by Nick Kyme
Haggar nodded his appreciation at the imparted wisdom.
‘Now, you tell me something,’ Morek said.
‘Anything, Thane Stonehammer,’ said Haggar, his face screwed up in concentration as he devoted all of his attention to the hearth guard captain’s query.
Morek sighed before asking, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Ah, that is easy,’ he said, his face brightening as soon as he realised he knew the answer. ‘King Bagrik summoned me to wait for him here before the trade talks had ended. I am to accompany Kandor to the elgi settlement, take possession of any promised goods and return them to the hold.’
Morek couldn’t hide the fact that this perturbed him. Why had the king entrusted such a deed to Haggar, and not him? Was he not chief of the king’s warriors, aside perhaps from Grikk with whom he had equal standing – but his domain was the ungrin ankor. What if Bagrik had somehow gotten wind of his meeting with Brunvilda in the catacombs? The king would be greatly displeased that Morek had kept it from him. Still, Bagrik was not one to let his annoyances go unspoken…
‘It’s a pity you left the grand feast so early,’ Haggar said, arresting Morek from his thoughts as he noticed the dwarf captain’s furrowed brow and attempted to change the subject. ‘You missed some fine entertainments. Grikk put on a great display and the elgi maiden, she was…’ Haggar was lost for a moment in wistful remembrance.
‘Grikk was there, eh?’ Morek asked with mild interest, ignoring the elf comment.
‘His axe hurling was worthy of the sagas of old,’ Haggar adulated.
‘I see,’ Morek mumbled under his breath, adding, ‘well he’ll never beat my hammer throw, no dwarf will…’
Before Haggar could ask him to repeat himself, the dwarfs were interrupted by a clamour of armour emanating from the end of the corridor.
Six fully-armoured hearth guard emerged into the dwarfs’ eye line, trooping towards them. A seventh figure, an elf, and not one of Ithalred’s party, walked amongst them.
‘Hearth guard, explain yourself!’ bawled Morek to the first of the warriors that approached him, a veteran of the gate guard.
‘Captain,’ said the lead dwarf, thumping his chest in salute, ‘this one claims he must speak to the elgi prince at once. I thought it best to bring him from the outer gateway hall directly.’ At the hearth guard’s remark, the elf, who wore silver mail and a cloak of fern and olive, came forward. Throwing back his hood, the elf’s eyes sparkled with vehemence.
‘My name is Ethandril, I am a ranger of Tor Eorfith and I must see Prince Ithalred on a matter of dire importance.’
Morek raised an eyebrow, noting that the elf was still armed. He cast a reproachful glance at the veteran hearth guard, who showed his palms in a gesture of contrition.
‘There was no time to summon you,’ pleaded the veteran.
Morek ignored him – he’d deal with him later – and focused his attention instead on the elf.
‘Relinquish your arms, first – then you may see the prince,’ he told him.
The elf seemed reluctant but he was obviously exhausted and in no mood to haggle, so handed over his bow, a quiver only half full of arrows and a long curved dagger.
‘Please,’ he implored, once it was done. ‘Let me see the prince.’
Morek made a show of inspecting the elf for weapons one last time, a side glance at the lax veteran, who avoided his captain’s gaze, before Morek muttered under his breath and turned to face the golden doors.
Haggar stood to one side. This was the hearth guard captain’s ‘honour’ alone.
‘He’s not going to like this,’ Morek muttered, before taking a deep breath and pushing against the doors.
The gilded doors to the Elders Chamber clanged and boomed as Morek heaved them open. All eyes turned to the hearth guard captain who beheld the king’s chisellers going to work on a granite plaque. This, he knew, was the deed of agreement. An accord must have been reached with the elves and now those terms were being ratified and sealed in stone.
Kandor and Thegg the Miser were stooped over the chiseller’s work, inspecting every blow, every cut, intent on the deed. The masters were in various states of attentiveness. Kozdokk held up a cage, a song bird twittering within. Whatever he had just said to the elf avian keeper had set an ashen cast to his already pale face. The venerable miner eyed the bird with interest, as he held it up to the light. Morek would learn later that the head of the Miners’ Guild had proposed to use the birds to warn lodefinders of gaseous effusions in the mines. Given the mortality rate of this occupation, Kozdokk had suggested to King Bagrik that several hundred birds be traded. Evidently, this had offended the more artful and less pragmatic sentiments of the elf.
