by Gav Thorpe
Hengrid’s plan had been simple: to disguise the king and go roistering through the pubs of Zhufbar. He had dyed the king’s beard and, through a judicious use of rouge obtained from a lady of the Empire in some shady deal that Hengrid had not detailed, darkened the king’s skin to appear like an old miner.
With several of the others, including Thagri and his cousin Ferginal, they had spent the night carousing in the many taverns of the hold, unfettered by the king’s status. Now the ale, of which he had consumed more than he had ever done before, was returning to haunt Barundin.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and he spun over and slapped it away, eyes tightly shut against the light of a lantern held close by.
“I swear if you don’t leave me alone, I’ll have you banished,” the king growled.
His stomach lurched and the king sat up, eyes wide open. He did not even see who was beside his bed, but simply shoved them out of the way before stumbling to the cold fireplace and throwing up noisily. After several minutes, he was feeling a little better, and drank from the mug of water that had been thrust into his hands some time during the unpleasant proceedings.
Splashing the remainder on his face, he pushed himself to his feet and stood wobbling for a moment. He staggered backwards and sat down heavily on the bed, the mug dropping from his fingers, which felt like a bunch of fat sausages. Blearily, he focussed on the room, and saw a stone, roughly conical in shape, leaning against the wall in one corner. It was etched with several runes and painted red and white. There was a helmet of some kind atop its tip.
“What is that?” he muttered, peering at the strange object.
“It is a warning stone used by miners,” a familiar voice said. “It is used to block the entrances to unsafe passageways or corridors still under construction. And on top of that, I believe, is the helmet of an Ironbreaker.”
Barundin looked around and saw Ottar Urbarbolg, one of the thanes. Next to him stood Thagri, looking slightly better for wear than the king, but not by much. It was the loremaster who had spoken.
“Where did I get them?” asked Barundin. “Why are they in my room?”
“Well, last night, you thought the wardstone would be a great gift for your betrothed,” explained Thagri. “The helmet, well that was Hengrid’s idea. Something about a boar’s night tradition.
Luckily, all the ale had washed the dye from your beard and face, and the Ironbreaker from whose head you removed it thought better of lamping the king, though he was undecided for a moment.”
“And my ribs ache,” moaned the king.
“That would be the belly punching competition you had with Snorri Gundarsson,” said Thagri with a wince. “You insisted since he beat you in a rorkaz.”
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“Nothing wrong with a friendly skuf. Anyway, what in the seven peaks of Trollthingaz do you want at this hour?” demanded the king, cradling his head in his hands. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“It is tomorrow,” said Thagri. “We tried to wake you yesterday, but you punched Hengrid in the eye without even waking up.”
“Oh,” said Barundin, flapping a hand ineffectually in Thagri’s direction.
The loremaster understood the vague gesture, as only someone that had been in the exact same predicament the day before could. He poured another mug of water and passed it to Barundin, who took a sip, retched slightly and then tipped the contents down the back of his shirt. With a yell and a shudder, he was more awake, and turned his attention to Ottar.
“So, what are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Our family records have something that impacts on the wedding, my king,” said Ottar, glancing towards the loremaster for reassurance, who nodded encouragingly.
“What do you mean, ‘impacts’?” said Barundin, his eyes narrowing.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel it,” said Ottar, stepping back as Barundin turned a venomous glare towards him.
“Cancel the wedding?” snapped the king. “Cancel the bloody wedding? It’s only a month away, you idiot, why would I cancel it now?”
“There is an ancient dispute between the Urbarbolgi and the Troggkurioki, the clan of your intended,” said Thagri, stepping in front of Ottar, who was now decidedly pale with fear. “You know that as king you cannot marry into a clan that is at odds with a clan of Zhufbar.”
“Oh, buggrit,” said Barundin, flopping on to the bed. “Send for my servants, I need a wash and some clean clothes. And I’ve got the rutz very badly. I’ll attend to this matter this afternoon.”
The two hovered for a moment, until Barundin sat up, the mug in his fist. It looked as if he was going to throw it at the pair, and they fled.
