by Gav Thorpe
Another rider came in, bearing a corpse across the saddle of his horse. He flung it down at Barundin’s feet.
“Obious Vessal,” said Theoland, kicking the body onto its back. The man was middle-aged, his black hair peppered with grey. His chest plate had been torn nearly in half by an axe blow, exposing shattered ribs and torn lungs. “Silas Vessal will be in a tomb in the vaults beneath the keep. There too, we will find the treasury, and your precious gold.”
“Take me to it,” ordered Barundin.
The two of them entered a side gate of the keep, and taking a torch from the wall, Theoland led the dwarf king down a winding flight of stairs into the bowels of the castle, passing wine cellars and armouries. This was his ancestral home, denied his family for many generations, and he knew its secrets well. He located the hidden door to the treasury, clumsily hidden to Barundin’s eye; he had seen the weaker joins in the stone walls immediately upon entering the arched cellar.
The treasury itself was small and barely high enough for Barundin to stand up in. In the light of the torch, half a dozen chests could be seen. Barundin dragged one out into the open, and sheared through the lock with the blade of Grudgesettler. Wrenching the lid open, he saw silver, but there were also gold coins, marked with the Stirland crown. He picked up a coin and smelled it, then gave it a taste with the tip of his tongue. There was no mistaking, this was dwarf gold, the same as had entranced his father so long ago. He picked up a handful of the coins and let them run through his fingers, a smile upon his lips.
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GRUDGE SEVEN
The Gold Grudge
A single lantern illuminated the chamber, its yellow glow reflecting off the contents of Barundin’s treasure store. Mail coats and gromril breastplates hung from the wall, shining with silver and dull grey. The gold-embossed axes and hammers, belt buckles and helms glimmered with rich warmth, bathing the king in an aura of wealth.
He sat at his counting desk, ticking off the contents of the fifteenth chest of treasure owned by the king. He picked up a coin and sniffed it, luxuriating in the scent of the gold. He remembered these coins well. Though they now bore the rune of the king, they had once been Imperial crowns, taken from the coffers of the Vessals of Uderstir. Re-smelted and purified by the goldsmiths of Zhufbar, they were now Barundin’s favourites amongst all his vast wealth. They were a reminder of the heavy price paid for the betrayal of his father, and a token of his victory and the settling of the grudge.
He twirled the coin expertly through his fingers, enjoying its weight, the grooves around its edge, every little detail. It was intoxicating, the presence of so much gold in one place, and the thought of it made Barundin giddy with joy.
Like all dwarfs, his desire for gold went beyond mere avarice; it was a holy metal to his people, dug from the deepest mines, given to the dwarfs by the Ancestor God Grungni. No single dwarf knew all of the names for the different kinds of gold, for there were many types. It was a common pastime in the drinking halls to name as many different kinds of gold as possible, or even invent new words, and the dwarf that could name the most would win. Such competitions could last for hours, depending on the age, memory and inventiveness of the dwarfs in question.
This gold Barundin had dubbed dammazgromthi-umgigalaz, which meant gold that he found particularly pleasing and beautiful because it was from the man grudge. He kept it all in a single chest, bound with many steel bands and made from the heaviest iron. In other chests he kept his lucky gold, his reddish gold, his moonlit and sort of silvery gold, his watergold—taken from beneath Black Water—and many others besides. A shiver of pleasure travelled down the dwarf king’s spine as he placed the coin on the pile to his left and ticked it off the long list in front of him.
He took the next coin and ran a loving finger around its circumference, his light touch detecting a slight nick. This had been the last coin minted from the Vessals’ gold, and he had scored it ever so slightly with the edge of Grudgesettler, as part of the ceremony during which he had crossed out the Vessals’ name from the book of grudges.
