Honourkeeper

by Nick Kyme

  The queen found her resolve quickly, crushing the sudden rush of guilt she felt at Lothvar’s mistreatment, even his existence. She longed to free him of this place, but she had sworn to her king that she would not, and that word was a bond forged in iron.

  There was a basket sitting next to the cell entrance. Brunvilda took it and attached it to a pulley system suspended above the well, putting the satchel in the basket before she lowered it. There were leftovers from the feast inside, just scraps, but Lothvar devoured them hungrily, and Brunvilda felt a fresh pang of anguish as she watched him.

  ‘My father, is he with you?’ asked Lothvar, his voice hopeful. The creature’s intonation, for no other appellation was more suitable for it, was crude and ponderous. He formed his words slowly, as if struggling to grasp them, the droning quality hinting strongly at the malady that debilitated his mind as well as his body.

  Lothvar was Brunvilda’s first son and his arrival as Bagrik’s heir and the future king of Karak Ungor was meant to be a joyous occasion. But Lothvar had developed poorly, his disfigurements obvious at birth and only worsening as he grew older. In spite of it, though, Brunvilda loved him and had pleaded with Bagrik not to cast him out, not to condemn him to death left alone in the mountains. Only a handful of dwarfs knew of Lothvar’s existence – the king’s captains, Morek and Grikk, and a select group of ironbreakers who would guard Lothvar’s cell from interference. The rest of the hold, those that remembered, thought Lothvar dead, lost in childbirth. Great shame would be heaped upon Bagrik should the truth of his first son’s survival be discovered. Mercy had stayed the king’s hand that day, but the resentment of that decision festered still.

  ‘No, my son, your father meets with the elgi. But he told me to say he loves you,’ Brunvilda lied.

  ‘The elgi are here?’ Lothvar asked, working his mouth but making no sound as he fought to understand. ‘I shall fight them alongside my father,’ he said eventually, standing and thumping his chest.

  Brunvilda smiled through her tears, glad of the darkness around her.

  ‘No, Lothvar,’ she said, ‘the elgi are our friends. We will learn much from each other.’

  Lothvar gazed up at her blankly.

  ‘I will make him proud,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Brunvilda whispered, her voice cracking, ‘he would be so proud.’ Her face fell and for a moment she couldn’t look at him for fear that her resolve would fail her completely.

  ‘Mother?’ Lothvar asked. ‘Mother, are you crying?’

  ‘No, Lothvar,’ she managed after a long pause. ‘I’m fine.’ She turned and looked over her shoulder, calling out, ‘Ironbreaker.’

  ‘Ironbreaker!’ she repeated more urgently, when a response wasn’t forthcoming.

  There was the clunk of the lock being set loose and then the door opened on creaking hinges to reveal the guard.

  ‘Is everything all right, my queen?’ he asked, brandishing his axe and surging into the room as if he expected Brunvilda to be in mortal danger.

  ‘Put that weapon away!’ she snarled.

  The ironbreaker cinctured the axe quickly as if stung.

  ‘I wish to go down and see my son,’ she told him.

  The ironbreaker’s posture changed, becoming straight and intractable but it was the voice of another that spoke from beyond the doorway.

  ‘I can’t allow that.’

  ‘I am your queen!’ she insisted, tears in her eyes. ‘Who is that? I demand to know who dares disobey me!’

  ‘I think I had best get you back to your quarters, milady.’ Morek stepped into the torch light. ‘Wait for us outside,’ the hearth guard captain said in an undertone to the ironbreaker.

  Once they were alone, Morek walked to Brunvilda, risking a furtive glance into the gaol pit before quickly averting his gaze.

  ‘Is he so repellent, Morek?’ she said quietly, so that Lothvar could not hear her.

  ‘He is your son, that is all,’ the hearth guard captain replied plainly.

  ‘I thought diplomacy was Kandor’s arena,’ Brunvilda said with a sad smile.

  Morek crouched down on one knee and offered her his hand. ‘Come now, my queen,’ he said softly, ‘you have lingered here long enough.’

  Brunvilda’s defiance evaporated. Taking Morek’s hand gratefully, the hearth guard captain helped her to her feet.

  ‘Are you leaving, mother?’ asked Lothvar, disappointment in his voice, the sense of abandonment evident in his wretched and pitiable expression.

