Honourkeeper

by Nick Kyme

  ‘How much?’ sighed the prince.

  ‘Twenty silver pieces each,’ Rugnir replied.

  ‘Tringrom,’ Nagrim said to the royal aide. ‘Have the amount taken from my coffers and settle the debts upon our return.’

  ‘Yes, Prince Nagrim,’ said Tringrom, his eyes like daggers as they fell upon Rugnir, who was careful to avert his gaze.

  ‘Lead us back to the hold, Brondrik,’ said Nagrim. ‘I must tell my father his grobi tally has been beaten! There is celebrating to be done, and I must drink quickly if I’m to catch my friend here,’ he added, throwing his arm around Rugnir’s back in comradely fashion and laughing loudly.

  ‘Indeed you must, my prince,’ muttered the pathfinder, who fired a withering glance at Rugnir before heading back up the trail. The ex-miner didn’t notice and laughed along with Nagrim. His smile faded when he saw the disapproving glances of the other dwarfs.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Pacts

  King Bagrik sat in his counting house, surrounded by the month’s revenue from the clans of the hold. Smoke drifted from a pipe pinched between his teeth, filling the room with the heady scent of tobacco. The king was dressed in a simple brown tunic, his bald pate reflecting the glow from the ensconced torches set around the room. He pored over the stone tablets and curling parchments strewn across the table in front of him, sat bent-backed in a broad throne, which, like the table, was fashioned from lacquered wutroth, a rare and incredibly strong dwarf wood. The bare stone walls of the small austere chamber were carved with the klinkarhun, the numerical dwarf alphabet.

  Pieces of gold, silver and copper – some made into coins stamped with the royal rune of Ungor, others nuggets of purest ore gathered in bags – were stacked around the king, their order fathomable to Bagrik alone. With careful deliberation, the king checked off the tributes and taxes of the clans, the leaseholds on mines and overground farms, statutory beard tax and ale tithes. As liege lord of the realm, a percentage of all the hold’s remunerations went to the king and Bagrik was meticulous about its acquisition.

  ‘How do we fare so far with the taxes, Kandor?’ asked the king, his voice deep and gruff as he sifted through the requisitions.

  ‘The Firehand and Flinteye clans still owe thirty pieces of gold each for anvils and picks,’ the merchant replied, sat behind a smaller desk next to the king’s, checking parchment and tablets of his own. As royal treasurer it was part of Kandor’s duty that he attend the monthly gold gathering, to log in taxes and dispatch reckoners, the king’s bailiffs, to reclaim late payments or act on the behalf of other clans who had cause for grudgement against their fellow dwarfs.

  ‘Mark that!’ bellowed the king. Bagrik’s edict was followed by the measured scratching of a quill from one corner of the room where Grumkaz Grimbrow, his chief grudgemaster, was sitting shrouded in shadow. The longbeard recorded each and every late or missing payment in the form of grudges, writ in the king’s blood and set down in the massive tome resting on a stone lectern next to the venerable dwarf.

  ‘I have here a claim from the Ironfingers, who say they were sold knackered ore ponies by the Leatherbeards and lost a day’s tunnelling on account,’ said Kandor, leafing through the pile of papers.

  ‘Denied!’ said Bagrik. ‘The Ironfingers should learn to better examine their stock before buying.’

  ‘Another from Grubbi Threefinger, a reckoner, requests remuneration for worn boot leather in prosecution of the king’s duties.’

  ‘Granted–’ the king began, but then turned swiftly to the shadowy form of Grumkaz, who was halfway through noting the king’s order.

  ‘How much in taxes has Grubbi recovered this past month?’ he asked.

  The grudgemaster leafed back through the hold’s records.

  ‘One hundred and fifty-three gold pieces, fifteen short of his required tally,’ the grudgemaster announced.

  ‘Denied!’ the king bellowed again, and went back to the parchments on his desk as the sound of frantic scratching came from the grudgemaster as he made an abrupt adjustment.

  ‘Tell me, Kandor,’ Bagrik said after a moment, his head still in the parchments on his desk, ‘what do you think of these elgi? Is there trade to be had between us?’

  The merchant set down a stone tablet, surprised at the sudden question.

  ‘They have travelled far, my king and the elgi, Malbeth, has much honour. I do not think they would have done so if they meant to waste our time,’ he said.