Barundin winced heavily as the door slammed behind them, then pushed himself to his feet. He gazed at the sausage on his bed, picked it up and sniffed it. His stomach growled, so he gave a shrug and took a bite.
“The whole matter revolves around Grungak Lokmakaz,” explained Thagri.
It was in fact evening before Barundin had felt like facing anything except the inside of his water closet. They were sitting in one of Thagri’s studies, and the loremaster had a pile of books and documents spread out on the desk in front of him. Ottar sat with his hands clasped in his lap, his face impassive.
“That’s a mine up north, isn’t it?” said Barundin. “Not far south of Peak Pass?”
“That’s the one, my king,” said Ottar, leaning forward. “It was dug by my forefathers, an offshoot on my great-uncle’s side. Those thieving Troggkurioki stole it from us!”
“But isn’t Peak Pass the ancestral lands of Karak Kadrin?” said Barundin, rubbing at his forehead. His head was still sore, although the excruciating pain he had felt for most of the day had been staved off with another couple of pints of beer before the meeting. “Why is a Zhufbar clan digging around there?”
“That doesn’t matter,” said Ottar. “We found the gold, we registered our claim, and we dug the mine. It’s all perfectly accounted for.”
“So what happened?” asked Barundin, turning to Thagri in the hope of a more unbiased account.
“Well, the mine was overrun by trolls and orcs,” said Thagri. “The clan was all but wiped out, and those who survived fled back here to Zhufbar.”
“Then those damn Troggkurioki took it from us!” said Ottar hotly. “Jump in our tombs just as quick, I would say.”
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“They claimed the mine by right of re-conquest,” explained Thagri, holding up a letter. “This was also properly registered by the loremaster of Karak Kadrin at the time, who sent a copy of his records to the Urbarbolgi.”
“At the time?” said Barundin, glancing between Ottar and Thagri.
“Yes,” said Thagri, consulting his notes. “The original claim was made three thousand, four hundred and twenty-six years ago. The re-conquest took place some four hundred and thirty-eight years later.”
“Three thousand years ago?” spluttered Barundin, rounding on Ottar. “You want me to cancel my wedding because of a dispute you had three thousand years ago?”
“Three thousand years or yesterday, the matter isn’t settled,” said Ottar defiantly. “As thane of the Urbarbolgi, I must dispute your right to marry into the Troggkuriok clan.”
“Can he do that?” asked Barundin, looking at Thagri, who nodded. “Listen here, Ottar, I’m not happy with this, not happy at all.”.
“It’s in the book of grudges,” added Thagri. “As king, it is your duty to see it removed.”
“So, what do you want me to do?” said Barundin.
“It’s quite simple,” said Ottar, steepling his fingers to his chin. “You must renegotiate the dowry to include turning over Grungak Lokmakaz to its rightful owners.”
“But the dowry and expenses have been settled for two months now,” said Barundin with a scowl. “If I start changing the conditions of the wedding, they might pull out altogether.”
Ottar shrugged expansively, in a manner that suggested that although
he understood the nature of the king’s dilemma, it was, ultimately, not the thane’s problem to deal with. Barundin waved him out of the room and sat growling for a few minutes, chewing the inside of his cheek. He looked at Thagri, who had neatly stacked his documents and sat waiting the king’s orders.
“We’ll send a messenger to start the negotiations,” said Barundin.
“Already done,” replied the loremaster. “This matter came to light several weeks ago and, what with you being so busy, I took it upon myself to try to smooth things between the clans without having to bother with you.”
“You did, did you?” said Barundin heavily.
“I have your best interests at heart, Barundin,” said Thagri. The king looked at him sharply, for the loremaster seldom used anybody’s first name, especially his. Thagri’s expression was earnest, and Barundin realised that he had indeed followed his best intentions.
“Very well. So what has been the reply?” asked the king.
