by Gav Thorpe
“Thank you, my friend,” said Barundin, laying a hand on Tharonin’s shoulder. “Without you, I don’t know if I would have had the strength to keep going.”
“Pah!” snorted Tharonin. “The blood of our kings is thick in your veins, Barundin. You have a gut of stone, and no mistake.”
The clumping of iron-shod boots and voices raised in laughter echoed around the hall as a group of ironbreakers entered from the western doorway. At their front was Hengrid Dragonfoe, a goblin head in each hand. Droplets of blood dribbled from the creature’s severed necks.
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“Hoy there, we’ve just had the floor cleaned!” snapped Tharonin. “Show some manners!”
“Well, that’s gratitude for you,” said Hengrid with a grin, handing the heads to one of his comrades and marching quickly across the dark stone flags to the foot of the steps. “Here’s you accepting your new realm, while I’m out there protecting it for you. And if you don’t want your inauguration presents, I’ll keep them myself. My cousin, Korri, he’s a dab hand at taxidermy.
Reckon them two would look good flanking my mantel.”
“Has anybody told you that you’re a bloodthirsty thug?” said Tharonin, smiling as he walked down the steps.
Clapping a hand to Tharonin’s shoulder, Hengrid walked up the steps, shaking hands and nodded in greeting to the other thanes. He gave a respectful bow to Arbrek, who merely glowered back, and then stepped up in front of Barundin.
“Are the halls of Grungankor Stokril now safe?” the king asked.
“I swear by my grandfather’s metal eyeball, there’s not a grobi within two days of where we stand,” said Hengrid. “It’s been a long time coming, but I think we can safely say that you can add conqueror of Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan to your list of achievements.”
“They will come again,” warned Arbrek, glaring at Tharonin. “Keep a sharp watch and a sharper axe close by, lest that name not be consigned to history.”
“It will be a lifetime before the grobi dare come within sight of these halls,” said Barundin. “As I swore, they have learned to fear us again.”
“A lifetime, aye, it will be,” said Hengrid. He leaned forward and pointed at Barundin’s beard.
“Is that a grey hair I see? Have these past forty-two years of war aged the youthful king?”
“It is not age, it is worry,” growled Barundin. “You could have been the death of me, disappearing for months, years at a time! Retaking the north gate and besieged by goblins for three years—what were you thinking?”
“I got carried away, that’s all,” laughed Hengrid. “Are you going to keep mentioning that every time I see you? It’s been forty years, for Grimnir’s sake. Let it go.”
“It’ll be forty more years before I forgive you,” said Barundin. “And forty more after that before I can forget the voice of your wife in my ear, accusing me of abandoning you every day for three years. I shudder in my sleep when I think about it.”
“I can’t stand around here gossiping, there’s preparations to be made,” grumbled Arbrek, turning away.
“Preparations?” asked Hengrid, darting an inquiring glance at the thanes. They shuffled nervously, looking pointedly at the king.
Hengrid shrugged and turned back to Barundin, a look of mock innocence on his face. “Is there something important happening?”
“You know very well that it is my hundred and seventieth birthday tomorrow,” said Barundin.
“And you better bring something better than a couple of grobi heads. This will be a celebration of your victories as much as my birthday, so make sure you wash that blood from your beard before you come. I hope you have a speech ready.”
“A speech?” said Tharonin with a gasp. “Grungni’s beard, I knew I’d forgotten something!”
They watched as the ageing thane hurried down the steps and disappeared from the hall.
Barundin laid an arm across Hengrid’s shoulders and walked him down the steps. “And you’re not to get drunk and sing that damnable song again,” he warned.
Hengrid swayed from side to side in beat to the clapping and the thumping of tankards on tables. As he walked along the table he stumbled over ale jugs and plates covered with bones and others remains of the feast. Beer swilled from the mug in his hand, spilling down the front of his jerkin and sticking in his beard. With a roar, he upended the tankard over his face, and then spluttered for a moment before his voice boomed out in song. Barundin covered his face and looked away.
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A lusty young lad at his anvil stood beating,
Lathered in sweat and all covered in mucket.
When in came a rough lass, all smiles and good greeting, And asked if he could see to her rusty old bucket.
“I can,” cried the lad, and they went off together,
Along to the lass’ halls they did go.
He stripped off his apron, ’twas hot work in thick leather, The fire was kindled and he soon had to blow.
Her fellow, she said, was no good for such banging,
His hammer and his arms were spent long ago.
The lad said, “Well mine now, we won’t leave you hanging, As I’m sure you’ll no doubt all very soon know.”
Many times did his mallet, by vigorous heating,
Grow too soft to work on such an old pail,
But when it was cooled he kept on a-beating,
And he worked on it quickly, his strength not to fail.
When the lad was all done, the lass was all tearful:
“Oh, what would I give could my fellow do so.
Good lad with your hammer, I’m ever so fearful,
I ask could you use it once more ere you go?”