  ‘I’ll return soon, my love,’ Brunvilda replied, ‘I won’t stay away so long, next time,’ she said, forcing herself to turn away. Morek ushered her gently out of the room, the ironbreaker who awaited them outside closing the door and locking it behind them.

  Brunvilda held her head high as she entered the darkness of the corridor again, the steel in her remade as she strode off towards the royal quarters, Morek in tow. Only when the captain had gone, when she was alone and divested of her royal trappings, when she became just a mother and a wife, and not a queen, only in the dark would she weep. For the dark hid many secrets.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Inexorable Destiny

  A jagged spur of rock crumbled and fell away under Ulfjarl’s grasp, and the Norscan was left hanging, one-handed, from the cliff face.

  Below, a white-shrouded doom beckoned, the many hundreds of feet engulfed by the mist that had wreathed his ascent, swirling like marsh phantoms in an icy fog. More than once during his climb, Ulfjarl had seen faces in that mist; snarling, monstrous visages that bayed for his blood, and craved the heat of his soul-fire. The Norscan warlord had laughed out loud at every one and drove on through swathes of sleet, icy rain and buffeting winds that howled at his impudence.

  With a bellow that matched the thunder ripping through the heavens, Ulfjarl swung his massive frame across the face of the storm-wracked bluffs and found another hand hold. From there he drove on, fork lightning filling every crevice, every cleft and gorge, with shadow as it set the sky alight. Ulfjarl was inured to the elements; they were merely obstacles to his inexorable destiny.

  Finally, after three hours of climbing the savage face of the mountain, he reached over and found a stony plateau. Ulfjarl heaved his hulking body over the lip and drew himself to his full height. Veorik was waiting for him several feet from the edge. The mysterious shaman was sitting cross-legged, the cowl of his ragged flesh cloak pulled over his head. Thin slivers of jade, the faint glow of his eyes, were barely visible from beneath his hood. The Norscan couldn’t fathom how Veorik had reached the summit – the shaman certainly hadn’t climbed as he had, nor could he. The shaman’s body was thin and wasted compared to the gargantuan Ulfjarl. Yet it possessed a wiry sort of brawn with coarse and scaly skin. His veins stood out like cords of rope, the sinews taut and unyielding.

  Veorik had appeared mysteriously in Ulfjarl’s village the day that fire had rained from the sky. Returning from a raid against the Bjornlings, the Norscan warlord had witnessed the arcing trail of flame cutting across the darkening sky like a portent. He’d killed the three others in the hunting party, a primal instinct driving his hand, and arrived at his village alone. Devastation greeted him. Ulfjarl’s village was no more. Crude wooden huts burned like lonely signal fires, the stink of charred flesh redolent on the oily smoke. Blackened bodies lay twisted and broken in a morass of carnage; leather, metal and hair fused to skin. Ulfjarl stepped impassively across the scorched earth, incapable of remorse as he sought to comprehend what could have wrought such utter destruction. His furred boots disturbed wisps of smoke as they scraped at the dust and ash. The Norscan had soon found a long furrow that he followed to an immense smoking crater, a large meteorite burning within its blistered confines. This was the harbinger that had doomed his village. The heat of it had seared him, but he was drawn to the meteorite, to the night-black ore that shimmered like oily veins in the rock. It was then, his skin reddening, and lathered with sweat, that Ulfjarl had seen Veorik.
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br />   The shaman was like an ice wraith, detaching himself from the shadows surrounding the otherworldly meteorite as if he had once been a part of it. At first Ulfjarl had thought him a foe, gripping his stone axe and readying to kill the wizened spectre before he entranced him. But then Veorik had spoken. Though he did not know the shaman’s tongue, the language sibilant and snake-like, a malicious susurration of old, dead sounds, Ulfjarl had understood its meaning and knew it was his destiny to follow this stranger. Ulfjarl had looked deep into his emerald eyes and felt impelled to thrust his palm against the rock. Pain, agony that tore into every fibre, coursed through the Norscan but when he finally withdrew his hand, a mark had been seared into his flesh. It was the symbol of his destiny – a three-headed serpent.

