by Warhammer
It looked different from this angle. Gabbik’s first act was to look up, seeing steeply tiered balconies overlooking the great hall. When he had been up there the near-vertiginous slope had made him feel a little dizzy. Now that he stood at the bottom looking back it was a wonder anybody up there could see at all – they seemed so small and far away. It was said the galleries could comfortably hold five thousand dwarfs, and often six or seven thousand if they were prepared for a little discomfort, which the Ekrundfolk often were if there was a chance of seeing something particularly significant or interesting.
The ceiling of the hall, and this Gabbik liked the most, was almost untouched rock, complete with all the shimmering strata, bulges, crystals and outcrops that nature had formed over countless millennia. It was both the most beautiful thing Gabbik had ever seen and a humble admission by the king and his predecessors that there is only so much that can be achieved by the works of mortals. Ever the dwarfs were people of ore and mineral, coal and gem, and they had created wonderful machines and glorious artifices, but in doing so were always thankful for the bounties the world had set in store for them in the dark places beneath the world. As Grungni had taught in the earliest days, not even he, the greatest of craftsmen, could fix the flaw in a ruby nor create gold from rock.
Thumbs tucked into his belt as he looked up higher and higher, Gabbik gazed at the huge lanterns hanging on silver and bronze chains between jutting promontories above the viewing galleries. Each was thrice the height of a dwarf, like a birdcage exquisitely wrought from iron and silver, imbued with runes that glowed a warm orange – a sunset captured from the summit of Kvinn-Wyr, the Silver Lady, companion to Karag Nar, Karag Zilfin, Karag Yar, Karag Rhyn, Karag Mhonar, Karagril and Karag Lhune – the famed Eight Peaks for which the ancient hold was named. They had been a gift from King Nordrek of Karak Eight Peaks, once Ekrund had been established, to show that the ancestral hold of the Dragonback folk would ever shine in the light of the old mountains.
As the light from that day long past fell upon his face, Gabbik had a lump in his throat. Such light had spilled across the world in the times when the dwarfs had first started their delving beneath the old mountains. It had been a time of prosperity, when the daemons and half-creatures of the Dark Gods had been pushed back to the north and the dwarfs and elves had yet been allies.
It was said that that same prosperity would come to those upon whom the light of Kvinn-Wyr fell, but Gabbik recalled Skraffi’s words and why they were here – prosperity had been hard to come by for the dwarfs for many centuries since that sun had set upon the Silver Lady. War with the elves, greenskins resurgent. Perhaps even the dark powers were stirring, seeking to lay their claim upon the lands west of the mountains again.
He shuddered, the contentment he had felt in coming here suddenly overshadowed by graver concerns.
Skraffi was already forging a path through the crowds ahead. It was not so difficult yet. The floor of the grand hall measured five hundred paces long by three hundred wide, and after a space of a few dozen paces in which the dwarfs were gathering, more stewards were showing the visitors to the long benches that created a gentle arc around the throne mounted on a raised platform at the far end of the hall. Five broad aisles split the rows of benches and Skraffi headed towards the nearest.
Gabbik looked down at the floor as they trudged up to the benches, seeing it properly for the first time. From the galleries it had appeared as an indistinct amalgam of dark grey, red and white, but now he could see that it was made out of irregularly-shaped tiles of granite, quartz and alabaster. Each retained its original features, carefully polished and shaped to fit beside its neighbours without the slightest gap. It was work of incredible precision and Gabbik almost went down onto all fours to inspect it more closely. A pointed cough from one of his companions prompted him to continue after Skraffi.
The stewards ushered them to a long bench five rows from the front, a hundred paces from the throne as near as Gabbik could reckon. The row in front was packed with dwarfs but the front three benches were still empty – a line of stern-looking wardens with hammers in hand deterred anybody from violating the royal seats.
