by Warhammer
‘That’s true, but they can also fetch help,’ warned Gorhunk. ‘Where there are wolf riders, there’ll be others. This place is crawling with grobi scum.’
‘We’ll set off as soon as is convenient,’ said the king. ‘Send the rangers out again. There’s no harm in being forewarned.’
‘Aye,’ said Gorhunk with a nod. The hammerer turned and strode off into the camp, leaving Barundin to his thoughts.
With the fall of Karak Varn, Zhufbar had been left partially isolated from the rest of the old dwarf empire. Now they were surrounded by hostile orc and goblin tribes, while the ratmen were never too far away. It was a constant battle, and on a handful of occasions the hold had been seriously threatened with invasion. But they had survived these attempts, and the mettle of Zhufbar was as strong as ever. Barundin, as new king, was determined that his hold would not fail during his reign.
Not long after the sun had reached noon, the dwarfs passed into the chasm at the north end of Blackwater. Here the dark waters rushed over the edge of the cliff in a gushing waterfall, the mountainsides echoing with the roaring, foaming torrent. Behind the noise was another, more artificial sound: the pounding and clanking of machinery.
The walls of the waterfall were lined with scores of waterwheels, some of them massive. Gears, pulleys and chains creaked and groaned in constant motion, driving distant forge hammers and ore crushers. Stone viaducts and culverts redirected the waters into cooling tanks and smelters. Amongst the spume and spray, gantries of iron and bulwarks of stone dotted the landscape, the muzzles of cannons protruding menacingly from embrasures, watching over this vulnerable entrance into Zhufbar.
Steam and smoke from the furnaces was lifted high above the vale, gathering in a pall overhead. The air was thick with moisture and droplets formed on Barundin’s beard and armour as they began their descent. The path wound back and forth along the chasm’s southern face, in places curving down spiral steps hewn through the rock, in others crossing cracks and fissures over arcing bridges with low parapets. Beneath them, the glow of Zhufbar’s forges tinged the watery air with a glinting red hue.
At the foot of the chasm, the road took a long spiral turn northwards to the main gate, overlooked by more fortifications. As the group neared, word was passed from watchtowers to the gate wardens. A deep rumbling made the ground reverberate underfoot, as water was redirected from the flow through the gate locks. Heavy iron bars and granite lockstones were separated from one another, and the gates swung open, driven by large gears and chains machined into the rock on either side of the gateway.
A lone dwarf stood in the gaping opening, which stretched five times his height. He planted his hammer at his feet and barred their passage. Barundin walked forward to initiate the ritual of entry.
‘Who approaches Zhufbar?’ the door warden demanded gruffly.
‘Barundin, King of Zhufbar,’ Barundin replied.
‘Enter your hold, Barundin, King of Zhufbar,’ the gatekeeper said, stepping aside.
As the dwarfs entered, they passed beneath a lintel stone as thick as a dwarf is tall, carved with runes and ancestor faces. It was the oldest stone in the hold, as near as could be reckoned from the ancient stories, and local tradition held that should a person pass beneath it without permission, it would crack and break, bringing the rocks down onto his head and sealing the entrance to the hold. Barundin was glad that the tale had never been tested.
Inside, the dwarfs passed into the entrance chamber. It was low and long, lit by lanterns set into alcoves every few feet. The walls were hewn into the shape of castellations, three tiers on each side, and dwarfs with handguns – the fabled thunderers – patrolled its length. Cannons and other war machines overlooked the entrance, ready to unleash lethal metal at any foe that managed to breach the gate. It could never be said that the dwarfs would be caught unprepared.
From the entrance chamber, Zhufbar spread out, north, east and south, up and down, in a maze of tunnels. Here, at the heart of the underground city, the walls were straight and true, decorated with runes and carved pictures telling the stories of the ancestor gods. In places it opened out into wide galleries overlooking eating halls and armouries, audience chambers and forge-halls. Armoured doors of stone and gromril protected treasuries containing wealth equivalent to that of entire human nations.
