by Gav Thorpe
“Nobody sent word, because I gave no word to send,” said Arbrek. The runelord leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m getting old.”
“There’s still years left in your boiler,” said Barundin, the reply made without hesitation.
“No,” said Arbrek, shaking his head. “No, there is not.”
“What are you saying?” said Barundin, concerned.
“You have been a fine king,” said Arbrek. “Your forefathers will be proud. Your mother will be proud.”
“Thank you,” said Barundin, not sure what else to say to such unexpected praise. Arbrek was as traditional as they got, and so expected anyone younger than him to be unsteady and somewhat worthless.
“I mean it,” said the runelord. “You’ve a heart and a wisdom beyond your years. You’ve led your people on a dangerous path, taken them into war. If, for a moment, I thought this vain ambition on your part, I would have spoken out, turned the council against you.”
“Well, I’m glad I had your support,” said Barundin. “Without it, I think many more of the thanes would have been difficult to win over to my cause.”
“I did not do it for you,” said Arbrek, sitting up. “I did it for the same reasons you did. It was for your father, not for you.”
“Of course,” said Barundin. “These long years, it has always been for my father, to settle the grudge I declared the day that he died.”
“And now that is almost over,” said Arbrek. “Soon you will have settled it.”
“Yes,” said Barundin with a smile. “Within weeks, the grudge will be no more, one way or another,”
“And then what will you do?” asked Arbrek, studying the king’s face intently.
“What do you mean?” said Barundin, standing. “Beer?”
Arbrek nodded and did not speak while Barundin walked to the door and called to his servants for a small cask of ale. As he sat down again, he glanced at the runelord. His penetrating gaze had not wavered.
“I don’t understand. What do you mean,” said Barundin. “What will I do?”
“This grudge of yours, it has been everything to you,” said Arbrek. “As much as you were dedicated, devoted to your father in life, avenging his death has become your driving force, the steam within the engine of your heart. What will drive you when it is done? What will you do now?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” said Barundin, scratching at his beard. “It has been so long… I sometimes thought there would never be a time without the grudge.”
“And that is what concerns me,” said Arbrek. “You have done well as king until now. The true test of your reign, though, will be what you do next.”
“I will rule my people as best I can,” said Barundin, confused by the intent of Arbrek’s questioning. “With luck, in peace.”
“Peace?” said Barundin. “Pah! Our people have not known peace for thousands of years.
Perhaps you are not as wise as you seem.”
“Surely a king does not court war and strife for his people?” said Barundin.
“No, he does not.” replied Arbrek.
He paused as one of the king’s servants entered, carrying a silver tray with two tankards upon it.
He was followed by one of the maids from the brewery, carrying a small keg. She set it on the table and then left.
Barundin took a tankard and leaned over to put it under the tap. Arbrek laid a hand on his arm and stopped him.
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“Why so hasty?” said the runelord. “Let it settle awhile. There is no rush.”
Barundin sat back, toying with the tankard, turning it over in his fingers, looking at the way the firelight glimmered off the gold thread inlaid into the thick clay cup. He risked a glance at Arbrek, who was contemplating the keg. Barundin knew better than to speak; to do so would risk the runelord’s ire for hastiness.
“You are shrewd, and you have a good fighting arm,” Arbrek said eventually, still looking at the firkin. “Your people admire and respect you. Do not let peace lull you into idleness, for it will dull your mind as much as battle dulls a poor blade. Do not seek war, you are right, but do not run from it. Hard times are not always of our own making.”
Barundin said nothing, but simply nodded. With an unusually spry push, Arbrek was on his feet.
He took a step towards the door, and then looked back. He smiled at Barundin’s perplexed expression.
“I have made a decision,” said Arbrek.
“You have?” said Barundin. “What about?”
“Come with me. There is something I want you to see,” said Arbrek. There was a twinkle in the runelord’s eye that excited Barundin and he stood swiftly and followed him out the door.
Arbrek led Barundin through the hold, taking him through the chambers and halls towards his smithy which lay within the highest levels. In all his years, Barundin had never been in this part of the hold, for it was the domain of the runesmiths. It did not seem any different from most of the rest of Zhufbar, although the sound of hammering echoed more loudly from behind the closed doors.
At the end of a particular corridor, the king found himself in a dead end. He was about to ask Arbrek what he was up to, but before he could the runelord had raised a finger to his lips with a wink. With careful ceremony, Arbrek reached into his robes and pulled a small silver key from its depths. Barundin looked around but could see no lock.
“If dwarf locks were so easy to find, they would not be secret, would they?” said Arbrek with a chuckle. “Watch carefully, for very few of our folk have ever seen this.”
The runelord held the key just in front of his lips, and appeared to be blowing on it. However, as Barundin looked on, he saw that Arbrek was whispering, ever so softly. For several minutes he spoke to the key, occasionally running a loving finger along its length. In the silver, the king saw thin lines appear, narrower than a hair. They glowed with a soft blue light, just enough to highlight the runelord’s features in azure tints.
Barundin realised that he had been concentrating so hard on the key, that he had not noticed anything else. With a start, he snapped his attention away from the runelord and glanced around.
