The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER TWENTY

A Herald of Doom

As Snorri watched the fight unfold he began to recognise some of the differences between elf and dwarf in the way that they fought. Despite his obvious disdain for the elves, he had always studied them in war, what little he had been able to garner in these times of peace anyway. Salendor was an odd exemplar of their method.

He fought more like a dancer than a warrior, but with a brutal edge that many elves lacked. His face was an impenetrable mask of concentration. It betrayed no weakness, nor did it show intent. Every blade thrust was measured and disguised, fast as quicksilver and deadly as a hurled spear with the same amount of force.

Goblins fell apart against Salendor’s onslaught. Heads, limbs and torsos rained down around him in a grisly flood of expelled blood and viscera. He weaved through the bodies, never slowing, always on the move. No knife touched him. No cudgel wielded by greasy greenskin hands could come close. He was like a cleaving wind whipping through the horde, and wherever he blew death was left in his wake.

Where Imladrik fought with precision, a swordmaster in every regard, Salendor improvised, broke expected patterns and unleashed such fury that many of the goblins simply fled at the sight of him advancing upon them.

The hill dwarf was a different prospect altogether. He brutalised like a battering ram, gladly taking hits on his armour, wearing the savage little cuts of the greenskins like badges of honour. As well as his axe, he fought with elbow and forehead, knee and fist. Rundin reminded the prince of a pugilist, wading into the thick of battle. Utterly fearless, his axe was pendulum-like in the way it hewed goblin bodies. Never faltering, rhythmic and inexorable, it carved ruin into their ranks. Where the elf used as much effort as was needed, the hill dwarf gave everything in every swing. His stamina was incredible.

From what he knew of the son of Norgil, Rundin was not given to histrionics, yet he flung his axe end over end to crack open a fleeing goblin’s skull and earn the adulation of the crowd. It was indulgent, and Snorri suspected that Grum had instructed him to entertain with this obvious theatre. It left the dwarf vulnerable but he used a long left-handed gauntlet to parry then bludgeon until he seized his axe and began the killing anew.

Seeing the artifice of the gauntlet reminded Snorri of his own finely-crafted glove. Through it, he recalled the pain of his wounding by the rats beneath the ruins of Karak Krum and of Ranuld Silverthumb’s prophecy. Scowling at the memory, he wondered how he was supposed to fulfil his great destiny watching other people fight.

Flowing like a stream, Salendor moved through a clutch of goblins. He cut them open with his longsword, spilling entrails, then sheathed the blade and drew the bow from his back in the same fluid motion.

It appeared that Rundin was not the only one told to put on a show.

Arrows seemed to materialise in the elf’s hand, nocked and released in the time it took for Snorri to blink. One goblin about to be felled by the hill dwarf’s axe spun away from the blow with a white pine shaft embedded in its eye.

At the edges of the arena, a dwarf loremaster announced the kill for the elf. Tallymen racked the count and held up stone placards decorated with the Klinkerhun to describe the score.

It was close, but Salendor had the edge by one.

Only six goblins remained.

Beside the prince, the High King shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘It is tight…’ he murmured.

‘What does it matter who wins?’ said Snorri. ‘Elgi or skarren, we lose on both counts.’

That earned a look of reproach from his father. ‘I would rather it be a dawi, be that of the mountain or hill.’

‘You should have let me fight,’ said Snorri, his sudden petulance betraying the better mood that had been growing between him and his father. ‘Then the victor would not be in any doubt.’

Gotrek showed his teeth. They were clenched but did not bite. Instead, he fixed his attention on the end of the bout.

Around the arena, the mood was tense but raucous. In tents draped in mammoth hide, Luftvarr hooted and roared with every goblin slain. On the opposite side, Varnuf was more considered and watched keenly over the top of his steepled fingers. Grundin and Aflegard mainly glared at each other, their attention returning to the fight only when prompted by the reaction of the crowd to something particularly noteworthy. Brynnoth, ever the gregarious king, vigorously supped ale with his thanes as they exchanged commentary. The closer it became, the more he drank. It was fortunate that the king of the Sea Hold had an iron constitution from imbibing vast quantities of wheat-rum.

Rundin had pulled one back, but Salendor was quick to riposte, unleashing the last of his arrows to pin a goblin through the heart.

It left four greenskins with the elf still one up. Rundin took two at once, earning a loud bellow of approval from King Luftvarr. Even Grundin clenched a fist. The hill dwarf tackled them before Salendor could run them through with his sword. In using the bow, the elf lord had put too much distance between his quarry and was now paying the price for that.

Swift as a lightning strike, the elf thrust his blade through a greenskin that rushed him in desperation, making it even. One goblin remained, flanked by the two bloodstained champions who looked ready to rush it from opposite ends of the arena.

‘The elgi is quick,’ hissed Gotrek, glancing up as Grimbok returned to the fold.

‘Aye, but the son of Torbad has an eagle-eye when he throws that axe,’ the reckoner replied.

Snorri folded his arms and said nothing.

Both warriors advanced on the lonely greenskin, who looked back and forth, scurrying one way and then the other before it realised there was no escape.

‘Kill it!’ bellowed Brynnoth, banging down his tankard and swilling out some of the dregs.

The goblin shrieked once, clutching its emaciated chest, and slumped down dead, its heart given out.

