by Nick Kyme
‘One of the finest ever crafted in all of the Outer Kingdoms of Ulthuan,’ the prince replied, paling with disbelief.
Bagrik shrugged, passing the gift to one of his servants.
‘Spices,’ said the prince hurriedly, indicating a trio of large, silver urns brought forth by more servants, ‘from beyond these shores.’
Bagrik eyed the urns suspiciously in turn, before licking his finger and plunging it inside one.
Ithalred went from pale white to incensed crimson as he watched Bagrik root around the spice urn with his saliva-coated finger.
Malbeth, noticing his prince’s building apoplexy, interceded quickly on Ithalred’s behalf.
‘The spices, noble king,’ he began, ‘are particularly aromatic. Perhaps,’ he ventured, ‘you might like to sample their scents first?’
Bagrik looked up at the ambassador, and gave an almost inaudible grunt as he pulled his fist from the urn he’d chosen, fragments of spice clinging to his skin, and sniffed deeply. Bagrik’s expression went from disinterest to distaste in a moment, his nose and brow wrinkling with the heady scents of the spices.
‘Pungent,’ he remarked with a scowl. ‘Intended for cooking, yes,’ he added, plunging the spice-laden finger into his mouth and sucking off the contents. Bagrik smacked his lips and flicked his tongue, a scowl upon his face as he experienced the taste. Then his face reddened and a sudden hacking cough wracked his body. Bagrik slammed his fist onto the table, upending tankards and goblets, as he tried to master his coughing fit.
‘The king is poisoned!’ cried Morek, leaping from his seat with his axe drawn. The hearth guard throne bearers were beside him in an instant, Haggar too. A commotion erupted from the Great Hall below at the hearth guard captain’s pronouncement. Angry voices were taken up as elf and dwarf shouted at each other in their native tongues.
Prince Ithalred was stunned into enraged silence, while Malbeth and Kandor tried desperately to calm the situation, though their assurances only seemed to enflame the opposite race. Korhvale was on his feet immediately, stepping between his prince and the axe-wielding Morek. Lethralmir and Arthelas merely laughed at the absurdity of it all, the elves and dwarfs in the grand chamber at sudden unexpected loggerheads.
‘Morek!’ a stern voice rose above the clamour, ‘put your weapon away and get back to your post beside your king.’ Brunvilda was up, and glowered at the captain of the hearth guard, stopped in his tracks by the queen’s anger. ‘Do it at once!’ she ordered.
Morek obeyed, stowing his axe, and retreating to the throne. The others dwarfs went with him, red-faced before the fury of their queen. The impassioned bickering stopped, and all eyes were on the dwarf king as he slowly recovered from his coughing fit.
Queen Brunvilda was quickly at her husband’s side.
‘I’m fine, my queen,’ he said as she rubbed his back.
She was concerned, but still carried the ire of their earlier words spoken before the feast.
Bagrik averted his gaze as she went back to her place. Looking at Ithalred, the king smiled. ‘Your spices have a mighty kick, elgi…’
A moment of charged silence descended, before the king’s smile broadened and he roared with laughter. At first, the elves seemed shocked by his reaction but as the other dwarfs joined in the icy mood thawed and all could relax again. Malbeth laughed heartily, encouraging his kin to do the same, though it was mirth tinged with relief that another potential disaster had been averted. Only Ithalred was not amused, though his agitation seemed to have drained away for the time being.
‘Perhaps, it would be wise,’ the king announced to all, ‘if we were to leave gift giving until later. For I suspect the hall is hungry,’ he added, struggling to his feet, ‘Am I right?’
A cheer erupted from the dwarf throng, much to the elves’ alarm. Korhvale, having previously retaken his seat was almost on his feet again as if he feared another attack. Malbeth had a swift but harsh word in his ear before the White Lion relaxed, but even then he was still wary.
‘Then bring the feast!’ the king bellowed in response to the roar of his kin.