  ‘I care not for their ambassador,’ the king responded curtly. ‘What about their prince, this… Ithalred? It is he that holds power amongst the elgi. Morek tells me he is an arrogant bastard.’

  ‘Morek knows nothing of diplomacy–’ Kandor began, before the king interrupted.

  ‘Neither do I, Thane Silverbeard. That’s why I’m asking you.’

  Kandor’s reply was frank.

  ‘The elves are utterly unlike us in every way, my liege, and… difficulties between our cultures are inevitable, but open trade between us could be very profitable for Karak Ungor. We would be foolish not to at least listen to what they propose.’

  ‘You do not think me a fool then, Kandor?’ Bagrik asked, looking up from his tallying.

  ‘Of course not, my liege,’ Kandor blathered, face reddening with sudden concern.

  ‘Then you’ll know that I’m aware of the disrespect they’ve shown towards my queen, that they have turned the Hall of Belgrad into an elgi dwelling, yes?’

  ‘My liege, I–’

  Bagrik scowled, and waved his hand for silence.

  ‘I trust your judgement, Kandor. Aye, I do, as sure as stone,’ Bagrik told him. ‘And a king’s trust is no small thing. I know you won’t have brought these elgi to my halls without good reason. And I know your talent for gold making. But know this, too,’ he added with a steel-edged glare, ‘If I receive word of our guests dishonouring my queen again, or besmirching her in any way, I will have them thrown out. And your beard will be shorn, Kandor of the Silverbeard clan, for bringing them to my gates in the first place!’

  ‘Please accept my apologies, liege. I’ve spoken to Malbeth and made it clear to him that such behaviour will not be tolerated again,’ said Kandor, trying to sooth the king’s sudden ire.

  ‘You are right. It will not,’ Bagrik added simply, staring at Kandor a moment longer to make his point, before turning his attention back to the taxes piled on his desk.

  ‘All seems in order here,’ he said. ‘Dispatch reckoners to the Firehands and Flinteyes to settle their accounts, and add on ten pieces of copper each for late payment.’

  ‘At once, King Bagrik,’ Kandor replied, quietly relieved that he’d escaped with only a mild tongue-lashing.

  ‘Go then to you duties!’ bawled the king. ‘And make your oaths to Grungni that these elgi put me in a better mood.’

  Kandor bowed and left the parchments where they were on the ground.

  ‘It shall be done, my king,’ he said, and as he was leaving met Queen Brunvilda with Tringrom in tow coming the other way. He bowed to them both before walking on and out of the counting house.

  ‘My queen,’ Bagrik said warmly to his wife as she approached. Brunvilda bowed once she’d reached her husband. The king then dismissed Grumkaz who shuffled quietly out of the room, his work done for now.

  ‘And Tringrom,’ added the king, ‘you look like a wanaz.’

  ‘My lord, Tringrom has been on a grobkul with your son,’ said the queen before the royal aide could reply. ‘Late, again,’ she added, stern of face. ‘He is being readied for the feast, as should you be.’

  ‘Bah! I’ll be ready soon enough,’ Bagrik snapped, ‘But tell me, Tringrom,’ he added, conspiratorially, ‘how did my son fare?’

  ‘He has beaten your tally, my liege,’ the royal aide replied.

  ‘Ha!’ cried the king, slapping his hands down upon the desk and sending parchments spilling onto the ground. ‘Barely sixty-nine winters, and he beats his father’s tally,’ Bagrik s
aid proudly. ‘Go… mark it in the Book of Deeds, so all shall know of my son’s achievement!’

  ‘At once, my king,’ Tringrom replied and left his king and queen alone, gazing longingly at one another.

  ‘Our son, he will make a fine king,’ said Bagrik, once the royal aide was gone.

  ‘Indeed he will,’ Brunvilda replied, resting a hand upon her husband’s shoulder. ‘But he is reckless, and I do not like his friendship with Rugnir, either. Brondrik has made a damning report to Morek that you should hear.’

  ‘He is young,’ counselled the king, ‘it is to be expected. And as for Rugnir,’ said the king, seizing his queen around the waist, who yelped mildly in surprise and delight, and pulling her close, ‘let the captain of the hearth guard deal with it.’

  ‘Bagrik Boarbrow, unhand me at once!’ cried Brunvilda, though her demand was distinctly half-hearted as she looked lovingly into the eyes of her husband.

  ‘Is that really what you want me to do, lass?’ he asked.

  ‘No…’ she answered demurely, smoothing down his beard with the palms of her hands.