Looking around, Gabbik had fresh appreciation for the sheer scale and spectacle of a king’s council, as unlike a clan gathering as the hall was to the tunnels of the Angbok mine. The fact that he was on the floor at all was an immense privilege as he remembered the days he had spent in the upper galleries, straining to hear the arguments and debates being put forth before the king. Now he would be in the centre of the cut and thrust, truly the position a thane deserved.
‘Stop your gaping and sit down, lad,’ said Skraffi, who was already ensconced on the bench with half the contents of his pack around him. There was a piece of cheese and an opened pot of chutney balanced on his knee. They were about a third of the way along the bench and more dwarfs were already filing in behind waiting to take up the remaining space. Their chatter washed over Gabbik as he settled on the bench, his buttocks neatly sliding into an indentation made by hundreds of previous visitors.
‘Shift up.’
‘Make room there.’
‘I’m seven hundred and four, you know.’
‘I’m sure there weren’t this many thanes last time.’
‘Grungni’s hairy… I’ve dropped me pipe. Anyone seen me spare?’
The chuntering and banter was reassuring, like the ever-present backdrop of hammered anvils and picks on stone. Gabbik knew it would take most of the rest of the day to fill up the hall. He folded his arms, let his chin drop to his chest and closed his eyes for a little while.
Gabbik was woken not by a sound but by its absence. A hush had fallen over the grand hall, and it was this quiet that had stirred him from his slumber. Although most of the voices had been stilled, the hall was far from silent – the rub of backsides on wood, taps of metal toe-capped boots on the polished floor, rustles of cheese papers and the puffing of pipes all seemed to intensify with the lack of conversation.
The great lantern over the throne dais had been dimmed, swathing the stage in darkness. Fire pits had been lit, bathing the platform in a ruddy glow, swirling the upper air with smoke – not that several thousand pipes had not contributed quite a smog already. In the gloom Gabbik glanced back to see that the main doors had been closed. In the shadows above small red lamps lit the upper galleries like angry stars.
The front benches were almost full now too – there were a few spaces right at the head of the audience where the most favoured thanes, runelords and retainers would be called to sit.
A thunderous knock resounded across the hall and as the echo faded so did all other noise. Not a dwarf moved. A second gigantic thud followed, and a third, and then utter silence fell.
A trapdoor opened at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne and from this entrance emerged a column of dwarfs. They were dressed in robes and armour, some with fur-lined cloaks, others with shining gold mail and plate, all with helms sporting crests in the shapes of boars, anvils, hammers, wings, lightning bolts and various other insignia. Their beards were long and fulsome, some trailing on the polished tiles, others neatly bound and wrapped with gold thread and silver bands.
The procession parted, forming two lines up the stairs to the throne and when they were in position, fifty dwarfs to the left and fifty dwarfs to the right, the king finally made his entrance.
He wore the ancient battle armour of Ekrund, rune-etched and chased with precious metals, studded with gems and filigreed with knotwork and geometric designs. Little could be seen of the king himself save for a long, grey-streaked beard of dark red, eyebrows of the same jutting from his helm and the glint of old, wise eyes. From his back hung a cloak of deepest red, edged with the fur of a black bear, its claws still attached. In his right hand he carried a sceptre whose head was made of a diamond the size of Gabbik’s fist, the haft gold and onyx and amber carefully entwined. His other hand held a small tinker’s hammer of plain iron.
Erstukar Rinkeldraz stopped before the throne and two attendants came out of the shadows to remove his cloak. Others took the hammer and sceptre. The king turned and sat. At that moment, somewhere distant in the deeps a horn sounded, heard even in the great hall, picked up and passed on from chamber to chamber so that, in a short while, the horns of the Angboks and the Troggklads and many others would announce the commencement in the furthest reaches.
The council was in session.
Thord Ironfriend, head of the Norbad clan and acclaimed veteran took his position to the king’s right. He held up a torq-clad arm and beringed fist scarred by war and smithying.
‘Hail the king!’
