yet remains unfulfilled, an oath yet to be met.”
Barundin turned to the east and waved his hand across the view, his gesture encompassing the rising peaks of the World’s Edge mountains and the clear blue sky.
“These are my lands,” he said, his voice rising. “These are your lands! From ages past we have lived upon and within these peaks, and unto the ending of the world itself, here we shall remain, as steady as the mountains from which our spirits were hewn. But we shall never know peace again, not while there is a vile taint upon our lands that we dare not face. East of here, the vile, disgusting grobi have plundered our mines, stolen our halls, desecrated our tunnels with their presence. For a score of generations they have been interlopers upon our realms, their stench filling the taverns and drinking dens of our forefathers, their black throats breathing the air once breathed by our kin.”
Again Barundin turned his gaze back to the throng, who were murmuring loudly now, the anger roused by his words.
“No more!” bellowed Barundin. “No more will we stand idly by while these pieces of filth live and breed in our homes. No more shall we whisper the name of Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan. No more shall we stare into our ale and ignore the creatures that knock upon our door. No more will the grobi feel themselves safe from our wrath.”
“Kill the grobi!” someone shouted from the crowd, and the chant was taken up by many dozens of throats.
“Yes!” shouted Barundin. “We shall march forth and slay them in their lair. Once more we shall build Grungankor Stokril, and it will be filled with the light of our lanterns, not the darkness of the grobi; it will resound to the hearty laughs of our warriors and not the snickering cackles of greenskins.”
