The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A Clash of Arms

Sweat soaked his eyes but he dared not blink. A roar filled his ears, muffled by plate, so loud he could barely hear his heavy-beating heart. Steel clashing against steel was a constant drone. The stink of blood, of piss and dung lingered in his nostrils, unfettered by his nose guard. Heat like a second skin cleaved to his body, stealing away breath. Fire burned nearby, the acerbic tang of it on his tongue, the reek of smoke and soot, the crackle and snap as the flames went about their purifying work.

This was battle against a hardened foe, with limbs already numb from the killing that lay around him in chopped-up heaps. Greenskins by the score, too many to tell, too few to matter. But this was no goblin or orc before him with blade aimed at his chest.

When an attack came, it came like lightning on a clear day. Fast and utterly by surprise. Morgrim snarled in pain, the force of the blow’s impact against his shield so hard it jerked his shoulder.

No time to think, just time enough to hurt.

A second strike, overhead and two-handed, kept him on the defensive back foot as he used the haft of his warhammer to parry.

Weather it, endure.

Battered relentlessly, though there was precision and skill to each carefully crafted attack, the dwarf knew he would soon run out of battlefield in which to retreat.

He is stronger than he looks…

So did Prince Imladrik.

The elf was a blur of silver, every thrust and lunge, slash and cut choreographed in a deadly dance for which Morgrim was his unwilling partner. In the brief exchange, several blows had already penetrated the dwarf’s armour. A gash below his eye throbbed. His breath was forced and ragged.

The elf was winning.

Corpses lay all about them, putrid and stinking, their spilt blood just as dangerous underfoot as any blade. Broken spear hafts jutted from the earth like bones reaching from the grave. Each was deadly as a lance if fallen upon. Smashed shields added to the general battlefield detritus. Through his dimming view, Morgrim saw the silhouettes of other figures moving in the battle fog but they couldn’t help him.

The dwarf was alone in this.

It was a mercy the elf was not riding his dragon. Should the beast have been involved, it would be a much shorter contest. As it was, Morgrim was hardly making a decent fight of it. Defeat looked all but certain.

He lashed out, caught the elf just below his knee and drew a cry of pain from the prince’s mouth. Fevered shouting around the battlefield intensified. Though muffled through his helm, the sound of the elf’s discomfort brought a smile to the dwarf’s lips. Morgrim roared his defiance, tried to press the slim advantage fate had provided, but Imladrik was a consummate swordmaster and recovered quickly. A dazzling series of ripostes aimed against the dwarf’s left side made him overcompensate with the shield, left him exposed on the right. Morgrim narrowly avoided being disarmed as the elf swept his longsword in under the dwarf’s guard and tried to hook the hammer away. Twisting his wrist, Morgrim barely caught the blade against his hammer’s haft. Shavings of wood and metal cascaded where the elf’s weapon bit. He fashioned his resistance into a shoulder barge that caught Imladrik in the chest and drew out a grunt. A hard shove to follow up pushed the combatants apart, and they regarded each other across the charnel field through the eye-slits of their war helms.

Morgrim’s, horned and wrought of dwarf bronze, was not only lower but was also bowed compared to the elf’s upraised helmet of glittering silver ithilmar.

‘If you wish to concede,’ gasped the dwarf between breaths, ‘then I’ll ensure your honour remains intact when my hammer falls.’

Though he hid it well, Imladrik’s breathing was laboured too. He lifted the dragon visor of his helmet with a gauntleted hand.

It was the same armour he had worn when they had first met outside Karaz-a-Karak. How different things were now.

‘Amusing,’ the elf replied. Sweat dappled his forehead. Just a little, but Morgrim saw it catch the light in little pearls of perspiration.

So he does tire.

That at least was some encouragement.

Prince Imladrik went on, ‘I would offer you the same courtesy but think you would probably not take it.’

‘Aye.’ Morgrim spat a wad of phlegm onto the ground. There was a little blood in it from a cracked tooth. ‘You’d be right about that, elgi.’