Gabbik’s fist shot up as he repeated the phrase, his voice just one amongst many thousands shouting that one line of greeting.
‘A grave business it is that brings us together on this day,’ Erstukar began. His one hundred companions turned and made their way down the steps to their benches while the king stood up from his throne and started to pace. The lantern above the platform glowed into life and the king’s presence seemed to diminish, rendering him mortal once more. More clearly able to see now, Gabbik remembered the king was barely a hundred years older than he was, and was still full of vitality. With the ceremony and pomp concluded, Erstukar moved and spoke with animation.
‘You have no doubt heard many dire rumours and stories from the old mountains, from the mouths of traders and rangers and, in latter days, from the mouths of those who until recently called Karak Varn their home. I share with you the shock and deepest grief of what has befallen our distant cousins of late, and it is with such sour tidings that I set in motion the great debate that must be held.’ The king bowed his head, brow glowing in the fires. ‘Though for many such news has been wrought fresh in the mind, it has troubled of late the counsels of your king and his closest advisors. Certainty we sought, but in such times certainty is rarer than elf honesty. From the clamour of devastation we might filter words of sense and through the fog of disaster we shall see more clearly with time.’
The king moved from one side of the dais to the other, looking up at the galleries and then down to the floor, hands clasped behind his back, becoming sombre.
‘I fear that the world has not yet finished changing. The threat of the elves may have passed, the ground may not have split beneath our feet, but Ekrund cannot be immune to what happens in the old mountains any more than the estuary is free from pollution upstream. The first and greatest consideration we must therefore face is what is to be done for those unfortunate survivors of this recent cataclysm that arrive upon our step and seek shelter? I do not for a moment consider Ekrundfolk inhospitable or deaf to the pleas of the needy, but nor can I fondly imagine that our hearths can burn forever and our mines are bottomless. We will give succour and sanctuary. That is not the question we must ask. In this I am already decided. The vaults of the king’s treasury shall be opened to ensure that those seeking food, ale and blankets shall not be wanting.
‘It is the longer term that vexes discussion, from the Third Eastern Deeps to the pinnacle of Spireridge. Shelter we can give, but can we give the refugees homes?’ The king strode back to his throne and sat down. With a hand glinting with gold rings he gestured for the wardens to go about their work.
In a gathering of such size it was impossible for every dwarf to be given an open floor for debate and counter-debate. Instead, to ensure even representation, the wardens passed along the rows of benches with sacks filled with numbered tokens – one for each dwarf on the floor. The dwarfs each took their lot and by this number would know when they would be allowed to speak. Each was allowed the turning of a glass, as adjudicated by the Royal Debate Timer Senior, Randar Rinkeldraz, in which to make whatever point he or she desired, whether in answer to previous comments or on a new topic.
It took some time for all three thousand and forty-six tokens to be allocated, and Gabbik was left in something of a quandary by drawing number one thousand seven hundred and ninety-four. His only intent was to offer the deal raised by the Ekrund Miners’ Welfare and Social Society and he had little desire to spend the best part of the next day sitting in the hall waiting his turn. Already dwarfs with later numbers were starting to leave – only the king was required to listen to all petitions, after all. Some of them were probably fortunate enough to live close enough to return home for the night. Others, now that space was clearing on the benches, were getting out sleeping rolls and pillows, while quite a few started talking amongst themselves. Gabbik had plenty of time to retire to a local hostelry and then return, but no doubt the local ale halls and bunk rooms would have raised their prices for such an occasion.
‘Stay and listen, you might learn something,’ said Skraffi, noticing his indecision. ‘I’m up at four hundred and thirty-eight, so at least stay awake that long, eh?’
Gabbik considered this. It did seem a shameful waste of the time, money and energy to come to the king’s halls simply to spend more time, money and energy at someone else’s ale hall. If he stayed in the hall he would be able to mingle with members of the more powerful clans, as well as other miners’ organisations, the engineers’ guilds, and if he dared to be so bold, he might even make a few inquiries regarding suitors for Haldora.