Even Barundin was laughing uproariously by the time Hengrid had finished, and laughed even more heartily when the thane, on attempting to clamber down from the table, slipped and fell headlong to the floor with a crash and a curse. Still chuckling, Barundin pulled himself up on to the table and raised his hands. Quiet descended, of a sort, punctuated by snorts and belches, the glug of beer taps and numerous other sounds made by any group of drunken dwarfs.
“My wonderful friends and kin!” he began, to an uproarious shout of approval. “My people of wonderful Zhufbar, you have my thanks. There is no prouder day for a king to be amongst such wonderful company. We have wonderful beer to drink in plentiful amounts, wonderful food and wonderful song.”
His face took on a sincere expression and he looked down sternly at the still-prostrate form of Hengrid.
“Well, perhaps not such wonderful song,” he said, to much clapping and laughter. “There have been many speeches, fine oratory from my great friends and allies, but there is one more that you must listen to.”
There were groans from some of the younger members of the crowd, and cheers from the older ones.
In the short silence before Barundin spoke, the distinctive sound of snoring could be heard, and Barundin turned to look in its direction. Arbrek was at the foot of the table, his head against his chest. With a snort, the runelord jerked awake, and sensing the king’s gaze stood up and raised his tankard.
“Bravo!” he cried. “Hail to King Barundin!”
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“King Barundin!” the crowd echoed enthusiastically. Arbrek slumped down and his head began to nod toward his chest once more.
“As I was saying,” said Barundin, pacing up the table. “We are here to celebrate my one hundred and seventieth birthday.”
There was much cheering, and cries of, “Good Old Barundin”, and, “Just a beardling!”
“I was little over a hundred years old when I became king,” said Barundin, his voice solemn, his sudden serious mood quieting the boisterous feasters. “My father was cut down in battle, betrayed by a weak manling. For nearly seventy years I have toiled and fought, and for nearly seventy years you have toiled and fought beside me. It has been for one reason, and one reason alone, that we have endured these hardships: retribution! My father now walks the Halls
of the Ancestors, but he cannot find peace while his betrayers still have not been brought to book. As I declared that day, so now do I renew my oath, and declare the right of grudge against the Vessals of Stirland. Before the year is out, we will demand apology and recompense for the wrongs they have done against us. My brave and vigorous people, who have kept faith with me through these hard times, what say you now?”
“Avenge King Throndin!” came one shout.
“Grudge!” bellowed a dwarf from the back of the hall. “Grudge!”
“We’ll be with you!” came another cry.
“Sing us a song!” came a slurred voice from behind Barundin, and he turned to see Hengrid slouched across the bench, a full mug of ale in his hand again.
“A song!” demanded a chorus of voices from all over the hall.
“A song about what?” asked Barundin with a grin.
“Grudges!”
“Gold!”
“Beer!”
Barundin thought for a moment, and then bent down and grabbed the shoulder of Hengrid’s jerkin, dragging him back to the tabletop.
“Here’s one you should all know,” said Barundin. He began to beat out a rhythm with a stamping foot, and soon the hall was shuddering again.
Well it’s all for me grog, me jolly, jolly grog
It’s all for me beer and tobacco
For I spent all me gold on good maps of old
But me future’s looking no better.
Where are me boots, me noggin’, noggin’ boots?
They’re all gone for beer and tobacco
For the heels are worn out and the toes kicked about
And the soles are looking no better.
Where’s me shirt, me noggin’, noggin’ shirt?
It’s all gone for beer and tobacco
For the collar’s so thin, and the sleeves are done in
And the pockets are looking no better.
Where’s me bed, me noggin’, noggin’ bed?
It’s all gone for beer and tobacco
No pillows for a start and now the sheet’s torn apart
And the springs are looking no better.
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Where’s me wench, me noggin’, noggin’ wench?
She’s all gone for beer and tobacco
She’s healthy, no doubt, and her bosom’s got clout
But her face is looking no better!
The celebrations lasted for several more days, during which Tharonin finally delivered his speech, thanking Barundin for his kingship and volunteering to act as messenger to the Vessals.
After his sterling work in tracking down Wanazaki, Dran the Reckoner was brought in by Barundin to assist Tharonin in his expedition. Dran earned his keep by settling old debts and grudges, but for Barundin’s missions, he volunteered his services free of charge.
When pressed by Barundin about this uncharacteristically generous offer, Dran was at first reluctant to discuss his reasons. However, the king’s persistent inquiries finally forced the Reckoner to share his motives. They were sitting in the king’s chambers, sharing a pitcher of ale by the fireside, and had been discussing Dran’s plan to bring the Vessals to justice.
“Proper form must be observed,” insisted Barundin. “They must be left in no doubt as to the consequences of failing to comply with my demands for restitution.”
“I know how to handle these matters,” Dran assured him. “I will serve notice to the Vessals, and will warn them of your resolve. What exactly are your demands?”
“A full apology, for a start,” said Barundin. “The current holder of the barony is to abdicate his position and take exile from his lands. We will take custody of the body of Baron Silas Vessal and dispose of it in a way fitting to such a traitor. Lastly, for the death of a king, there can be no price too high, but I will settle for a full one-half of the wealth of the Vessals and their lands.”