The two side portals to the hold were thrown open and dwarf victualers filed in bearing metal platters of rare beef on the bone, hunks of seared goat flesh, shanks of lamb and thick ham hocks dripping with juice. Heat shimmered off the succulent meats as they were paraded around the chamber, the victualers converging first on the King’s Table, followed by those nearest to it, until they came to the tables in the lower part of the Great Hall. A pair of dwarfs followed the initial entourage of chefs, a spitted boar carried between them over their shoulders. It was a massive beast, though paled in comparison to the skin hung about Bagrik’s shoulders, and was brought to the central fire-pit where it would cook slowly as it was flensed by the victualers. Dwarfs carrying baskets of earth and stonebread followed the boar carriers, together with another four servants who laboured with a stout iron cauldron, a meaty mould broth slopping within. This, too, was placed over the fire-pit on a metal frame, the vast basin more than capable of accommodating both dishes.
Apprentice brewmasters worked alongside the victualers, refilling tankards and flagons, and bringing out fresh casks from the hold’s ale stores. Though the elves had brought wine from the vineyards of Ellyrion, Eataine and Yvresse, they were encouraged to try some of the milder brews offered by the dwarfs.
‘Here...’ said the king, taking a keg from one of the passing brewmasters and filling a goblet for Ithalred, ‘Gilded Tongue. It is light and flavoured with honey, delicate enough for even your fair palate I’d warrant, dear prince.’
Ithalred set down a goblet of wine, already poured by one of his servants, reluctantly and took the vessel offered by Bagrik.
‘Malbeth,’ he said curtly, passing the goblet to his ambassador and ignoring the affronted expression wrinkling the dwarf king’s face as he did it.
Malbeth bowed to his host and then to the prince before sipping.
‘Bah! That is no way to quaff ale,’ a voice slurred from the far end of the table. It was Rugnir, the dwarf’s cheeks already ruddy with the consumption of alcohol. ‘Tip it down, lad!’ he bellowed.
Bagrik was inclined to agree and only watched.
The elf nodded, smiling nervously as he drank. Swilling the ale down, Malbeth’s eyes widened before watering profusely.
‘Potent…’ he rasped.
‘That’s it, elgi,’ said the king, a fierce look out of the corner of his eye reserved for Ithalred. ‘That is how we dwarfs drink our ale.’
The elf prince seemed unmoved and nonchalant as he sipped at his wine.
This will be a long evening, thought Bagrik ruefully.
With the introduction of the meat, a heady flavoursome aroma had soon filled the Great Hall. Though the elves found the notion of eating with their hands distasteful, whilst the dwarfs gleefully licked grease off their fingers and supped spilled broth from their beards, the food itself was well received. Copious amounts of ale and wine warmed the stilted atmosphere and it was not long before all were talking readily, both races curious as to the habits and mores of the other.
Discrete pockets of conversation sprang up throughout the Great Hall, as the elves and dwarfs began to debate in small groups. The King’s Table was no exception.
‘Yes, we are troubled by the greenskin around these parts. There is no hold of the Karaz Ankor that is not,’ explained Bagrik, his mood dark. ‘They are vermin and grow in number each year–’
‘More for us to hunt, eh, father?’ Nagrim chipped in.
As they ate and drank, Bagrik had begun to talk at length to Ithalred about the history of the hold and the long, proud legacy of Ungor. For his part, the elf prince had said little, though listened intently, only mentioning once the greenskins that a party of his warriors had slaughtered in the mountains during their journey to the hold. Bagrik had greeted this news warmly, but then his demeanour had turned bitter as he recalled the encroachments of orcs and goblins upon the dwar
f realm.
‘That’s right, lad,’ said Bagrik, his mood lightening at once, throwing his arm around his son’s shoulder and seizing him in a fierce grip.
Ithalred looked nonplussed, as if he didn’t understand the tactile gesture.
‘You kill the beasts for sport, then?’ the elf prince ventured.
‘Aye, he does,’ Bagrik said for his son. ‘In fact, earlier this evening, the lad beat his father’s tally and before his seventieth winter! A fine deed, eh?’ the king exclaimed, turning about to regard those dwarfs in earshot.
Queen Brunvilda nodded politely, a beaming smile reserved for her son, though her eyes carried a small measure of sadness. She had been attending to her husband’s words dutifully, but had seldom spoken. Her mind was on other things. She loved Nagrim, and he was worthy of their praise, but whenever Bagrik extolled the virtues of his son, she could not help but think of the other, the one bereft of his father’s love and devotion.