‘A good point,’ he told Skraffi, tucking the wooden plaque with his number into his pack. The first speakers were already assembling close to the foot of the steps, with the stewards directing dwarfs moving down and up the hall along opposite sides of the aisle to ensure there was not too much time-wasting and milling around.
With the benches in front now opened up to a general audience – with more wardens preventing the scrum for seats becoming a general melee – Gabbik headed forward to get closer to the action. Skraffi went with him, as did Vadlir (numbered one thousand four hundred and eleven) and a couple of the others from their group. The rest quietly slinked off to whatever bars and hostelries would take them.
The thanes were renowned across Ekrund as accomplished speakers, and could hold forth on a pet subject for great lengths of time. They were also, without question, quite capable of paying attention to each other for equally long periods when they desired to do so, or if they felt that a certain level of scrutiny or appreciation was required. It was also true that though they had tremendous patience, when it ran out they were not slow in protesting the fact. The rigid enforcement of the time allotment was therefore the best defence against not only long-winded sermonising but also potentially energetic and defamatory heckling from the less patient attendees.
Gabbik listened to the opening salvoes of the debate. A thane from the Second Western Deep was willing to put aside his wutruth import storage chambers for only two-thirds the lost revenue, to be settled by the king; a guildmaster from the Brewers’ Conservatory suggested they could happily employ seven or eight new brewing apprentices if the royal treasury would fund the placements. Contrary to the expectation of the diligence of the hold’s thanes, Gabbik quickly lost interest. Nobody was asking any big questions yet.
He was surprised when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Thundred Norbrocker standing behind the bench.
‘Thought I recognised you,’ said the captain of the gate. ‘What number did you get?’ Gabbik showed him. ‘Not bad. Tell you what, rather than listen to this lot why don’t we, um, adjourn to my little guard hall just past the dais and you’ll not be too far away when the time comes. If anything exciting happens, we’ll get to know about it, don’t worry.’
‘That’d be very kind, Thundred,’ said Skraffi, who had suddenly appeared again out of the throng.
‘The beer’s on me,’ Thundred added quickly. ‘Got a keg just opened. North Star’s Troll-mangler.’
‘Good stuff,’ said Gabbik, stan
ding up. He grabbed Vadlir’s arm and tugged him after as Thundred led them back to the aisle. ‘I hear that stuff would put a beard on a gobbo.’
With the hammer-bearing captain to lead the way, the crowd swiftly parted for the group. Thundred’s duty quarters were to the left of the great steps, through a small archway. There was a small fire burning, though it was summer and the king’s halls were heated all year round by a clever arrangement of pipes and steam from the furnaces. A steward sloshed out cups of ale for each of them and then at a look from Thundred made himself scarce. They settled on stools around the table, making pleasantries for a little while, picking at a nice ham and some cheese that was brought in and generally passing the time. Gabbik listened to the regular clanging of the timekeeper’s bell ordering the debate outside, until the noise faded into the background.
Gabbik dozed a little, smoked his pipe, made a sandwich, dozed a little more. Evening was approaching and the dwarfs were getting their second wind after their naps and between-meal snacks. They talked a little, on beers in the king’s hall, the queen and the princes, Thundred’s family, and then Skraffi’s tone became more serious.
‘So, what’s the king really thinking about these refugees?’
‘We’ll do what we can. Encourage as many as possible to head to Karak Eight Peaks.’ Thundred shrugged, making his mail armour jingle. ‘What else can we do?’
Gabbik remembered the conversations with Haldora, and her insistence that the refugees had to be helped. She was flighty sometimes, but her heart was in the right place.
‘What about before they get here?’ Gabbik asked. ‘Some have said the orcs have been at them in the wildlands.’
‘What can we do?’ said Thundred. ‘That’s the wildlands, isn’t it?’