‘Thought so,’ said Imladrik, lowering his visor before he took up a fighting stance. ‘I’ll make it quick,’ he added with a metallic resonance to his voice.

Shrilling a war cry, the elf leapt into the air — a feat made all the more remarkable for its suddenness and the fact he was wearing a full suit of armour — and launched a piercing thrust that would have split Morgrim’s shield and armour as one.

Reacting more on instinct than with purpose, Morgrim hurriedly sidestepped and caught the bulk of the blow against his shoulder. It stung like all the fires of Grungni’s forge and he barely held on to his shield. A hammer swing smote air but the elf was gone. Eyes darting, Morgrim caught a silver blur in his peripheral vision but was too slow to prevent the longsword splitting his shield in two. It was hewn from stout oak, banded by iron, and still the elf’s sword cut it apart as if it were rotten wood. Such was the power behind the blow that Morgrim lost his footing and his hammer. On his back, barely catching breath, he went to grab the weapon’s haft when he felt the chill of elven steel at his neck.

Morgrim slumped, let the hammer go and accepted his fate.

‘Grimnir’s hairy balls,’ he spat, baring his neck. ‘You have me, elgi.’

Imladrik’s eyes were diamond sharp within the confines of his war helm.

Morgrim growled, ‘Finish it, then.’

The elf’s belligerent mask slipped.

The dwarf smiled, then broader still.

‘Well met, Prince Imladrik.’

Withdrawing his blade, the elf lifted his dragon visor. He was smiling too. Sheathing his longsword with a flourish, he bowed and proffered the dwarf his hand.

‘A close match, Thane Morgrim. There is little to choose between elven speed and dwarf tenacity, I think.’

Grunting, Morgrim got to his feet with Imladrik’s help.

In the stalls surrounding the arena battlefield the gathered crowd were cheering them both, but Morgrim failed to feel their acclaim.

High King Gotrek had commissioned a vast auditorium of stone and wutroth to be built in honour of a grand feast and series of games that were meant as a way of healing the frayed relationship between the elves and dwarfs in light of the recent ‘troubles’.

Known as the brodunk, a festival of worship to honour Grimnir and the art of battle, the union of dwarf and elf on this day was hoped to be an auspicious one. In times such as these, with peace hanging by a skein of civility, it needed to be. There were other festivals: brodag honoured Grungni and brew-making, whereas brozan was the celebration dedicated most to Valaya and the bonds of brotherhood between the clans. In retrospect, perhaps it would have been a better choice to try and coincide the feast with the ancestor goddess’s feast day instead.

Upon hearing the news of the caravan attacks and the destruction of Zakbar Varf, many of the thanes had demanded retaliation. Bagrik of Ungor, though now returned to Karak Ungor to meet with ambassadors of Tor Eorfith, had called for calm. He had no wish to disaffect his elven guests before they had even arrived. King Varnuf had kept his own counsel, doubtless seeing where the most favour would fall, whilst Luftvarr and Thagdor demanded retaliation. Thagdor was absent from proceedings but had set up camp close to Karaz-a-Karak to keep closer eye on what Gotrek would do next. Never one to miss out on celebrating a good fight, Luftvarr had stayed. In any case, the journey back to Kraka Drak was a long one. Above all else, the Norse dwarf king was a pragmatic one and would always prefer warm food in his belly to an arduous trek north with only trail rations for sustenance.

Temperate as well as wise, High King Gotrek had resisted the call to arms. Ambassadors from the elven court in the Old World, of which Prince Imladrik was the highest ranking noble, had assured the dwarfs these were isolated acts of malice to try and undermine peace. They too attended the brodunk. Afterwards, Gotrek had echoed Bagrik in calling for calm and so the axes of his vassal lords remained sheathed for now, but the mood was fractious.

It had taken several days of hard dwarf labour to bring the brodunk into being. More than ever Gotrek was convinced of its need and hoped it would reignite camaraderie and genuine bonhomie between the races. The hold was kept running with a bare minimum of miners and craftsmen, the rest were petitioned to create the stage required for the grand feast.