Dismissed by Barundin, the dwarf throng quickly dispersed, returning to their clan-halls and families. Barundin made his way to the chambers above the main hall, where the kings of Zhufbar had lived for seven generations. He swiftly undressed and washed in his chambers, hanging his mail coat on its stand next to his bed. Putting on a heavy robe of dark red cloth, he brushed his beard, using the troll-bone comb that had belonged to his mother. Taking golden clasps from a locked chest beneath the bed, he plaited his beard into two long braids and swept his hair back into a ponytail. Feeling more refreshed, he left and walked to the whispering chamber a short way from his bedroom.
Named for its amazing acoustics, the whispering chamber had a low, domed ceiling that echoed sound to every corner, allowing a large number of dwarfs to converse with each other without ever raising their voices. It was empty now except for a solitary figure. Seated at the near end of the long table was Harlgrim, thane of the Bryngromdal clan, second in size and wealth to Barundin’s own clan, the Kronrikstok.
‘Hail, Harlgrim Bryngromdal,’ said Barundin, taking a seat a little way from the thane.
‘Welcome back, King Barundin,’ said Harlgrim. ‘I take it that the funeral went without hindrance?’
‘Aye,’ said Barundin. He paused as a young dwarf maid entered, dressed in a heavy apron and carrying a platter of cold meat cuts and piles of cave mushrooms. She placed the food between the two dwarf nobles and withdrew with a smile. A moment later, a young beardling brought in a keg of ale and two mugs.
‘We’ve received more messages from Nuln,’ said Harlgrim as he stood and poured out two pints of beer.
Barundin pulled the platter towards him and began nibbling at a piece of ham. ‘I take it that all is well?’
‘It appears so, though it’s hard to tell with manlings,’ said Harlgrim. He took a swig of beer and grimaced. ‘I miss real beer.’
‘How is work on the brewery?’ asked Barundin, tentatively sipping his ale. It wasn’t that it was bad as such. It was still dwarf ale, after all. It just wasn’t good.
‘The engineers assure me that it is proceeding to schedule,’ said Harlgrim. ‘Can’t work fast enough if you ask me.’
‘So, is the Emperor still this Magnus fellow?’ said the king, bringing the conversation back on topic.
‘Seems so, though he must be getting on a bit for a manling,’ said Harlgrim. He plucked a leg of meat from the platter and bit into it, the juices dribbling into his thick black beard. ‘Apparently, the elves are helping him.’
‘Elves?’ said Barundin, his eyes narrowing instinctively. ‘That’s typical of elves, that is. They bugger off for four thousand years with nary a word, and then they’re back, meddling again.’
‘They did fight alongside the high king against the northern hordes,’ said Harlgrim. ‘Apparently, some prince, Teclis he’s called, is helping the manlings with their wizards, or some such nonsense.’
‘Elves and manling wizards?’ growled Barundin. ‘No good will come of it, mark my words. They shouldn’t be teaching them that magic they’re so proud of, it’ll end in tears. Humans can’t do runework, can barely brew a pint or lay a brick. I can’t see any good coming from manlings having truck with elves. Perhaps I should send a message to Emperor Magnus. You know, warn him about them.’
‘I don’t think he’ll listen,’ said Harlgrim.
Barundin grunted and started on a piece of ham. ‘What’s in it for them?’ the king asked between mouthfuls. ‘They must be after something.’
‘I’ve always considered it good sense not to think too long about the counsel of elves,’ suggested the thane. ‘You’ll tie yourself in knots, worrying about that sort of th
ing. Anyway, it’s not just elves he’s looking to make friends with. This Magnus is setting up a foundry in Nuln, calling it the Imperial Gunnery School, according to his message. He’s been told, rightly so, that the best engineers in the world live in Zhufbar, and he wants to hire their services.’
‘What does the guild reckon?’ asked Barundin, putting aside his food and concentrating for the first time. ‘What’s Magnus offering?’
‘Well, the Engineers Guild hasn’t met to formally discuss it, but they’re going to bring it up at the next general council. They’ve already assured me that any extra commitment they undertake won’t affect work here, especially on the brewery. Magnus’s offer is very vague at the moment, but the language he uses sounds generous and encouraging. The poor souls have only just finished squabbling amongst themselves again. They’re looking for a bit of stability.’
‘Sounds like good sense to me,’ said Barundin. ‘These past few centuries have been troublesome indeed, with them fighting amongst themselves, allowing orcs to grow in numbers. Do you think it’s worth sending someone to Nuln to have a proper talk with this fellow?’