“And if they do not agree to your terms?” asked Dran, taking notes on a small piece of parchment.
“Then I shall be forced to violent resolution,” said Barundin with a scowl. “I will unseat them from their position, destroy their castle and scatter them. Look, just make them realise I’m in no mood to be bargained with. These manlings will try to get out of it, but they can’t. Vessal’s despicable behaviour must be atoned for, and if they can’t move themselves to make that atonement, I will make them regret it.”
“Seems pretty reasonable,” said Dran with a nod. “I will have Thagri write a formal declaration of this intent, and Tharonin and I will deliver it to those dogs in Uderstir.”
“They have forty days to reply,” added Barundin. “I want them to know that I’m not messing about. Forty days, and then they’ll have the army of Zhufbar at their gate.”
“It’s my job to make sure it doesn’t come to that,” said Dran, folding the parchment into a small packet and placing it in a pouch at his belt. “But if it does, I’ll be standing there beside you.”
“Yes, and for no gain as far as I can tell,” said Barundin, offering more ale. “What’s in this for you?”
“Why does there have to be something for me in the deal?” asked Dran, proffering his mug.
“Can’t I offer my services to a just cause?”
“You?” snorted Barundin. “You would ask for gold just to visit your grandmother. Tell me, why are you helping with this? If you don’t answer, consider your services not needed.”
Dran did not reply for a while, but sat in silence, sipping his beer. Barundin continued to stare intently at the Reckoner, until finally Dran put his mug down with a sigh and looked at the king.
“I’ve amassed a good deal of gold over the years,” said Dran. “More even than most folk think I have. But I’m getting older, and I’m tiring of the road. I want to take a wife and raise a family.”
“You want to settle down?” said Barundin. “A great wanderer like you?”
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“I started because I wanted to see justice done,” said Dran. “Then I did it for the money.
Nowadays? Nowadays, I don’t know why I do it. There’s easier ways to earn gold. Perhaps have some sons and teach them my craft, who knows?”
“What’s that got to do with the Vessals and my grudge?” asked Barundin. “It’s not like you’re after a single last payoff to set yourself up.”
“I want a good wife,” said Dran, staring down into his cup. “For all my success, I’m not that widely regarded. Being a Reckoner doesn’t get you many friends, or much recognition. I’ll be moving on, perhaps to Karak Norn or Karak Hirn. But for all my wealth, I don’t have much to offer for a wife, and that’s where you come in.”
“Go on,” said Barundin, filling his own mug and taking a gulp of frothy ale.
“I want to be a thane,” said Dran, looking deep into the king’s eyes. “If I arrive as Thane Dran of Zhufbar to go with my chests of gold, I’ll be beating them off with a hammer.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” asked Barundin.
“I didn’t want to do it this way,” said Dran with a shrug. “I hoped that if I helped you with this, and perhaps if you wanted to show a mark of your gratitude, I could ask for it then. I didn’t want it to sound like naming a price by different means.”
“Well, I’m sorry then that I forced you to answer,” said Barundin. “Don’t worry too much about it. I remember that you were the first on his feet to protect me when we found Wanazaki, and a king’s memory does not fade quickly. Do your job well with this matter, and I’ll think of some way to reward you.”
Barundin raised his mug and held it towards Dran. The Reckoner hesitated for a moment and then raised his own cup and clinked it against the king’s.
“Here’s to a good king,” said Dran.
“Here’s to justice,” replied Barundin.
It was several more days before Tharonin and Dran set out, the formalities of the grudge and reparations having been arranged with Thagri, and preparations for the expedition made. The aim of the
journey was not war, so Tharonin took only his personal guard, some hundred and twenty longbeards, whose axes had made much fell work during the wars against the skaven and grobi.
Dran mustered a few dozen rangers to act as his entourage, more for company than any other reason.
It was a solemn occasion as the group set out. Barundin bade them farewell from the main gate of Zhufbar, and watched for several hours until they were out of sight. He returned to his chambers, where he found Arbrek waiting for him.
The runelord was napping in a deep armchair near the fire, snoring loudly. Barundin sat down next to Arbrek, and was deep in thought for a long time, not wishing to waken the runelord from his rest.
Barundin pondered what might happen over the coming days. There was a chance, albeit slim to his mind that, Tharonin’s expedition would come under attack from the Vessals and their warriors.
If that happened, he would march straight away to Uderstir and raze their keep to the ground. More likely would be refusal. The thought of waging war against men of the Empire genuinely pained him, for they and the dwarfs had a long history together, and few conflicts. Despite the ancestral bonds between his kind and the Empire, Barundin knew he would not balk at doing his duty.
Eventually Arbrek roused himself with a snort, and spent a moment gazing around the room in slight confusion. Finally, his eyes focussed on Barundin, their harsh glare not at all dulled by his age.
“Ah, there you are,” said the runelord, straightening in the chair. “I’ve been waiting for you.
Where have you been?”
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Barundin bit back his first retort, remembering not to be disrespectful of the aged runelord. “I was seeing Tharonin off,” he explained. “Nobody sent word that you wanted to see me, or I would have come quicker.”