Mules pushing great, rounded millstones had flattened the ground. Stonecutters, rockbreakers and lodemasters dragging stone from the mines, fashioning pillars and walls, flagstone plazas and wooden stalls had worked days on end to bring the High King’s desires to fruition. Many grumbled but respected their liege-lord enough to keep their misgivings private. It was no easy thing to put this burden on his clans, on his hold, but Gotrek did it because he believed lasting peace would only be maintained with sacrifice and toil. These, at least, were not strange concepts to a dwarf.

Flags and banners were nailed up, most bearing the solemn iconography of the dwarfs — the forge, the hammer and axe, the faces of their ancestors — but others depicted dragons, eagles and horses, the imagery of their elven guests.

Mouth-watering aromas emanated from feast halls where dwarf cooks and brewmasters slaved to create victuals for their kin and guests alike. Fluttering in a light breeze coming off the nearby mountains, pennants on the roofs of tented pavilions carried the runes of the elven houses present for the festivities. Other tents sewn together with rough dwarf fabric had the faces of the ancestors stitched in gilded thread and carried banner poles surmounted by clan icons of bronze, silver and gold.

Coal pits provided warmth and light, for the arena was outdoors in order to better suit the elves, a concession which had earned favour from the visitors but not the more truculent dwarf kings. Grundin of Karak Kadrin had been particularly vociferous on this point. There were roasting pits in which boar and elk were prepared for feasting later. Shields describing the clans and warrior brotherhoods festooned the walls of the structure, which was based on a large central arena with several smaller ones attached to it via a series of open tunnels. Even when building an auditorium meant to be open to the elements, dwarfs could still not deny their natural instincts to be enclosed.

At first the elves had balked at the solidity of the auditorium, its stout walls, viewing towers and gates. To the elves it was not so different from a fortress. Certainly, the regal quarters afforded to the dwarf kings in particular were well fortified. Indeed, if attacked, it was highly likely the dwarfs could muster a garrison and defend it like one.

Yes, the clans of Everpeak had gone to great efforts to fashion a stage worthy of their king. It was a pity then that the first major contest upon it had ended in defeat for the dwarfs.

Through the brazier smoke at the edge of the mock battlefield, Morgrim could tell there were more elves than dwarfs rejoicing at the display. One in particular, a stern female wearing crimson scalloped armour, gave Imladrik a nod, which the prince returned. She didn’t linger, merely waited long enough to show her quiet applause for his victory before disappearing into the crowd. As was typical of their race, the elves were restrained in celebration but the sense of triumph they evinced was palpable.

It was like a slap in the face for Morgrim. Shame reddened his cheeks and he was glad his helm obscured them. Not daring to look towards the High King’s royal pavilion where Snorri and his father were watching, he kept his eyes on his hammer and pretended to tighten the leather straps around its haft.

Imladrik appeared to sense what the dwarf was thinking.

‘There’s no shame in this. If your shield hadn’t broken, if you’d have swung when you tried to dodge… Well,’ the elf admitted, ‘things could have turned out very differently. If it matters at all, you pushed me to the limit of my endurance, Morgrim.’

They clasped forearms in the warrior’s greeting, something not usual amongst elves but common in the dwarfs, resulting in another cheer. Over thirty dead greenskins and one troll, chained to a lump of stone, littered the arena. It was the warm-up act, according to the High King. From their faces, some of the elves had found such wanton butchery in the name of ‘entertainment’ distasteful.

‘You treat them with such disdain,’ said the prince, echoing the apparent mood of his kin.

They stood in the middle of the battlefield together, deciding to allow the more raucous spectators to calm before leaving the arena. Armourers from both sides were heading towards them to help them out of their trappings, take their weapons and ensure they were cleaned and readied for the next bout.

Morgrim shrugged, barely glancing at the disappointed faces of his own retinue. ‘They’re just vermin. Good sport for our axes.’