“You must travel to Grungak Lokmakaz yourself,” said Thagri. “The thane of the mines, an uncle-in-law-to-be, wishes to speak to you personally about the matter and to sign the documents yourself. I think he just wants to have a look at the king that’s going to be marrying his niece, because he’s got nothing to lose by being connected to the royal family of Zhufbar.”
“Very well, I’ll head north for a short trip,” said Barundin. “Have arrangements made for me to travel three days from now.”
“Actually, the arrangements had already been made,” admitted Thagri with a sheepish look.
“You head off the day after tomorrow.”
“Do I indeed?” said Barundin, anger rising. “And when did the loremaster inherit the right to order the king’s affairs in such a way?”
“When the king decided to get married, but can’t organise his way out of his own bedchamber,”
replied Thagri with a smile.
It was colder, Barundin was sure, than around Zhufbar. He knew that they were only some one hundred and fifty miles from his hold, and that the climate did not change that dramatically, but he knew in his heart that it was colder up north.
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The mine itself wasn’t much to look at; it was little more than a watch tower over the pit entrance, and a few goat herds straying across the mountainside. He could not see Peak Pass from where he stood, although he knew that it lay just over the next ridgeline. On the northern slopes of the pass lay Karak Kadrin, where his future rinn lived.
“Come on, you ufdi,” called a voice from the tunnel entrance, and he saw Ferginal gesturing for him to follow.
The king passed out of the mountain sun into the lantern-lit twilight of Grungak Lokmakaz. The entrance to the mineworkings was low and wide, but soon split into several narrower tunnels before opening up into a much larger space: the chamber of the thane.
The hall was thronged with dwarfs, and in their midst, upon a throne of granite, sat Thane Nogrud Kronhunk. Barundin felt rather than saw or heard Ottar beside him, bristling with anger, as he stood between the two thanes. He offered a hand to Nogrud, who shook it ferociously, patting Barundin on the shoulder as he did so.
“Ah, King Barundin,” said Nogrud, with a quick glance at the dwarfs around him. “So glad that you have come to visit.”
“Always good to meet the family” said Barundin quietly, keeping a smile fixed on his face, although he was seething inside.
“I trust your journey was uneventful,” continued Nogrud.
“We saw some bears, but that was all,” Barundin told him.
“Ah, good,” said Nogrud, waving the king to sit upon a chair beside his throne. “I take it you came by way of Karag Klad and Karaz Mingol-khrum?”
“Yes,” said Barundin, suppressing a sigh. Why was it that relatives always wanted to talk about the route you took to get somewhere? “There have been early snows around Karag Nunka, so we had to take the eastern route.”
“Splendid, splendid,” said Nogrud.
He clapped his hands and a handful of serving wenches brought in pitchers of ale and stools for the king’s three companions: Ottar, Ferginal and Thagri. A wave of the hand dismissed the other dwarfs in the room, except for an elderly retainer who sat to one side, a book in his hands.
“This is Bardi Doklok,” the thane introduced the other dwarf. “He’s my bookmaster.”
“You are Thagri?” Bardi asked, looking at the loremaster, who smiled and nodded. “If we get time before you return to Zhufbar, I would dearly like to talk to you about this word press contraption they have supposedly built down in Karaz-a-Karak.”
“The writing machine?” said Thagri with a scowl. “Yes, we probably should discuss what we want to do about that. Engineers getting ideas beyond their station, if you ask me.”
“Perhaps,” said Barundin, interrupting the pair. “However, we have other matters at hand. I want to be away within a few days, because I still haven’t stood for my final measurements on my wedding shirt. These delays are costing me a fortune.”
“Well, let us endeavour to be as quick as possible,” said Nogrud.
“It’s simple,” blurted Ottar. “Relinquish your false claim to these mines, and the matter is settled.”
“False claim?” snarled Nogrud. “My ancestors bled and died for these mines! That’s more than you ungrimi ever did for them!”
“Why you wanazkrutak!” snapped Ottar, standing up and thrusting a finger towards the thane.
“You stole these mines, and you know it! That’s my gold you’re wearing on your fingers right now!”