Dissatisfied with his queen’s muted response, Bagrik looked to his hearth guard captain, whose stern gaze was fixed upon the ebullient Rugnir, further down the King’s Table, the ex-miner showing the elves how easy it was to quaff two tankards at once without spilling a drop. To his credit, the wanaz achieved the feat with aplomb.
‘Eh, Morek?’ the king prompted.
‘Yes, my king. None in the history of Karak Ungor have killed so many. I doubt it will ever be bested, though I’d be happier if we had another one hundred score to that amount. The greenskin overrun the mountains like ants,’ he said.
‘Indeed,’ Bagrik agreed, a little crestfallen as he released Nagrim from his grasp. Morek’s dour response wasn’t exactly the affirmation he had been looking for.
‘And I plan to add to that tally,’ Nagrim told the prince, puffing his chest proudly beneath the red and gold tunic that echoed that worn by his father. ‘Good Brondrik, the hold’s finest and most venerable ranger has offered to take another party into the mountains after the winter. The mines north of the hold are ever plagued. I’ll mount a fair few more grobi heads upon my mantle that day, I promise you,’ said the dwarf prince, his eyes alight with the prospect of further glory.
‘You take trophies off the creatures?’ asked Ithalred with slight distaste.
‘Teeth, noses, ears,’ replied Nagrim. ‘Heads, too, if you can carry them all,’ he added with relish.
‘If the greenskin are so numerous, do you not worry that they will overwhelm you?’
‘Bah,’ interjected Bagrik, ‘They are base and dim-witted beasts. What has the heir of Ungor to fear from them?’ he said, clapping Nagrim on the back and smiling broadly.
‘And what of you, Prince Ithalred,’ said Bagrik, ‘do you hunt in your native lands?’
‘Yes,’ the elf muttered darkly, ‘I hunt. Though of late, the quarry has not been to my taste.’ Ithalred stared into space, lost in some dark memory.
‘You speak of the troubles in your land, the kinslaying?’ asked Bagrik, his tone low.
Word had reached the dwarfs, some months prior to the elves’ landfall, and the colonisation of Tor Eorfith, of the civil war in Ulthuan and the treachery of the one they knew as Malekith. It was he that had first brokered peace between elves and dwarfs. It was Malekith that had befriended Snorri Whitebeard, the first of the High Kings of Karaz-a-Karak, capital of the Karaz Ankor. Yes, the dwarfs knew of Malekith. The elves had a different name for him now.
‘In my youth, I hunted stag, deer and even pheasant in the forests of Eataine,’ Ithalred explained in a rare moment of candour. ‘Those days are done.’
An ugly silence came over them, as if a small storm cloud shrouded that part of the King’s Table, the rest of the elves and dwarfs seated there conversing easily.
‘You are among allies here, Prince Ithalred,’ Bagrik told him, saddened by the elf’s melancholy but also glad at the bitterness they both understood and shared, albeit for different foes.
‘Of course,’ replied the prince, his taciturn mask slipping back onto his face again.
The sudden awkwardness was broken by the king’s chief victualer and food taster, Magrinson, approaching the table. He had two apprentices in tow carrying the head of the giant boar between them on a silver platter, swimming in dark blood and fatty juices.
‘My lord,’ Magrinson began, his voice dry and gruff like grit, ‘the boar’s head.’
The chief victualer ushered his apprentices forward, who then placed the platter before their king. It was the custom of Karak Ungor for the hold’s liege lord to eat the flesh of the great boar’s head, the meat having cooked in its own juices until it was at its most succulent and flavoursome.
‘A fine beast,’ said Bagrik, nodding his thanks to Magrinson who bowed curtly and left the King’s Table with his apprentices. ‘What do you say, Prince Ithalred, are there creatures as fine as this in your forests?’
The elf looked aghast at the steaming boar head, the brute’s beady eyes staring at him expectantly. He looked away but found only the skins that Bagrik wore over his shoulders.