Several of the longbeards, slumped in plush chairs, had fallen asleep. One of the venerable elders appeared almost comatose and for the briefest moment, Morek feared he was dead. A nervous eyebrow twitch gave him away, though. Agrin Oakenheart was amongst the somnambulant dwarfs, snoring loudly in one corner. The pipe cinched in the runelord’s mouth blew perfect smoke rings as he exhaled. Nagrim seemed interminably bored, chewing his beard, and picking at his teeth with a chisel. The elves looked worn from the deliberations, adding further credence to Kandor’s strategy of negotiation by attrition. Malbeth, the elf ambassador, had his sleeves rolled up and a ragged look about him.
All were crowded around a large, slab-like table, its stone surface inscribed with effigies of Grungni and Valaya extolling the virtues of wisdom and temperance. Upon the table sat a huge pair of bronze scales, their use and meaning esoteric to the elves. This archaic device had existed since the early days of Karak Ungor. It was fashioned into the squatting figure of a dwarf goldmaster, his palms open and flat, his arms outstretched. Only the accepted members of the elder council were privy to its significance.
All of this Morek took in after he opened the gilded doors and surveyed the scene. His gaze, unsurprisingly, settled upon Bagrik last of all.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ bellowed the king from atop his throne on a stone plinth overlooking the Elders Chamber. He leaned forward as he barked at Morek, spittle flying from his lips. It was not wise to interrupt the king during his deliberations but the hearth guard captain had a sneaking suspicion that the elf ranger of Tor Eorfith brought bad news, and that meant the elves’ departure from Karak Ungor. For Morek that couldn’t happen soon enough. In his opinion, it was worth risking Bagrik’s ire.
‘Forgive the intrusion, my king,’ Morek declared, bowing curtly with all due deference. ‘It could not wait.’
Bagrik’s stern expression suggested he doubted it.
‘An elf, travelled from Tor Eorfith, seeks audience with Prince Ithalred.’ Morek couldn’t keep the scowl from his face when he mentioned the elf noble by name. He stepped aside, allowing the ranger to enter. The elf bowed stiffly.
‘Bring ale,’ Bagrik ordered. ‘Our visitor has had an arduous journey by the look of him, and is in need of fortification.’ One of the hearth guard, who was hovering outside the chamber next to Haggar, hurried off to find a servant.
‘You are welcome here, elgi,’ Bagrik told the ranger.
Morek chafed at his king’s magnanimity, but his mood soured further at what the king said next.
‘You, Morek, are not. Grumkaz, mark the hearth guard captain’s name and enter a grudge in the kron.’
The king’s grudgemaster, his ever present shadow, stirred from the corner of the chamber, so still and grey it was as if he were part of the rock, made animate by Bagrik’s bidding. The scratching of his quill against the parchment ran down Morek’s spine, making him wince.
‘Ethandril.’ It was Lethralmir who spoke next. The raven-haired elf came forward, heedless of any royal etiquette he might be besmirching, and beckoned the ranger to approach.
Ethandril did so, swiftly, speaking in hushed tones in their native language.
Morek’s face reddened at what was deliberate subterfuge in his eyes, desperate to
speak out against it and demand that the elves be open in the presence of the king. But he had affronted Bagrik once already, and even though the king’s expression told him he was not impressed, Morek held his tongue.
Lethralmir then went to Prince Ithalred, relating the news in a similar manner to before. All the while, the dwarfs watched in stony silence, Agrin’s snoring the only contribution to the susurrus of conversation between the elves.
Ithalred’s face had darkened by the time Lethralmir had finished. He turned abruptly to the king, and said, ‘With regret, your majesty, we must leave. At once.’
Bagrik’s brow wrinkled.
‘All is well, I hope?’ he asked, his tone probing.
‘Yes,’ Ithalred replied. ‘An urgent matter has arisen at Tor Eorfith that requires my personal attention. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Of course,’ said the king, though the look in his eyes said anything but. He glanced over at Kandor who was observing the chiseller, as he finished up.
