The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

War Counsel

No decision ever made by a dwarf came easily. One that must be debated by a dynasty of dwarf kings was near impossible to reach a consensus over.

Debate raged in the Great Hall. Tempers were fraying after the news of Agrin Fireheart’s death had got out. The High King had made no attempt to conceal it, but the furore it had created was increasing the number of worry lines upon his brow tenfold.

All of the kings from the brodunk were there. Thagdor had also travelled from his encampment to be at the council. Only Bagrik, who had long since returned to Karak Ungor, was absent. There were other nobles of the dwarf realms, of course: the lodewardens of Mount Gunbad and Silverspear, too busy at their mineholds; the southern kings of Drazh and Azul, too distant. Both Brugandar and Hrallson had sent emissaries for the rinkkaz, both of whom had returned to their holds and not attended the brodunk. There was no time to request the presence of them or their liege-lords. The same was also true of Karak Varn and its king, Ironhandson. Fledging holds, those of the Black Mountains and Grey Mountains, would also not be present and so the decision whether or not to make war with the elves would be decided by but a few.

The King of Zhufbar was unperturbed by that and took his opportunity to speak eagerly.

‘We must fight the elgi. What other choice do we have now?’ Thagdor asked of them all. ‘Dead merchants, theft and thagi across the length and breadth of the Karaz Ankor. Settlements burned, and now rhun lords slain by sorcery. What’s next? Besiegement of our holds and lands? Will I wake up tomorrow from my bed to find a host of elgi outside my gates?’ The King of Zhufbar paused for breath. ‘I bloody won’t. I’ll kill the sods before it comes to that.’

Luftvarr thumped his chestplate, declaring, ‘Elgi cannot be allowed to stay in the Old World. I have warriors, two thousand strong, ready with az un klad to kill the elgi traitors!’

The Norse king’s declaration was met with rousing approval from Brynnoth who burned with retribution for the slaying of his runelord, but it was Varnuf who spoke up next.

‘None of us want war with the elgi…’ he began, waving off protests from the more belligerent kings, but eyeing Gotrek in particular, ‘but anything less would be seen as weakness on our part now.’

Brynnoth tugged at his beard, unable to say much of anything. His eyes said enough. He wanted blood.

‘We should not be hasty,’ counselled Aflegard, tucking his thumbs into the jewelled braces he wore across his paunch. ‘I can spare no warriors for war, and it would be unwise to attack the elgi before we know who the perpetrators of Agrin Fireheart’s death were.’

Grundin stepped in to cut off some of the more pugnacious kings before they could voice further tirades. ‘For once, I find myself in agreement with the ufdi king. He’s thinkin’ aboot his purse, though-’ Grundin snapped. ‘Ah, shut it ya wazzock!’ before Aflegard could open his mouth to deny it. ‘We all know ye trade with the elgi. Am no sayin’ you’re a traitor or even an elgongi, just a miserly bastard, protectin’ his hoard.’ The King of Karak Izril looked far from placated but Grundin ignored him so he could carry on. ‘But I dinny think we should be killin’ elgi fer no good cause. Ach, I know that Agrin lies cold. Dreng tromm, I know it, but I canny see how declaring war on the pointy-eared wee bastards is ginny change that.’

Brynnoth glared, unconvinced and swung his murderous gaze over to the High King, who so far had only listened.

‘Trade with the elgi ends. Now,’ Gotrek declared to all. ‘We shut our borders to them until such a time as the fighting stops and we can return to the negotiation table.’

‘Negotiation,’ said Thagdor, brandishing his fist. ‘I’ll negotiate with the buggers at the end of my chuffing axe, I will.’ He shook his head and the copper cogs attached to his beard jangled. ‘There can be no treating with these elgi, none at all. I won’t do it,’ he said, folding his arms as if that was an end to the matter.

‘See this?’ Gotrek brandished a slender note in his meaty fist, the parchment too thin and smooth to have been made by a dwarf. ‘Written by the hand of a prince and brought to mine by a bird,’ he said. ‘Can you imagine such a thing? How different are we, the elgi and the dawi?’ He laughed without genuine humour. ‘As mud is to the sky, I have heard said behind our backs. This Prince Imladrik is an honourable warrior and ambassador to his king. He claims another race did this.’ He paused to read a word from the note, finding the pronunciation difficult. ‘Druchii.’

‘What is this druchii?’ asked Thagdor, unconvinced.