Imladrik nodded, but Morgrim saw in the elf’s eyes that he didn’t really understand.

‘Grobi are dangerous,’ the dwarf said, nudging one with his boot, ‘but only in large numbers. True, they have a certain low cunning that-’

A shout from behind the dwarf arrested his explanation. A moment later and a flash of metal glinted off the sun as it sped past the elf. Imladrik avoided the blade out of instinct but need not have bothered. It would have missed him, barely. Instead it struck the shoulder of a goblin that had played dead amongst the corpses. A broken spear tip slipped from the creature’s scrawny hands as it collapsed back into the heap of carcasses it had crawled from.

Striding towards them, breaking from the retinue of armourers he had accompanied, Snorri Halfhand’s grin was wide and slightly smug.

‘Should watch your back, elfling,’ he called to the prince, adjusting his weapons belt where a second throwing axe was attached by a leather loop. ‘I won’t always be there to save your skinny arse.’

He slapped Morgrim on the back, harder than he really needed to.

‘Wanted to make him feel better, eh, cousin?’

Snorri didn’t wait for an answer and stomped past them. Taking a knee down by the dying greenskin, he muttered with mild surprise, ‘Still some life in this one…’

Imladrik turned to the dwarf prince, bowing his head. ‘You have my gratitude, lord dwarf. If you had not-’

The schlukk of Snorri’s axe as it was wrenched from the goblin interrupted him.

‘Didn’t catch that,’ said the dwarf, half looking over his shoulder at the elf. ‘Busy getting my axe back.’ Looping it back onto his weapons belt, he regarded the greenskin again and thrust a gauntleted finger into the wound.

The wretched creature squealed and squirmed under the dwarf’s touch, which only made Snorri dig deeper, a half-snarl contorting his lips. He wasn’t dressed for battle, but carried his hand axes anyway. Instead of pauldrons, a regal blue cape armoured his shoulders. A tunic sat in place of a breastplate or suit of chain. His vambraces were supple leather. Morek’s mastercrafted gauntlet was the only piece of metal on his body.

Forbidden by his father as punishment for his defiance, Snorri would not be competing.

When the goblin shrieked and crimson geysered from its ugly mouth, Imladrik went to intercede and end the greenskin’s suffering swiftly but Morgrim put a hand on his arm.

‘This is barbaric,’ hissed the elf. ‘The creature is no further threat.’

Morgrim simply shook his head.

‘Don’t be fooled,’ said Snorri, and elf and dwarf prince met eye-to-eye with the dying goblin between them. As he withdrew gory metal fingers from the wound, the goblin snarled but Snorri caught its wrist in a steel grip and twisted it before the greenskin could shove a piece of broken blade into his stomach.

It yelped but Snorri kept going until he’d broken the wrist. Then he wrapped his thick fingers around its head and yanked it round to snap its neck.

‘See,’ said Snorri to Imladrik alone, ‘can’t be trusted not to stab when your back is turned, no matter how dead you think they might be.’

Though he trembled with anger, Imladrik maintained his composure.

‘Your cousin fought well,’ he said, his jaw still taut. ‘With honour.’

Morgrim was nodding when Snorri interjected and said, ‘He doesn’t need your false magnanimity, elgi,’ before stomping off back towards the royal pavilion.

‘My apologies for my cousin,’ said Morgrim in a low voice. ‘He doesn’t realise the effect of his words on others sometimes.’

Imladrik glared at the prince’s back as he watched him go.

‘It is of no consequence.’ He drew his sword, saluted and then sheathed it quickly. ‘You honour your kin enough for both of you, Morgrim Bargrum. Tromm…’ he intoned, bowing once more before returning to the elven tents with his armourers.

Morgrim went after Snorri but noticed something glinting in the battlefield earth. It was a piece of silver scale, cut from Imladrik’s armour. Watching Snorri depart, he was suddenly glad that the father had banned his son from taking part in the games.

An elf death, accidental or otherwise, was the last thing peace needed.