They were still in a dead-end tunnel, but where the end had been to his left a moment ago, it was now to his right. The walls emitted a golden aura and he saw that there were no lanterns, but more of the thin traceries of runes that had been on the key, covering the walls and providing the illumination.
“These chambers were built by the greatest of the runelords of Zhufbar,” said Arbrek, closing a gnarled hand around the key and deftly hiding it within the folds of his cloak. He took the king by the arm and started to lead him along the corridor. “They were first dug under the instructions of Durlok Ringbinder, in the days when the mountains were still young, and Valaya herself was said to have taught him the secrets he used. During the Time of the Goblin Wars, they were sealed for centuries, and it was thought that all knowledge of them was lost, for no runelord had ever committed their secrets to written lore. But it was not so, for in distant Karaz-a-Karak, the runelord Skargim lived, but he had not been born there. He was born and raised in Zhufbar, and upon being released from his duties by the high king, he returned and unearthed these chambers. He was the grandfather of my tutor, Fengil Silverbeard.”
“They’re beautiful,” said Barundin, gazing around.
“Yes they are,” said Arbrek with a smile. “But these are just tunnels. Wait until you see my workshop.”
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The room to which Barundin was led was not large, although the ceiling was quite high, three times his height. It was simply furnished, with a grate, an armchair and small workbench. Upon the bench was a miniature anvil, no larger than a fist, and small mallets, pincers and other tools. By the fire was a clockwork bellows and many pails of coal. The wall opposite was decorated with a breath-taking mural of the mountains swathed in clouds.
And then movement caught Barundin’s eye. One of the clouds in the pa
inting had definitely moved. He staggered, amazed, across the room, Arbrek following close behind. As he stood a few paces from the wall, he could see downwards, along the mountainside of Zhufbar itself. Hesitantly, he stretched out an arm, and felt nothing. He felt dizzy and started to topple forward. Arbrek grabbed his belt and hauled him back.
“It’s a window,” said Barundin, dazed by the magnificence of the sight.
“More than a window,” said Arbrek. “And yet, oddly, less. It’s just a hole, cut through the hard rock. There are runes carved into the ground outside that we cannot see from here. They ward away the elements, surer than any glass.”
“It is a wonderful sight,” said Barundin, gathering himself. From this high in the mountain, he could see far out across Black Water, the lake itself hidden by mist, and the mountains beyond.
“Thank you for showing it to me.”
“This isn’t what I wanted to show you,” said Arbrek with a scowl. “No, the view is nice enough, but a good view does not make a good king.”
The runelord walked to the corner of his room and took a bundle wrapped in dark sack cloth.
“This is what I wanted you to see,” he said, handing the package to Barundin. “Open it, have a look.”
Barundin took the sacking, and there was almost no weight to it at all. He pulled away the cloth, revealing a metal haft, and then a single-bladed axe head. Tossing the sacking aside, he hefted the axe in one hand. His arm moved as freely as if it were carrying nothing more than a feather. There were several runes etched into the blade of the axe, which glittered with the same magical light as the tunnels outside.
“My last and finest work,” said Arbrek. “Your father commissioned it from me the day that you were born.”
“One hundred and seventy years?” said Barundin. “You’ve kept it that long?”
“No, no, no,” said Arbrek, taking the axe from Barundin. “I have only just finished it! It has my own master rune upon it, the only weapon in the world. That alone took me twenty years to devise and another fifty before it was finished. These other runes are not easy to craft either: the Rune of Swift Slaying, the Rune of Severing, and particularly the Rune of Ice.”
“It is a wondrous gift,” said Barundin. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“Thank your father, he paid for it,” said Arbrek gruffly, handing the axe back to Barundin. “And thank me by wielding it well when you need to.”
“Does it have a name?” asked Barundin, stroking a hand across the flat of the polished blade.
“No,” said Arbrek, looking away and gazing out across the mountains. “I thought I would leave that to you.”
“I have never had to name anything before,” said Barundin.
“Then do not try to do it quickly,” said Arbrek. “Think on it, and the right name will come. A name that will last for generations.”
It was several days later when Tharonin and Dran returned. They had travelled to Uderstir and delivered the king’s demands. Silas Vessal had been dead for over a hundred and fifty years and his great-grandson, Obious Vessal, was now baron, and an old man himself. He had pleaded with Dran to send his profuse apologies to the king for his forefather’s damnable actions. However, upon the matter of his great-grandfather’s body and the monies to be paid, he had given no answer.
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It was the opinion of Dran that the new baron would renege on any deal that he struck, and that he could not be trusted. Tharonin, although he agreed in part with the Reckoner’s view, urged Barundin to give the baron every chance to make recompense. For a manling, he had seemed sincere, or if not sincere, then suitably afraid of the consequences of inaction.
“Forty days I give him,” said Barundin to his council of advisors. “Forty days I said, and forty days he shall have.”
Troubling news came only a few days later. There were shortages in the furnace rooms. The timber that was usually sent each month by ancient trade agreement from the Empire town of Konlach had not arrived. Although there was still coal aplenty, many of the engineers regarded using coal as a waste for many of their projects, since there were usually so many spare trees to cut down instead.