  As the memories faded, Veorik beckoned Ulfjarl with a crooked talon. The Norscan warlord stepped purposely across the stone plateau until he reached the shaman and crouched down by his side. Veorik clutched three vipers that hissed and snapped in his skeletal fist. The shaman ignored their protests, intent on his ritual. Taking a curved dagger from within the folds of his robes, he sliced off the vipers’ heads with a single, savage cut, spilling their blood onto the frost-bitten ground. Crimson smoke issued from the vital fluids and, casting the decapitated bodies aside, Veorik thrust his face over the visceral fumes and inhaled deeply. He then scraped his talon through the congealing blood, stone screeching under his scratched attentions, his finger moving as if of its own volition. When he was finished, Veorik looked up and exhaled, a jagged smile splitting his serpentine mouth. Ulfjarl was sure he’d seen a forked tongue, too, slipping out from between the shaman’s thin lips and lathing the air. Whatever Ulfjarl had seen, it was clear from the shaman’s expression that the auguries were good.

  Veorik beckoned again, and this time Ulfjarl helped the shaman to his feet. His grip was as strong as stone, the wretch’s apparent frailty belying his true strength. Veorik extended a bone-thin arm to the distant horizon. Ulfjarl followed his gaze and saw a glittering silver spire, fashioned like the watchtowers of the immortals that he had sacked when they’d made landfall, only this was larger, more grandiose. There was power in the bastion of the fey creatures, Ulfjarl could taste it, and the Norscan warlord meant to make it his own.

  Impassive, Ulfjarl turned away and walked back to the edge of the plateau. Miraculously, though the Norscan warlord had not even heard him move, Veorik was already at Ulfjarl’s side as he peered into the void, the mists receding as if on command. There below, he saw his army.

  The Serpent Host had swelled since they’d reached the shore. Lines of warriors bearing the three-headed snake motif still tramped through the passes of the snow-kissed mountains, joining the hordes already taking up assembly at the foot of the cliff. Ragged fires burned like red wounds in the snow-shrouded plain directly below where the army gathered. Great beasts, their shaggy hides matted with frost, bayed and trumpeted as cruel wardens goaded them; whelp masters wrestled with savage hounds that frothed and strained at the leash. Brutish huscarls, bondsmen and the subjugated barbarian tribes held their banners aloft, and brandished spears and axes in honour of their lord.

  It was a host of thousands, of hundreds of thousands. The watchtowers upon the shore, where they’d ran their ships aground with wild abandon as a bloodletting frenzy took them, were swept away like chaff. Ulfjarl had beheaded every enemy, had ordered every structure burned as a warning. Fear would range ahead of his host, weakening, sapping, draining. The barbarian tribes of this land had been quick to recognise his strength, quick to appreciate that fear. Every village passed had swelled the ravening horde further. The time for army building was at an end.

  Ulfjarl raised his arms aloft and bellowed his name. A guttural chorus, thousands strong, answered, reverberating through the mountain. It was so terrible that the wind cowered, and the lightning fled, and the thunder balked.

  War had come and it would engulf the elves completely.

  The elgi are tenacious, I’ll give them that, thought Morek, begrudgingly.

  It was the fifth day of the trade talks, and the fifth day that the hearth guard captain had waited silently outside the huge gilded doors to the Elders Chamber as Bagrik made his deliberations with the elves. The Elders Chamber was where all the kings of Karak Ungor, Bagrik included, held council. It was a place of deliberation and of majesty, the atmosphere within heavy with the weight of history and the expectation of legacy. Compared to many of the other halls and rooms of the holds, it was stark with simple square columns, rune-etched without gold or silver or gemstones. Austerity reminded all those within of their duty, and the severity which the dwarfs attributed to the weighty decisions of the king and his council. Morek had seen it many times, but only when considering matters of war or defence. There was an esteemed assembly of dwarfs in attendance today. Morek had watched them pile into the room one after the other, their demeanours a mix of gruff indifference and flint-eyed suspicion.

  This was as fine and noble a group that had ever been gathered, with vaunted guildmasters like Chief Brewmaster Heganbour, his many belts and plaited locks festooned with firkins, steins and tankards; Agrin Oakenheart, runelord of Karak Ungor, his bare arms like tanned leather, tattooed with bands of runescript and sigils of power; and Kozdokk, lodemaster and head of the Miners’ Guild, ever-present soot-rings beneath his eyes, an array of candles and lanterns affixed to his black pot helmet. In addition to the masters were the venerable longbeards of Bagrik’s Council of Elders, whose wisdom was more valuable than gold.