Silence descended like a veil, settling over the dumbstruck crowd.

Eyes wide, wondering if he had ended the creature with his voice alone, Brynnoth looked down at his tankard and belched.

Some of the elves looked around at him, disgusted and incredulous at the same time.

Both combatants met one another’s gaze. The loremasters scoring the bout paused, unsure what to do next. They looked to the High King.

Snorri laughed out loud, his mirth echoing around the arena crowd who were still stunned into bemused silence.

‘The grobi kills itself,’ he declared. ‘Expired by its own fear!’

He laughed again, raucously and derisive. ‘Incredibly, both elgi and skarren found a way to lose.’

‘That’s enough,’ snapped the High King. ‘You dishonour yourself and the hold.’

‘I am merely stating facts, father.’ He gestured to the stone placards, the same Klinkerhun inscribed on each now the loremasters realised they had no choice but to score one kill apiece. ‘A tie is a win for neither.’

Grimbok began to clap, slow and loudly. When he got to his feet, some of the elder council took up the applause. When the thanes of Everpeak joined in it grew to a clamour. Brynnoth roared with drunken laughter, the king and thanes of Barak Varr hammering their tankards with aplomb. Setting aside their grievance for now, Grundin and Aflegard urged their respective quarters to clap and holler.

Much to Grimbok’s relief, elves were celebrating too, not only the ambassadors but those retainers who had accompanied the nobles of their houses. There was a rare mood of camaraderie and community fostered as both races seemed pleased with the result.

From the Norse dwarfs, Luftvarr shouted, ‘Runk!’ and his boisterous warriors took up the call.

‘Runk, runk, runk!’

The chant spread to other quarters, dwarfs from the other holds echoing their northern cousins eagerly.

‘Runk?’ one of the elf ambassadors queried to Grimbok.

‘It means a thrashing, noble lord,’ he explained. ‘Such as that given to the grobi by our champions.’

The elf didn’t look as if he really understood.

Snorri leaned in, enjoying the swell of aggression manifesting around the arena.

‘It also means brawl, ufdi,’ he grinned.

The elf ambassador lifted his eyebrows to ask an unspoken question.

‘Ahh…’ Grimbok began but then cringed as the first punch was thrown.

King Luftvarr decked one of his thanes, a heavy blow that knocked the other dwarf out cold. Seconds later, the entire Norse quarter were fighting.

Drunk, still feeling the vicarious belligerence of watching the brutal combat, dwarfs from other holds started brawling too. Unlike the Norse, it was less brutal, more wrestling than boxing as such.

‘Runk, runk, runk!’ they bellowed as one, a deafening refrain that set the elves on edge.

Tankards were spilled over, tables upended as most of the onlooking dwarfs revelled in a good, honest scrap. Musicians began piping, drummers beating out a tune to accompany the brawling.

Grundin was slapping his thighs, supping on his pipe and blowing out smoke rings. The King of Karak Kadrin looked as if he were enjoying this spectacle much more than the bout itself.

Sloshing ale hither and thither, Brynnoth seized a boar-skin drum from one of his musicians and joined the chorus.

Even Varnuf was laughing, though whether in genuine merriment or at the elves’ obvious discomfort was difficult to ascertain.

Unsure at the sudden development, Lord Salendor merely bowed to his kin and stalked from the arena. Rundin clapped with the drummers’ beat, dancing a little jig much to the roared acclaim of his fellow hill dwarfs and the other mountain clans too.

Throughout it all, Gotrek remained pensive. Like his chief reckoner, he recognised the unease of the elves and dearly wanted the runk to subside, but to do so would harm his standing with his own kin. This was customary amongst the dwarfs and as their High King he would not stop it.

‘The elgi, my liege…’ Grimbok began. He had sat back down and was no longer clapping. He looked as unsettled as the High King.

‘I know,’ said Gotrek, impotent to do much of anything in that moment.

‘Sire-’ Grimbok persisted.

Gotrek snapped, head turning on a swivel to face the reckoner.

‘I know!’

‘They are leaving, my king.’

Without a word, the elf ambassadors had risen from their seats and were filing out of the royal pavilion with their retainers in tow.

‘Should I…’ Grimbok was getting to his feet.

‘No, sit down,’ chafed the High King. ‘These are our ways, dawi ways. If the elgi cannot stomach that, then… well, I will not change our customs for outsiders.’

‘Outsiders, my king?’

‘Yes! That is what I said. The elgi are-’

Whatever Gotrek was going to say next remained unspoken when a hearthguard strode up the stone steps of the royal pavilion, interrupting him.

Thumping the left breast of his cuirass, the warrior took a knee and removed his war helm.

‘Rise, hearthguard,’ said the king. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the elves still lingered and were looking at the warrior too. ‘You are Gilias Thunderbrow, aren’t you?’

‘Aye, my king,’ the warrior said, standing up. ‘Sent by Captain Thurbad with a message from the entrance hall of the upper deep. He bade me come swiftly.’

Around the arena the din from brawling was dying out as all attended to the lone hearthguard. Without his helm, which now sat in the crook of his left arm, to conceal it, the warrior’s face was grim.

‘Bad news, is it, Gilias?’ Gotrek exchanged a dark look with Grimbok, for he already knew the answer to his question.

‘Aye, my king,’ the hearthguard replied. ‘Bleak as winter.’