To the manlings, the affair would be just a distant memory, but to Barundin it felt as if it had only happened yesterday, though over a hundred years had passed. Arbrek had still been alive then, and it had been before Tharonin’s disappearance in the mines of Grungankor Stokril. He wondered idly what had become of Theoland. He had last seen him in his middle years, lord of two baronies and becoming an important member of the Count of Stirland’s court. But then time had passed by and old age had claimed him before Barundin had the chance to visit him again. Such was the trouble with making friendships with manlings; they lasted such a short time, it was almost not worth the effort.
The memories continued, of Dran’s wedding to Thrudmila of Karak Norn, when Barundin had sent the old Reckoner a silver letter-opener in the shape of Dran’s favourite axe, with a reminder to keep in touch. Dran was now at the ripe old age of five hundred, and had fathered two daughters.
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From his last letter, he was apparently trying hard for a son, and enjoying being pestered by the women in his life.
Barundin smiled wryly. His mother had died not long after he had been born, and he had been raised by the other dwarf lords, amongst them his older brother, Dorthin, and the Runelord Arbrek.
Now the closest thing to family that Barundin had was Hengrid Dragonfoe, who he spent much time with, drinking and reminiscing about the skaven and grobi wars.
A melancholy settled upon Barundin that even his gold could not cheer, and he packed away the remaining coins, uncounted. As he used his seven secret keys to lock the door to his vault, he came to a decision. Emerging from the hidden passage leading to his treasury, he called for a servant to send word to the thanes.
He would be holding a dinner that night in honour of the fiftieth anniversary of Arbrek’s death, and they were all to attend, for he had an important announcement to make.
The audience hall blazed with hundreds of candles and lanterns, illuminating the platters of sizzling pork and trestled troughs creaking with chickens, bowls filled with mountains of roasted, boiled and mashed potatoes, and all manner of other solid but tasty fare that the dwarfs liked to banquet on. The beer had been flowing well, but not recklessly, for the dwarfs present knew that they were gathered for a solemn occasion. Barundin wore a likeness of Arbrek—an ancestor badge—on a gold chain around his neck as a mark of respect and memory. Many others were also wearing his badge, on necklaces and brooches or hanging from their belts or as beard clasps.
When news of the king’s banquet had gone through the hold, it had been accompanied by much rumour and gossip, for he had not thrown such a feast for many years, not since his two hundred and eightieth birthday. Some thought that perhaps he was going to announce a new war, as had been his custom in the past, or that a new grudge had arisen. Others said that the king was past such foolish displays, and would not risk the relative peace that they had enjoyed for the best part of a century.
Still, the dark mutterings persisted, even as the cooks and serving wenches of the royal kitchens grumbled about such short notice, and the trade clans rubbed their hands and negotiated with the king’s agents for the best prices for their meat, bread and other produce they made or bought from the manlings.
They claimed that the grobi were returning, that Grungankor Stokril had been attacked in recent months. Word came less regularly from the distant mines and the disappearance of Tharonin had caused a stir for several weeks. His clan had denied that he was dead, and were not at all keen to discuss the matter, and so the idle speculation continued.
Others, who claimed to be better informed, said that armies had been gathering in the north: the dark armies of Chaos. There was said to be an evil host assembling, the likes of which had not been seen since the Great War against Kislev, and their alliance with Emperor Magnus. News from the distant hold in Norsca, Kraka Drak, seemed to confirm this, for the Norse were on the move in large numbers, and gat
hering their war parties.
Such murmurings were commonplace in a dwarf hold, but when there started to come tales from the east, those who would normally ignore such prattling began to take notice. Manling warriors, fierce and courageous, had been seen fighting amongst themselves across the frozen, desolate lands of Zorn Uzkul, east of the High Pass; some claimed to select their strongest leaders for a coming invasion.
The greatest fuel to the fires of rumour, though, were accounts from Zharr Naggrund, the barren plains far across the Dark Lands, where the Zharri-dum dwelt. Their furnaces were said to be filling the sky with a great pall of smoke, day after day, month after month. Such news was greeted with dismay by young and old alike, for it had been many years since the dwarfs had fought against their distant, twisted kin.