It was Godri Ongurbazum who had the most concerns. It was his clan that was responsible for the agreement, one that had been nearly unbroken for centuries, incomplete only during the dark times of the Great War against Chaos. There was no good reason, as far as Godri could discern, for the men of Konlach to break faith.
In one council meeting the thane of the Ongurbazumi argued against Barundin setting off with the army to remonstrate with Obious Vessal. He brought the argument that the trouble with Konlach was more urgent, for if no other supply of timber could be secured, the forges might have to stand cold for want of fuel.
Barundin would have none of it. When the forty days were up, the army of Zhufbar would go and take by force what the king was owed. The debate raged for several nights, with Godri and his allies arguing that after so long, an extra month or two would not be amiss. Barundin countered that it was because it had taken so long to resolve the grudge that he wanted to act as swiftly as possible and have it done with.
In the end, Barundin, losing his temper completely with the trade clan’s leader, shouted him out of the audience chamber, and then dismissed the rest of the council. For three days he sat upon his throne and fumed. On the fourth day, he called them back.
“I will have no more argument against my course of action,” Barundin told the assembled thanes.
Arbrek arrived, mumbling about lack of sleep, but Barundin assured him that what he had to say was worth the runelord being disturbed. He drew out the rune axe that had been given to him, much to the awe and interest of the thanes. They looked at the craftsmanship of the blade, passing it amongst themselves, cooing delightedly and praising Arbrek.
“Fie to timber contracts!” said Barundin. “Skaven and grobi have not stood in our way, and I’ll not let a few damn trees halt us now. I have gathered you here to witness the naming of my new axe, and to assure you that if they do not comply with my demands, the first enemies to taste its wrath will be the Vessals of Uderstir.”
He took back the enchanted weapon and held it out in front of him. The lantern light shimmered in the aura surrounding the blade.
“I name it Grudgesettler.”
There was no improvement in the timber situation and for the forty days until the Vessals’ deadline, Barundin was under constant pressure from the trading clans and the engineers to put his grudge on hold once more to resolve the issue with Konlach. Although he was always polite about the matter, he made it clear that he would brook no more delays and no more disagreement.
On the eve before the ultimatum expired, Barundin addressed the warriors of the hold. He explained to them that the hour of their vengeance was almost at hand. He warned that they might be called upon to perform fell deeds in the name of his father, and to this they responded with a roar of approval. Many of them had fought beside King Throndin when he fell, or lost clan members to 86
the orcs when Silas Vessal had quit the field without fighting. They were as eager as Barundin to make the noble family of the Empire atone for their forefather’s cowardice.
It was a cold morning that saw the dwarf army setting out, heading westwards into Stirland.
Autumn was fast approaching, and in the high peaks snow was gathering, frosting the highest reaches of the scattered pine woods that dotted the mountains around Zhufbar.
They made swift progress, but did not force the march. Barundin wanted his army to arrive eager and full of strength. With them came a chugging locomotive of the Engineers Guild, towing three cannons behind it. Where once the machine had been a source of wonder and awe to the soldiers of Uderstir, it would become a symbol of dread should they choose to resist Barundin’s demands again.
On the fourth day they arrived at the castle, the tops of its walls visible over a line of low hills some miles in the distance. It was not a large fortress, bar
ely a keep with a low curtain wall. A green banner adorned with a griffon holding an axe fluttered madly from the flag pole of the central tower.
Smoke filled the air, and occasionally there was a distant reverberating thump, as of a cannon firing. As the head of the dwarf army crossed the crest of the line of hills, Barundin and the others were greeted by an unexpected sight.
An army encircled Uderstir. Under banners of green, yellow and black, regiments of halberdiers and spearmen stood behind makeshift siege workings, avoiding the desultory fire of handguns and crossbows from the castle walls. The noise had indeed been a cannon, ensconced in a revetment built of mud and reinforced with gabions made from woven wood and filled with rocks. The nearest tower was heavily damaged, its upper parts having fallen away under the bombardment, leaving a pile of debris at the base of the wall. Bowmen unleashed tired volleys against the walls whenever a head appeared, their arrows clattering uselessly from the old, moss-covered stones.
Several dozen horses were corralled out of range of the walls, and the armoured figures of knights could be seen walking about the camp or sitting in groups around the fires. It was immediately obvious that the siege had been going on for some time now, and that dreary routine had become the norm. Whoever was leading the attacking army was in no hurry to assault the strong walls of Uderstir.
Barundin gave the order for his army to form up from their column of march, even as the dwarfs were spied and the camp below was suddenly filled with furious activity. As the war machines of the dwarfs were unlimbered and brought forward, a group of five riders mounted up and rode quickly in their direction.
Barundin marched forward with his hammerers, flanked to the left by Arbrek and to the right by Hengrid Dragonfoe, who held aloft the ornate silver and gold standard of Zhufbar. They stopped just as the slope away down the hill began to grow steeper, and awaited the riders. To their left, Dran and the hold’s rangers began to make their way down the slope, following the channel of a narrow stream, out of sight of the enemy camp.