‘I believe the high king himself travelled to Nuln only five years ago,’ said Harlgrim. ‘I can’t think of anything to add to whatever he might have said – he’s a sensible dwarf.’
‘Well, let’s wait and see what they have to offer,’ said Barundin. ‘There’s more pressing business.’
‘The new grudge?’ asked Harlgrim.
Barundin nodded. ‘I need the thanes assembled so that we can enter it into the book and send word to Karaz-a-Karak,’ said the king.
‘The Feast of Grungni is almost upon us. It would seem right that we do it then,’ suggested Harlgrim.
‘That’d suit,’ said Barundin, standing up and finishing his beer.
He wiped the froth from his moustache and beard and nodded farewell.
Harlgrim watched his king leave, seeing already the weight of rulership on his friend’s shoulders. With a grunt, he also stood. He had things to do.
Had the long tables not been sturdily dwarf-built, they would have been sagging with the weight of food and ale barrels. The air rang with the shouts of the assembled thanes, the glugging of beer into tankards, raucous laughter and the trample of serving wenches hurrying to and from the king’s kitchens.
They were seated in three rows at the centre of the shrine to Grungni, greatest of the ancestor gods and lord of mining. Behind Barundin, sitting on his throne at the head of the centre table, a great stylised stone mask glowered down at the assembled throng. It was the face of Grungni himself, his eyes and beard picked out in thick gold leaf, his helm crafted from glinting silver. Above the diners, great mine lanterns hung from the high ceiling, spilling a deep yellow light onto the sweating gathering below.
All across Zhufbar other dwarfs were holding their own celebrations, and beyond the great open doors of the shrine, the sounds of merriment and drunken dwarfs echoed along the corridors and chambers, down to the deepest mines.
Refilling his golden tankard, Barundin stood up on the seat of his throne and held the beer aloft. Silence rippled outwards as the thanes turned to look at their king. Dressed in heavy robes, his war crown on his head was studded with jewels, at the centre of which was a multi-faceted brynduraz, brightstone, a blue gem more rare than diamond. A golden chain of office hung around the king’s neck, studded with gromril rivets and pieces of amethyst. His beard was plaited into three long braids, woven with golden thread and tipped with silver ancestor badges depicting Grungni.
As quiet descended, broken by the occasional belch, loud gulp or cracking of a bone, Barundin lowered his pint. He turned and faced the image of Grungni.
‘Oldest and greatest of our kind,’ he began. ‘We thank you for the gifts that you have left us. We praise you for the secrets of delving and digging.’
‘Delving and digging!’ chorused the thanes.
‘We praise you for bringing us gromril and diamonds, silver and sapphires, bronze and rubies,’ said Barundin.
‘Gromril and diamonds!’ shouted the dwarfs. ‘Silver and sapphires! Bronze and rubies!’
‘We thank you for watching over us, for keeping our mines secure and for guiding us to the richest veins,’ chanted Barundin.
‘The richest veins!’ roared the dwarfs, who were now standing on the benches, waving their mugs in the air.
‘And we give greatest thanks for your best gift to us,’ Barundin intoned, turning to the thanes, a grin splitting his face. ‘Gold!’
‘Gold!’ bellowed the thanes, the outburst of noise causing the lanterns to sway and flicker. ‘Gold, gold, gold, gold! Gold, gold, gold, gold!’
The chanting went on for several minutes, rising and falling in volume as varying numbers of dwarfs emptied their tankards and refilled them. The hall reverberated with the sound, shaking the throne beneath Barundin’s feet, though he did not notice for he was too busy shouting himself. Several of the older thanes were running out of breath and eventually the hubbub died down.
Barundin signalled to Arbrek, who was seated to the king’s left. The runelord took a keg of beer and carried it to the stone table in front of the face of Grungni. Barundin took up his axe, which had been propped up against the side of his throne, and followed the runelord.
‘Drink deep, my ancestor, drink deep,’ Barundin said, smashing in the top of the keg with his axe. With a push, he toppled the barrel so that the beer flowed out, spilling across the table and running into narrow channels carved into its surface. From here, the ale flowed down into the ground, through narrow culverts and channels, into the depths of the mountains themselves. Nobody now knew, if anyone ever had, where they ended, except that it was supposedly in the Hall of the Ancestors, where Grungni himself awaited those that died. From all across the dwarfs’ empire, the tankard of Grungni was being filled this night.