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It was with some expectation, then, that the dwarf thanes gathered in the audience chamber and feasted on roast duck and grilled venison, quaffing tankards of ale and swapping their theories concerning Barundin’s announcement.
The king let all of the idle chatter wash over him as he sat at the high table, surrounded by his closest advisors. Dromki Quickbeard, the new runelord, sat on one side of him, Hengrid on the other. Rimbal Wanazaki was there also, now one of the advisors to the Engineers Guild steam engine council. Thagri sat a little way down the table, with two of the more important thanes between him and the king, and the rest of the table was filled with various cousins and nephews. All except one chair, which stood empty. Barundin looked at the chair with a heavy heart, ignoring the chatter around him. Filling his tankard, he stood, and the hall hushed quietly, the hubbub of feasting replaced with the occasional murmur and whisper of expectancy.
“My friends and kin,” began Barundin, holding up his tankard. “I thank you all for coming this day, and on such short notice. We are gathered here to pay respects to the spirit of Arbrek Silverfingers. He dwells now in the Halls of the Ancestors, where I am sure his advice is as pointed and appreciated as it was here.”
Barundin cleared his throat and lowered his mug to his chest, clasping it in both hands. Those around the table stifled their groans, for they knew this was Barundin’s “speaking pose”, and it was a sign that he was likely to talk for quite some time.
“As you know, Arbrek was like a second father to me,” said Barundin. And after my father’s death, perhaps the closest thing I had to family. Over the years that I knew him, and they were too few, he was never shy of correcting me or disagreeing with my opinion. Like any proper dwarf, he spoke little, but spoke his mind. Every word from his lips was as crafted and considered as the runes that he created, and certainly just as valuable.
“And though the worth of a life such as his cannot be easily measured, I would say that his greatest gift to me was my axe, Grudgesettler. It was forged with purpose over a great many years.
So to did Arbrek forge my purpose for all the years that I knew him. Without his firm guidance, his looks of disapproval, and those odd moments of praise, I might have never succeeded as king.
Though my companions and advisors are a comfort to me, and their wisdom always heeded, it is the words of Arbrek Silverfingers that I now greatly miss.
“And so I ask you, the leaders of Zhufbar, to raise your cups in thanks to Arbrek and his deeds in life, and to his memory now that he has passed on.”
There were no raucous cheers, no grandiose declarations. The company rose to their feet, lifting their tankards above their heads, and as one, they declared: “To Arbrek!”
Barundin took a gulp of his ale, as much to fortify himself as to toast the memory of the dead runelord. While the other dwarfs seated themselves, he remained standing, once again assuming his stance with his mug held tightly in front of him.
“I have been king of Zhufbar through tough times,” he told the throng. “We have fought wars and battled vile enemies, to protect our realm and to protect our honour. I am proud to be your king, and we have achieved much together.”
He stood silent for a moment. He was unsure about the next part of his speech, though he had practised it many times. Finally he took a deep breath and then spoke again.
“But there is one duty of a king that I have not fulfilled,” Barundin said, to the obvious puzzlement of his guests. “I am healthy and in the prime of my life, and though I would like nothing better than to be your king for centuries to come, there is a time when one must face their own future.”
By now the dwarfs were thoroughly confused, and looked at each other with quizzical expressions, whispering to one another and raising their eyebrows. Some scowled in disapproval of the king’s teasing speech.
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“I am of a mind that Zhufbar needs an heir,” said Barundin, to a mixture of gasps, sighs and claps. “I shall take a wife, and provide Zhufbar with a king to be, or a queen as nature sees fit.”
“I accept!” declared a voice from the back of the hall.
The dwarfs turned to see Thilda Stoutarm standing upon her bench. Her offer was greeted with laughter, including her own. Thilda was nearly eight hundred years old, had seven children of her own and owned not one of her original teeth, although her mouth was filled with gilded replacements. Now thane of the Dourskinsson clan after the death of her husband over seventy years ago, she was the terror of the bachelor thanes.