None of the kings were.

‘A darkling elgi,’ said Gotrek, unsure himself. ‘Some murderous but distant kinsman, bent on mischief. I do not know.’

‘Elgi is elgi!’ snapped Grundin. ‘Ach, the pointy-eared bastards will say anything to save their silk-swaddled arses.’

Mutters of approval from the other kings greeted the lord of Kadrin’s outburst.

‘There was betrayal here,’ said Gotrek to quieten the murmurs of his vassal lords, eyeing Brynnoth in particular, ‘and mark me that retribution will be meted out, but I cannot sanction war against all elgi on account of the deeds of a few, especially when there is any doubt.’

‘You may not be able to stop it,’ answered Varnuf dangerously.

Gotrek swung his gaze onto the King of Eight Peaks. ‘Speak your mind plainly, Varnuf,’ he told him, his voice level and laden with threat. His knuckles cracked as he seized the arms of his throne.

‘Forces already muster north of Karaz-a-Karak.’ His eyes widened and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, barely visible beneath his long beard. ‘And they are making ready to march.’

‘Aye,’ said Aflegard, ignorant of what was happening between the other two kings, ‘and I’ve heard talk of elgi laying siege to the skarrens too.’

‘Ach, that’s a lot of shite,’ said Grundin, scowling at the effete dwarf. ‘You would jump at your own shadow, ufdi.’

Aflegard was puffing up his chest, about to reply, when the High King bellowed.

‘Silence! Both of you.’ He glared, then returned his gaze to Varnuf. ‘Any vassal lord of mine who marches on the elgi will be answerable to me, whether these so-called druchii exist or not. Is that plain enough?’

The mood around the Great Hall was fractious. The kings did not look keen to submit easily. Varnuf had read it well and chose then as his moment to act.

‘Dawi lie dead and you ask us to do nothing,’ he said. ‘What will stopping trade achieve? How will shutting our borders and roads stop the killing? It will not. It will send a message to the elgi that we are soft, that they can kill our kith and kin, and that we will let them.’ He stood up to address the gathering. ‘I won’t stand by and allow murder and destruction to continue in my lands, our lands, without response. Our lands,’ he reaffirmed, nodding to all, ‘not theirs, not the elgi’s.’ He looked at Gotrek, who glowered, and pointed a beringed finger at the High King. ‘When you vanquished the urk and grobi-’ Varnuf bared his teeth, revelling in the bloody memories, ‘-rendered them so low that they would never threaten our kingdoms again, I would have followed you into the frozen north itself. A king of kings sat upon the Throne of Power then. He did not fear war. He was stone and steel with the wisdom of Valaya upon his brow, Grimnir’s strength in his arm and Grungni’s dauntless courage.’

There was regret in Varnuf’s eyes and hurt too, as if from a sense of betrayal. ‘Now, all I see before me is a scared dawi who no longer has the stomach for a fight. What value has peace, if it is bought and paid for with our deaths?’

A shocked murmur ran around the chamber like a flame as each of the kings shuffled back. Alone of all them, Varnuf stepped forwards. He had unhitched the hammer from his belt.

Gotrek was already on his feet and had done the same. He knew what was coming and couldn’t help but think back to what his son had said to him all those nights ago in this very hall.

‘Speak the words then. Do it now or by Grungni I shall descend from this throne and crack open your skull, Varnuf of the Eight Peaks.’

Varnuf did not just speak the words, he snarled them. ‘Let it be known that on this day, Varnuf of Eight Peaks did pronounce grudgement on Gotrek of Karaz-a-Karak.’

Aflegard stifled a gasp, but only so Grundin wouldn’t clout him for it.

The others looked on solemnly, waiting for the High King’s answer.

‘So be it.’ Gotrek unclasped the cinctures and torcs binding his beard, unfurling it like a belt of cloth as he stepped from the dais of his throne and onto the chamber floor.

Vanruf had done the same. Like Gotrek he had also removed his crown.

Both dwarfs wore no armour beyond that which was ceremonial and had no war helms either. Their hammers were not runic, but they were well fashioned from hewn stone and could crack bone easily enough.

Thurbad was not present, so Gotrek turned to another ally to officiate.

‘Grundin, come forth,’ he said, gripping the full thickness of his beard in one meaty hand and proffering it to the northern king. ‘Bind us,’ he said, staring into Varnuf’s eyes as he too gave Grundin his beard.