With his duty done, Barundin turned and nodded to Harlgrim, who had been sitting at his right-hand side. The mood in the hall changed rapidly as the leader of the Bryngromdals unwrapped the thick leather covers of Zhufbar’s book of grudges.
Barundin took the tome from Harlgrim, his face solemn. The book itself was almost half as tall as Barundin, and several inches thick. Its cover was made from thin sheets of stone bound with gromril and gold, and a heavy clasp decorated with a single large diamond held it shut.
Placing the book on the table in front of him, Barundin opened it. Ancient parchment pages crackled, bound with goblin sinew. As each page turned, the dwarfs in the hall murmured louder and louder, growling and grunting as seven thousand years of wrongs against them turned before their eyes. Finding the first blank page, Barundin took up his writing chisel and dipped the tip of the steel and leather writing implement into an inkpot proffered by Harlgrim. The king spoke as he wrote.
‘Let it be known that I, King Barundin of Zhufbar, record this grudge in front of my people,’ Barundin said, his hand rapidly dabbing the writing-chisel onto the pages to form the angular runes of khazalid, the dwarf tongue. ‘I name myself grudgesworn against Baron Silas Vessal of Uderstir, a traitor, a weakling and a coward. By his treacherous act, Baron Vessal did endanger the army of Zhufbar, and through his actions brought about the death of King Throndin of Zhufbar, my father. Recompense must be in blood, for death can only be met with death. No gold, no apology can atone for this betrayal. Before the thanes of Zhufbar and with Grungni as my witness, I swear this oath.’
Barundin looked out at the sea of bearded faces, seeing nods of approval. He passed the writing-chisel to Harlgrim, blew gently on the book of grudges to dry the ink, and then closed it with a heavy thud.
‘Reparation will be made,’ the king said slowly.
The next day, Barundin’s loremaster, the king’s librarian and scribe, penned a message to Baron Silas Vessal, urging him to travel to Zhufbar and present himself for Barundin’s judgement. The dwarfs knew full well that no manling would ever be so honourable as to do such a thing, but
form and tradition had to be followed. After all, there was a centuries-long alliance between the dwarfs and the men of the Empire, and Barundin was not about to wage war upon one of the Empire’s nobles without having his house in order.
None of the wisest heads in the hold could determine where Uderstir actually was, and so it was decided to send a contingent of rangers into the Empire to locate it. While preparations were being made for this expedition, another group of dwarfs was sent on the long, dangerous march south to Karaz-a-Karak. With them they carried a copy of Barundin’s new grudge to present to High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer, so that it might be recorded in the Dammaz Kron, the mighty book of grudges that contained every slight and betrayal against the whole dwarf race. The Dammaz Kron’s first grudge, now illegible with age and wear, had supposedly been written by the first high king, Snorri Whitebeard, against the foul creatures of the Dark Gods. Seven thousand years of history were recorded in the Dammaz Kron, a written embodiment of the dwarfs’ defiance and honour.
For many days, as he awaited the return of the travelling bands, Barundin busied himself with the day-to-day affairs of the hold. A new seam of iron ore had been discovered south of the hold, and two clans staked rival claims to it. There were many laborious hours spent with the hold’s records and Loremaster Thagri to reconcile the two claims and work out who held ownership of the new mine.
Barundin spent a day inspecting the work on the new brewery. The vats and mechanisms of the old brewery that had been salvaged had been carefully restored, while new pipes, bellows, fire grates and oast houses were being erected on the site of the old brewery. Engineers and their apprentices were gathered in groups, discussing the finer points of brewery construction, and arguing over valves and sluices with beermasters and keglords.
While work was still ongoing, and had been for several years, crude measures had been taken to supply the hold with sufficient beer. Part of the king’s own chambers had been turned into a storehouse to allow the beer to mature, while many of the other clans had donated halls and rooms to the endeavour. However, the result was, by dwarf standards, thin and weak, and lacked the real body and froth of proper dwarf ale. Without exception, the new brewery was the single most observed engineering project the hold had seen since the first waterwheels were built thousands of years earlier.