‘Yes, I ate this one too,’ the dwarf king told him, noticing that Ithalred regarded the dried boar carcass that he wore. ‘I was not much beyond a beardling when I encountered the beast in the lowland caves to the east of Black Water,’ Bagrik explained. ‘It was winter then, too, and the snow was foul that year. I was trapped, unable to find my way back to the hold in the growing drifts. So I sought refuge in a cave. Only it was already occupied. It was his, you see.’ Bagrik tapped the head of the boar skin with something approaching reverence. ‘He was a fierce beast, and did not take kindly to me trespassing in his lair. We fought, and he gored me with his tusks. But I slew him. The meat of his body sustained me and his skin warmed me, until I could be found by my father’s rangers. Though I did not emerge from the battle unscathed. The wound it dealt me I still carry and I have not walked without pain since that day because of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Ithalred, seemingly unmoved by the story, ‘your queen explained it was the reason for your absence at our arrival.’ There was a barb in the elf’s words, and Bagrik felt it keenly.
‘Perhaps,’ ventured the king, ‘you would be more understanding if you, too, bore such an injury, elf.’
‘I’m not sure I follow your meaning, dwarf,’ Ithalred countered.
Kandor, who had paused in his own conversations to hear of what his king and the elf prince were talking about, chipped in quickly to dispel the sudden belligerent mood.
‘You admire the line of kings?’ he asked a little too loudly.
Malbeth, who had been doing no such thing, but caught onto his fellow diplomat’s ploy immediately, looked around the room with feigned interest.
Arrayed around the Great Hall, cast in stark relief with the jagged fingers of firelight from the wall sconces, were statues of the royal clans of Karak Ungor.
‘Yes, they are wondrous,’ the elf replied with genuine humility, when he actually regarded the statues. ‘Are they carved into the rock of the mountain?’
‘That they are,’ said the king. ‘There for eternity, so that all would know of our proud lineage.’
Glad to have averted yet another disaster, Kandor pointed to one statue sat in a large dusty alcove. ‘That is King Norkragg Fireheart,’ he said, with a quick glance at his king to ensure that he was happy for him to go on. ‘Norkragg was a king of the elder age, one of the first of Ungor,’ he continued. ‘So the Book of Remembering held, Norkragg was a miner at heart, even eschewing his royal duties to pursue his passion, a fact that left him without queen and heir. In his tenure, Norkragg hauled more coal from the rock face and to the under-forge than any since.’
‘A great and noble lord was Norkragg. He had much respect for the traditions of us dawi,’ added Bagrik, a meaningful glance at Ithalred to ram his point home.
‘And this one,’ said Malbeth quickly before the elf prince could reply, gesturing to the next statue in line. ‘What is his tale?’
‘Ah,’
said Kandor, as he regarded the stooped shoulders, were it possible for a statue to stoop, of the liege lord alongside Norkragg. ‘King Ranulf Shallowbrow. And to his right, Queen Helgi.’
Malbeth beheld a large and fearsome dwarf woman when he looked upon the effigy of Ranulf’s queen.
‘She is… formidable,’ he said, choosing his words carefully.
Kandor went on.
‘It was rumoured at the girthing ceremony that Ranulf had to wait another fifty years after his initial proposal of marriage before they could be wed. You see, according to dwarf law a suitor is required to wrap his beard around a rinn’s waist twice over before the marriage can be made legal, and Helgi was a mighty woman.’
‘It was also said,’ Rugnir chipped in, ‘that she was of such fine stock that she neared bankrupted poor old Ranulf when she sat upon the nuptial scales!’
The ex-miner laughed raucously, Nagrim alongside joining him.
Even King Bagrik raised a smile.
‘Aye, Rugnir,’ said the stern voice of Morek, who had been listening in to all the conversations around the King’s Table, ‘that it did, but what a queen Ranulf had. Any wife that you might make for yourself would be as waif thin as these elgi, such is your squandered fortune,’ he added caustically.
Kandor balked at the hearth guard captain’s remark, hoping that the elves did not take any offence. If they had, they didn’t get the chance to voice it as Morek went on unabated.
‘Kraggin will be wandering in limbo before Gazul’s Gate because of your profligacy. It is no fate for one such as he; no fate at all.’
The entire table fell abruptly quiet at Morek’s outburst. Even Rugnir’s drunken humour seemed beaten out of him at the mention of his father’s name.
‘How is this so?’ said Lethralmir, who had been apathetically swilling his wine around in his goblet before noticing the apparent discord and seizing upon an opportunity to exploit it. ‘Surely, this fine… individual cannot be held responsible for the fate of his father. Did he not make his own destiny?’
Morek’s face flushed and he clenched his teeth.