‘The deed is set. All is in order,’ the merchant thane told Bagrik, as he looked up.
The king nodded, satisfied with the business done, despite the unconventional close to the deal and the subsequent upheaval.
‘I give you leave to go back to your settlement, Prince Ithalred,’ said Bagrik, once his attention was back on the elf, though Ithalred gave the impression he neither needed nor appreciated the dwarf king’s sanction. ‘As per our agreement,’ Bagrik continued, ‘Kandor Silverbeard and Haggar Anvilfist will accompany you as my representatives.’ Haggar had entered the room by this time, and bowed at the mention of his name. ‘They will bring the promised goods from my vaults and take charge of those offered by you upon your return.’
‘As agreed,’ snapped Ithalred, obviously distracted as he turned on his heel and stalked out of the Elders Chamber. Lethralmir followed him, deep in clandestine conversation with Ethandril.
Morek watched them go. He could not understand their words, but he was wily enough to discern the note of tension in them. The expression of the ranger, when he had been brought before the hearth guard captain, spoke volumes too. The elves were hiding something. Morek just didn’t know what it was.
As they left, a panting dwarf servant rushed into the chamber, a foaming flagon balanced on a wooden dish.
‘Ale, my lords,’ he said humbly, casting his gaze about frantically for those in need.
‘Give it here, lad,’ said Bagrik, who quaffed the beer prodigiously, his steely glare fixed on the departing elves as he wiped his mouth with disdain.
‘Haggar,’ the king snarled, though his wrath was reserved for his former guests. The banner bearer thumped the cuirass of his armour in salute. ‘Have a cohort of hearth guard make ready, you are leaving with the elves. You, too, Kandor, and be quick about it!’
The merchant nodded, gathering his things before muttering his respects to the masters and hurrying out of the chamber after the elves. Haggar turned and was about to troop off with him when Morek caught his arm.
‘Eyes open, lad,’ he said with a wink. ‘Eyes open.’
Haggar nodded solemnly, catching on immediately. Whatever was bothering the elves, much like Morek, he had seen it too.
Bagrik watched from the craggy slit of the Dragon’s Tooth, the highest watchtower of Karak Ungor, the rocky spire by which all of the ancient skybridges were connected. His expression was stern as he regarded the trail of dwarf carts and mules, diminishing into the mountain passes. He saw the long lines of the elf expedition that had come to his hold, too, and the cohort of twenty hearth guard warriors led by Haggar and accompanied by Kandor. The dwarfs led the group as they made their wending way northward to Tor Eorfith, their knowledge of the secret routes across the Worlds Edge making for a safer and more expedient journey.
A sharp wind was blowing from the north, unsettling the snow-shawled peaks and sending thick drifts across the trees and lowland roads. It blustered through the viewing port of the watchtower, insinuating its way through Bagrik’s furs and tunic, chilling him. He suppressed a shiver and his gaze hardened. There was the scent of metal and smoke on the breeze. It did not bode well.
‘There is no better vantage point over the northern reaches of the Worlds Edge than the Tooth, my liege.’
Bagrik did not turn to face the speaker. He merely sighed, his earlier anger long since fled to be replaced by concern and doubt.
‘Aye, Morek, and it is also a place where a king might find some solitude.’ Bagrik had long since dismissed the quarrellers patrolling the Dragon’s Tooth and his personal hearth guard who had carried him up the many steps to the lofty watchtower.
‘Forgive me, my king, but Queen Brunvilda was looking for you,’ said Morek, moving to stand alongside Bagrik, he too now staring at the view beyond the hold.
‘All the more reason for me to be up here,’ Bagrik muttered, a note of tension creeping into his voice.
‘The wind coming from the north is a harsh one,’ the king said after a moment of silence, filled only with the howl of the breeze. ‘I feel the coming of winter, Morek,’ he confessed, no longer talking about the weather. ‘I cannot even reach my towers without aid, and all my great deeds are eclipsed in memory, smothered by the dust of ages, soon to be forgotten.’
Morek maintained his silence for a spell, allowing the maudlin atmosphere to thin a little before he spoke.