  ‘You smell like hops and honey,’ he said, breathing in her scent like it was nectar.

  ‘And you reek of gold, my king…’ she replied, smiling. ‘Bagrik?’ she asked after a moment.

  ‘Yes, my queen,’ he replied, voice husky with the ardour of their embrace.

  ‘I would like to see our son.’

  ‘You will see him,’ Bagrik replied, nonplussed. ‘He will be at the feast, Grungni willing he is ready in time.’

  ‘No, not Nagrim…’ Brunvilda said quietly, shaking her head.

  Bagrik’s face darkened as soon as he realised what she meant. Silently, he released his grip and gently let her go.

  ‘That… thing is no son of mine,’ he said, his voice now hard like stone.

  ‘He is your son, whether you care to admit it or not,’ insisted Brunvilda, stepping back into Bagrik’s eye-line when the king averted his gaze to stare at parchments he had already read. ‘I will not abandon him, even if you have disowned him,’ she continued.

  ‘Abandoned?’ said the king, facing her again. ‘Yes, he should have been abandoned. Cast out at birth and left in the mountains for wild beasts to devour!’

  Brunvilda’s faced was pinched with anger, and tears were welling in her eyes at the king’s harsh words. Bagrik regretted them at once and tried in vain to make amends.

  ‘I’m sorry, but the answer is no. I have agreed to stay my hand, and I’ve honoured that pact. But that is all I will do.’

  ‘He is your son,’ the queen repeated, imploringly.

  Bagrik hobbled from his throne, wincing in pain at an old leg wound, and turned his back on her.

  ‘I will speak on it no further,’ he whispered.

  Queen Brunvilda said nothing more. Bagrik heard her footsteps clacking on the stone, fading as she left, and felt his heart ache once she was gone.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Serpent Host

  Ulfjarl of the Skaeling tribe stood upon the skull-headed prow of his Wolfship and bellowed defiantly at the gods.

  Crimson lightning answered, flashing across the storm-wracked horizon and turning the sky the colour of blood. Massive waves, churned up by the wind, rolled over the surface of the thrashing Sea of Claws and sent stinging spray into Ulfjarl’s face and body. The Norscan warlord ignored it, exultant as the power of the terrible storm filled him.

  Nothing would stop him reaching the mainland. There lay the Old World and the silver tower of the elves that haunted his dreams. Upon those white shores, Ulfjarl would find his destiny.

  Bondsmen fought the rumble of thunder with their dour baritones, pulling at the oars with determined fury and bringing the Norscan warlord back from his reverie. Stoic, fur-clad huscarls sat beside them, clutching axes and spears, their round wooden shields strapped to their arms. Norsca, their frozen homeland, and the rest of the Skaeling tribe, was a distant memory now as they drove across the ocean with a ragged fleet of thirty other Wolfships. Their black sails, daubed with the symbol of a coiled crimson snake with three heads, bulged with the hellish gales, the mast pennants snapping like dragon tongues.

  Ulfjarl had the same snake symbol seared into the skin of his bare and muscled chest. It was the icon of his army, the Serpent Host. He wore a mantle of furs thrown over his massive shoulders. Skins covered his wrists and ankles, leaving his legs and arms, fraught with battle scars, naked to the elements. Furred boots covered Ulfjarl’s feet and were bound with chains. A war helm, festooned with spikes and wrought of dark metal, sat upon his head crested by two curling horns. Only the warlord’s eyes were visible through a narrow cross-shaped slit, hard like rock beneath a jutting brow.

  The beat of drums kept the oarsmen in time. It echoed the pounding of Ulfjarl’s feral heart. Every pull brought them closer to the mainland, and through the boiling clouds he could just see it as a thickening black line, lit sporadically by the storm. Neither man nor elf nor daemon could keep him from it. The fire-blackened wrecks of the elven catamarans, left burning in their wake, were testament to that. Ulfjarl had lost no less than five ships to the immortals, who’d fought with skill and desperation. It was a small price. Ulfjarl had cut their warchief’s head from his shoulders with his axe, shearing the elf’s silver mail as if it were bare flesh.

  Like his war helm, Ulfjarl’s blade was forged from the ore of a black meteorite that had destroyed his village in fire and fury. Its coming was heralded in the stars, the impetus for his conquest, and he had gathered warriors at once. The Norscan had never seen the metal’s like before, his crude mouth could not even form the words to describe it.