“Your offer, I must gratefully but politely decline,” said Barundin with a grin.
“Suit yourself,” said Thilda, downing the contents of her mug and sitting down again.
“I decline not on personal grounds, but on principal,” Barundin continued. “I intend to wed a bride not of Zhufbar, to strengthen our ancestral bonds with another hold. For all of my reign, we have for the most part battled alone, for they have been our wars to fight. However, times are not comfortable, bad news increases by the month. I fear a time when the strength of Zhufbar alone will not hold back the enemies that will come against us, and for this reason I seek alliance with one of the other great clans, to bind their future with that of mine, and through that to secure Zhufbar for future generations.”
Though there were a few moans of disappointment from thanes that had perhaps hoped Barundin would choose a wife from amongst their clan, for the most part this announcement was greeted with claps of approval. It was a long tradition of the dwarfs to intermarry between clans and holds, to secure trade deals, renew oaths and sometimes, though rarely, even out of love.
“In the morning I shall send forth messengers to the other holds,” declared the king. “Let it be known all across the dwarf realms that Barundin of Zhufbar seeks a bride!”
There was much cheering and clapping at this, even from those miserable dwarfs who had had their hopes raised, then dashed. If nothing else, a royal wedding would mean visitors, and visitors always brought gold with them.
It was several months before the first of the replies came back to Zhufbar. The cousin of the king of Karak Kadrin offered his daughter’s hand in marriage, as did several other thanes from the hold.
From Karaz-a-Karak, heads of important mining and trade clans offered hefty dowries for Barundin to court their daughters and nieces, while a lone offer from Karak Hirn promised Barundin a mine in the Grey Mountains. Others arrived, week after week, and Barundin put everything in charge of the Loremaster Thagri.
Declarations and histories were sent, extolling the honour and virtues of the prospective clans and brides, and for each one, Thagri searched the records of Zhufbar to find common history with the clans entreating the king. Some were dismissed out of hand, for being too poor, or not the right sort. Others made the second stage of selection, and servants of the king were sent forth to talk directly with the thanes making the propositions, not least to prove the existence of the proposed betrothed.
The accounts of these fact-finding missions began to dribble in, brought by runners and gyrocopter from across the World’s Edge and Grey Mountains. Some included pictures of the prettiest candidates, drawn by Barundin’s agents to h
elp the king make his choice.
It was nearly a year after his announcement when Barundin had narrowed down the field to half a dozen likely looking lasses, and then the real horse-trading began. The question of dowries and wedding expenses were raised, of payment for Barundin’s warriors to escort the bride-to-be to Zhufbar, and many other financial details, all of which Barundin and his advisors scrutinised, reread and checked through countless times.
Finally a decision was made, which Barundin announced on the first day of the New Year. He would marry Helda Gorlgrindal, a niece of the king of Karak Kadrin, three times removed. She was said to be of good health, strong of arm, and was only a little younger than Barundin. As a brother96
in-law to King Ironfist, her father was considerably wealthy, and also commanded the king’s ear on occasion. Barundin had agreed a date for the wedding, to be held on the summer solstice that year.
A loud knocking on his chamber doors roused Barundin to a semblance of consciousness. His head pounded, his mouth felt like a rat had crawled into it and died, and his stomach was turning loops.
He was sprawled on the covers of his bed, half dressed and covered in flour. The stench of ale permeated the room. He rolled over, ignoring the banging that was surely only inside his head, and came face to face with a plate of fried potatoes on top of which sat a half-eaten sausage. The banging continued, and he covered his head with a pillow. “Bog off!” he grumbled.
He heard someone calling his name through the door, but diligently put them out of his mind, instead trying not to concentrate on anything because it simply made his head hurt more. He knew it had been a mistake to agree to Hengrid’s invitation to organise his boar’s night, his final day of celebration of bachelorhood.