‘You have left a proud legacy, my king. All of us, our time is finite. Grungni calls us to his table in the Hall of Ancestors. Your place is waiting,’ he said.
‘Is it, Morek?’ Bagrik asked, turning to the hearth guard captain for the first time.
Both dwarfs knew of what Bagrik spoke.
‘Nagrim’s time is dawning,’ Morek replied, returning his king’s gaze. ‘He is your legacy, my liege. In him the future of Karak Ungor is set in stone.’
Bagrik smiled, though his eyes were still sad. He felt somehow older in that moment.
‘Yes, you are right,’ he said, turning back to the view port. ‘Nagrim is the future.’
‘One thing I am less certain about,’ Morek grumbled, as he too returned to looking out of the watchtower, the mule train finally disappearing from view, ‘is these elgi. For a race that is longer lived than us dwarfs, they have little concept of patience.’
‘Indeed,’ Bagrik replied, his eyes narrowing. The old leg wound from the great boar gave a twinge. It was a sure sign of troubling times to come. ‘They do not,’ he concluded.
CHAPTER NINE
Legacy
The Iron Deep was akin to an armoury in that within its heavily-guarded confines there resided all the many martial heirlooms and artefacts of Bagrik’s royal lineage. Each of the noble clans of Karak Ungor had such a rune vault, but none were as vast and grandiose as that of the Boarbrow’s and the line of kings. The mighty room was staggering in its size and ambition. Cavernous in stature, five thousand dwarfs could have marched in and still had room enough to become lost in its numerous galleries and antechambers.
Stone columns, hewn into the image of kings and chased in bronze, shouldered an arched ceiling studded with diamonds. Mosaics were rendered into the walls, depicting ancient heroes and older deeds. The vault had several levels, and an expansive rectangular chasm fell away in the middle of each one, barring the deepest. These upper floors were spanned by bridges carved from the granite of the mountain. Dominating the lowest level of the Iron Deep was the Zharrazak, the Enduring Flame. Reputedly, or at least as far back as records went, it had burned since Karak Ungor was founded and had not once gone out. It was widely postulated that should the Zharrazak ever fail it would be a grave omen, foretelling the doom of the hold. It was set in a simple copper basin and was so large that, despite its depth, the fierce flame cast long, flickering shadows around the entire vault’s many nooks and crannies.
Few had seen the Iron Deep, save for the kings of Ungor and their runelords. Agrin Oakenheart was the current custodian, and in addition to all the clan tre
asures, he kept three of the Anvils of Doom safe within the vault. These artefacts had been forged five hundred years earlier by the master runesmith, Kurgaz, at the heart of Karag Dron. Only the volcanic fire of a mountain could have tempered such potent magical foci. The runes inscribed upon the metal surface of the anvils had only to be struck by a hammer, and for the runesmith to intone the correct forging rite, for their power to be unleashed. Such devices were venerated, and had to be kept under runic seal, so it was with Agrin’s Anvils of Doom.
Save for the runelord himself, only King Bagrik had the authority to order the Iron Deep unsealed. With Nagrim in tow, he had done so with a specific purpose in mind. For over an hour father and son had toured the mighty vault, its many floors plunging down into the mountain’s core, the effect upon entering through the iron-banded, ward-inscribed, gromril gate not unlike a roofed amphitheatre. Gemstones punctuated the foot and apex of each level in long lines and through them, via some cunning device of the Engineers’ Guild, natural light was reflected and refracted creating an aura of myriad hues. Runes of power were described by the cornucopia of light emitted from the stones, wards of spell-baffling and sorcerous annulment that prevented harmful or insidious magic making a mockery of the otherwise stout safeguards.
As they walked, Bagrik showed Nagrim some of the treasures of the hold’s long history, the gilded weapon racks, cradles for armour, iron-banded chests and bejewelled plinths stretching far in the glittering gloom.
‘It is past time that we walked the Iron Deep together,’ said Bagrik as he and Nagrim traversed a concourse of flagstones. Like much of the ancient chamber, it was rendered into a concentric knot pattern, the uniformity occasionally giving way to the artistic flourish of the original masons.