  Obsid…

  Ulfjarl cared not. It slew his enemies well. The elf had learned that lesson to his cost; his flayed skull was now tied to the Norscan’s belt as a trophy. Destiny, Ulfjarl’s glorious fate, lay at journey’s end. Veorik had promised it, seen in a vision, and the shaman was never wrong.

  Ulfjarl gazed up to the crow’s nest. Eldritch green light crackled and spat like a miniature thunderhead as Veorik used his sorcery to guide them through the storm, just as he had through the ice flows, maelstroms and razor-sharp bergs of the Norscan coast.

  Screams pierced the rising tumult of the storm as another ship was lost, swallowed whole beneath a mammoth wave. Ulfjarl watched the mast splinter and crack, watched the tearing sails and scattered rigging, as the vessel was pulled asunder with its crew. Some cast themselves into the sea, flailing as they struggled for life, but endless wet oblivion claimed them all.

  Ulfjarl knew each and every one who drowned beneath the waves. He gave their names as sacrifices to Shornaal, one of the Dark Gods, that he would reach land unscathed. The muttered pledges had barely passed his lips when a huge curtain of water, crested by frothing surf, loomed up before the ship.

  It seemed the gods had answered.

  He saw faces in the watery blackness; a host of daemon visages with needle-pointed teeth and hollow eyes hungering for his soul and the souls of his men. Ulfjarl roared in defiance of it, as if it were an enemy that could be cowed by his fury. He heard the oarsmaster urge his charges to row harder, and they pulled with all their might. Some sang lamentations, others screamed in maddened terror as they faced their doom. Ulfjarl merely laughed, long and loud into the wind, his cry echoing across the sky where it could be heard by heathen gods. He felt the prow rising as the Wolfship surged up the monstrous wave and roared again at the stygian sea, bellowing his name.

  Hard and fast they raced up the thrashing waters, nearly pitching prow over stern so severe was the angle of their approach. Ulfjarl ran forward to the very tip of the prow as they rode higher and higher. Misshapen hands with taloned nails seemed to reach out for him as the waters closed. Sibilant threats, half-heard in a tongue he did not understand, filled his ears. Ulfjarl ignored them, his cry of triumph eclipsing the daemon voices as they crested the apex of the wave before it broke.

  Smashing dow
n on the other side, foaming water engulfed the Wolfship and for a moment the vessel was swallowed beneath the sea before it emerged again like a cork in a barrel, water cascading from its sails and rigging.

  Drenched from head to foot, Ulfjarl beat his chest with a mighty fist and bellowed at Tchar, god of storms and the bringer of change, daring his wrath. His warriors cheered with him, the relief at their survival violent and palpable. Raging winds ripped at the sails, driving them harder, and rain lashed down against the Norscans like knives of ice. Ulfjarl saw another Wolfship draw up alongside them. The warriors onboard yelled and cried in reckless victory. Expressions of triumph turned to horror as the wooden hull of their ship tore open and a huge, serpentine creature surged from the ocean through the debris.

  The beast, its silver-blue scales shimmering as the water peeled away from it, towered above the Norscan ships, its broad snout flaring with rage and hunger. Flanged fins, edged in poisonous spikes and attached to a long saurian head, flared as the monstrous serpent regarded prey. The warriors of the stricken Wolfship mewled in abject terror, their pathetic vessel cleft in two, its jagged halves sinking into the murky waters. The beast roared. Its keening cry smothered the thunder and shook the very ocean, before it dove down onto the hapless Norscans and cast their broken bodies aside like tinder.

  Ulfjarl saw a barbed tail disappear beneath the waves, before a curious silence reigned in the creature’s wake. He knew this monster. He had heard tales of its terror. It was an ancient denizen of the deep – an ice drake. Stirred from a long slumber beneath the Sea of Claws, it was angry.

  Clambering to the edge of the skull-headed prow Ulfjarl leaned over, searching the water for some sign of the creature; a plume of foam, a shadow, anything. But there was nothing. Nothing until the monster erupted from the thrashing sea near the prow on Ulfjarl’s blindside, its razor-snout shearing through the surface like a spear. The Norscan warlord staggered back, craning his neck to see the towering ice drake. Black eyes, like pools of endless hate, regarded him as he retreated slowly to get a more secure footing on the deck. It was an epic sight. Man facing monster as the maelstrom of the storm whirled around them.