“Wanakrutak?” said Nogrud, his voice rising in pitch. “You big hold thanes think that you can throw your weight around anywhere, don’t you? Well, this is my bloody mine, and no stinking elgtrommi clan is going to take it from me.”
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“Shut up!” bellowed Barundin, standing up and knocking his chair over. “The pair of you!
We’re not here to trade insults; we’re here to sort out this bloody mess so that I can get married!
Now, sit down, and listen.”
“I have found a precedent,” said Thagri, looking at Bardi more than the two thanes. “Both clans have equal claim to the mine. That much can be deduced from the original founding and the right of re-conquest. However, since the re-conquest took place less than five hundred years after the abandonment, the Troggkurioki should have offered the Urbarbolgi the right to settle by means of a fighting fee; what you might call expenses of war. They did not do so, and thus they did not legally secure full rights to the mine.”
“And thus, the Troggkurioki owe expenses on one tenth of the mine’s profits to the Urbarbolgi?”
said Bardi.
“That is correct,” said Thagri with a sly smile.
Bardi scratched his chin and glanced at his thane, before producing a piece of parchment from the inside of his robe.
“Here I have a record that shows, without doubt, the expenses of the re-conquest campaign exceeded the profits of the mine for that first five hundred year period,” said Bardi with a triumphant gleam in his eye. “That means that no right to settle need be granted, and thus the Urbarbolgi in fact owe the Troggkuri war expenses of not less than one third of their expenditure from the moment they entered the mine to the sealing of the claim by re-conquest.”
Thagri stared open-mouthed as the bookmaster, amazed by the guile of the dwarf. He turned to the others. “This may take some time,” he said. “I fear that you may also find it extremely tedious to witness us bandying claim and counter-claim. Might I suggest that you retire to more suitable chambers while your host entertains you in a more convivial fashion?”
“Sounds good,” said Barundin. “Let’s see what beer you’ve got, eh?”
“Ah,” said Nogrud. “There we shall certainly find common ground. My brewmaster has a particularly fine red beer just matured two weeks ago. Smooth? I tell you, there’s more grip on a snowflake.”
The two book-keepers waited until the gro
up was outside the hall, then looked at each other.
It was Bardi that broke the silence. “This could take weeks, and neither of us wants that,” he said.
“Look, let’s just agree that the Urbarbolgi will pay right of settlement and war expenses in retrospect, and thus entitle them to a ten per cent claim,” suggested Thagri.
“Are you sure that’ll be agreed by them?” said Bardi. “That leaves them out of pocket for several centuries yet.”
“The king will pay,” explained Thagri. “He’s desperate for this wedding to go without a hitch.
It’s going to cost him more to delay it than to pay the settlement. Your lord gets a one-off payment from Zhufbar, Ottar’s clan get an annual payment for the next five hundred years. Only Barundin loses, but he’s losing already, so that doesn’t really come into it.”
“Fair enough,” said Bardi. “I’ve got a keg of Bugman’s stowed away in my chambers.”
“XXXXXX?” asked Thagri, eyes alight.
“No, but it is Finest Dirigible, which I am told travels very well,” said Bardi. “Let us seal the deal over a mug? We’ll leave the ufdi to their own devices and tell them what we’ve agreed this evening.”
“Good idea,” grinned Thagri.
Although it pained him to sign away so much gold in one stroke of the writing chisel, Barundin dragged the parchment towards him and dipped the pen in the inkwell that Bardi had provided.
“This is the only way?” Barundin asked Thagri, as he had already asked many times.
“In the longer term, yes,” sighed Thagri.
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“Let’s just settle the matter and your wedding will go without a hitch,” said Ottar, who stood to one side, running a finger along the spines of the books that were stacked high on the shelves of Bardi’s library.
“That’s all right for you to say—you’re not paying up front,” said Barundin.
“I hardly call getting one tenth of my own bloody mine a good deal,” said Ottar, turning towards the king. “There’ll be some who think I’ve signed away our heritage. Look, I’ve signed, add your mark and we can leave tomorrow and forget the whole thing.”