  The king had also included his son, Nagrim, in the proceedings. Morek thought this a prudent gesture, for it would be Nagrim that would govern the hold when his father had passed into the Halls of the Ancestors. Rugnir, the hearth guard captain noted, had not been invited, which was just as well. Like Bagrik, he too frowned upon the young prince’s association with that wanaz. Kandor, of course, was the first to the table after his king, dressed in his finest tunic, beard preened like the prancing ufdi he was. Alongside him was his mentor, Thegg the Miser, who was as shrewd and cantankerous as any dwarf.

  The elves came last of all, late as ever. Morek had scowled behind his beard as the elven prince had stalked into the Elders Chamber, ignorant of the import of that great room and all that had transpired there. The elf’s ambassador and the other, raven-haired, lackey were in tow. They were followed by a gaggle of enrobed flunkies – treasurers, smiths and merchants by the look of them.

  Servant hosts, dismissed before the council held session, brought silks and spices, silver metals forged into arrowheads and blunted blades, fettered falcons and hawks, and even songbirds – just some of the enticements through which the elves hoped to beguile and impress. What dwarfs needed with such items, Morek was at a loss to explain. Perhaps there were a more sizeable proportion of ufdis in Karak Ungor than he had first suspected. Such things, however, were not the captain’s concern. Morek merely performed his duty as the king expected of him. Once the great and the good had been convened, the hearth guard captain sealed the golden doors, and was to allow none to enter until a bargain had been struck.

  It rankled that he had been demoted to gate guardian and that Kandor, the feathered peahen, was admitted to the talks. Though begrudgingly, Morek did concede that the merchant thane knew his way around business negotiations. For all of his camaraderie and good nature with the elves, Kandor had deliberately drawn the trade talks out. It was a well-used dwarf tactic, designed to wear down the opposite party in order to get the best deal for the king and his hold. The elves, to their credit, had showed some resilience and had yet to capitulate – if the fact that talks were still ongoing was any barometer.

  It was then, as Morek was yet again debating the merits of a union with the elves, albeit only for trade, that Haggar appeared at the end of the wide corridor that led to the Elders Chamber. The young thane was full of purpose as he marched towards the hearth guard captain, his helmet clasped under his arm, the runic hand gifted to him by A
grin Oakenheart gripping the pommel of his belt-slung hammer.

  ‘Gnollengrom, Thane Stonehammer,’ Haggar intoned, bowing as low as he could before he would lose his balance and fall.

  Morek noticed he used the formal greeting, usually expressed only for elders.

  ‘I am not so old that “tromm”, will not suffice,’ growled the hearth guard captain.

  Morek’s gaze lingered for a moment on the runic hand, a simulacrum of one of flesh and blood that had been forged for the young thane by old Agrin himself. Haggar came from the long and noble line of clan Skengdrang, his current appellation referring to the artefact he wore in place of a hand. It was due to his vaunted standing that Haggar had been gifted with it. Though, lamentably, there was a stain upon that once proud lineage. Morek saw it occasionally when the young dwarf thought he was not looking, a fleeting shadow behind his eyes, a severe cast to his face. It saddened the hearth guard captain to see it, and he hoped that one day Haggar would atone for the dishonour of his forebear.

  ‘And call me “Morek”, young Haggar,’ he said, wrenching himself from remembrance. ‘It is my name, after all, and it will do just fine.’

  The other thane reddened against the older dwarf’s mild admonishment and an embarrassed silence followed.

  ‘I thought you were a statue, at first,’ offered Haggar, by way of conversation. ‘Three days I have passed the end of this corridor, and for three days I saw you move not an inch,’ he added, clearly in awe of the captain.

  ‘It was five days,’ Morek corrected him, ‘five days and counting,’ he said.

  Morek sniffed his nonchalance then cleared his throat, as he warmed to a theme.

  ‘And a dwarf must know when to be still, lad,’ he told him. ‘Once, when I was hunting in the southern forests, three leagues north of Black Water, back when Brondrik was a beardling, I stumbled across a herd of wild hruk. The beasts were in season, rampant and amorous as only hruk can be.’ Morek’s eyes grew wide. ‘They had my scent, and I knew I was in great peril. I could not slay the beasts; the goatherders would have sent the reckoners for me had I done that. Nor could I escape them. So, for seven days and seven nights, I stood stock still in that field, until the hruk moved on and I could return to the hold. I learnt the value of stillness that day,’ Morek concluded.