‘You two are proper wazzocks…’ muttered the King of Karak Kadrin.

‘Tie it tight,’ said Gotrek, the leather grip of his hammer creaking in his clenched fist.

Grudgement was a solemn oath pledged by kings and lords. It was a trial by combat and could also end in death, though no dwarf would ever condone the slaying of his own. This was a matter of honour and for such things a dwarf would shed blood, even kill if necessary. By the binding of beards did both combatants commit to the fight. There could be no flight, though some had tried only to end up with their brains dashed upon rock or their necks severed by a heavy-bladed axe. Only death or the cutting of the beard bond, the trombaraki, could end such a duel.

‘Hammers then,’ muttered Varnuf, swinging a few half circles to loosen up his shoulder.

‘Aye, hope you have a harder head than you look.’

‘Hope yours is not as soft as your stomach,’ Varnuf bit back.

Once grudgement was declared and accepted rank and station counted for naught. Two dwarfs entered this deadly compact and only one would be standing at the end of it. Alive or dead was at the victor’s discretion.

Tired of talking, Gotrek nodded to Grundin. The northern king backed away and so grudgement could begin. All the kings had done the same, leaving a small arena for the two dwarfs to fight in.

‘It’s not too late, Gotrek. Relinquish your throne and I will take us into this war.’

‘You’re a damn arrogant fool, Varnuf. And there can be no backing out, not once grudgement is pronounced. But you can do me one favour…’

‘Name it, your tongue may be incapable of speech after I’m done with you.’

‘Stop talking and swing. I have a kingdom to protect.’

Varnuf roared, yanking on his beard and dragging Gotrek towards him. His blow glanced the shoulder of the High King, who grunted but was unbowed, planting his hammerhead into the other king’s gut. Beer breath exploded violently from Varnuf’s mouth and he almost retched, but managed to smack his haft against the High King’s nose.

Blood streaming from his left nostril, Gotrek dropped to a crouch, bringing down with him Varnuf who hadn’t properly squared his feet. Rising, Gotrek uppercutted the King of Eight Peaks in the jaw, and Varnuf snapped back immediately because of the beard binding and took a sturdy elbow smash in the cheek. He kneed Gotrek in the stomach, forcing a pained shout, but the High King had fought in many grudgements before and thumped Varnuf hard and repeatedly in the kidneys.

Thrusting his shoulder, Varnuf barged Gotrek onto his heels.

Battered, both kings tried to retreat for a breather but their beards were well tethered and they lurched back into striking range.

Haft to haft they rained a score of heavy blows on one another, hitting so hard as to create a rain of splinters. Varnuf resorted to a punishing array of overheads, which Gotrek parried with both hands braced against his hammer. He grimaced as the last breathless blow fell and he managed to lock their weapons together.

‘Let me tell you something about when I purged the grobi and the urk,’ Gotrek growled when the two were inches apart and face to face. Sweat was pouring off both kings, sheeting their foreheads and darkening their tunics across the chest and armpits.

‘Go on,’ hissed Varnuf, straining against his opponent’s guard.

‘Well,’ said Gotrek, ‘I didn’t do it cleanly.’

The King of Eight Peaks’s face went suddenly blank.

‘Uh?’

Letting all of his resistance go, Gotrek quickly stepped aside as Varnuf’s momentum took him forwards. There was just enough beard length to get behind him and swing his hammer haft into the other king’s crotch.

For want of a better word, Varnuf yelped. It was so brief, so small a noise that it was missed by most of the spectators, but Gotrek heard it. Then he exhaled, a long, deep, agonised groan that echoed around the Great Hall and had every king present wincing.

‘Reet in the dongliz,’ whispered Grundin with a pained expression.

‘Bugger me,’ gasped Thagdor.

Most of the other kings crossed their legs.

Varnuf staggered. His eyes were watering and he tried to shuffle around to face Gotrek before collapsing. He half crouched, half slumped, held up by his bound beard.

Gotrek turned to Grundin, who was standing nearby with an axe.

‘Cut it,’ he said, and watched as Varnuf fell into a heap. ‘Eh,’ he added, giving the King of Eight Peaks a nudge so he looked up at him. ‘My balls are solid rock. That’s why I sit on that throne. That’s why I am High King.’

Varnuf nodded meekly, and whispered, ‘Tromm.’

Gotrek looked away.

‘Brynnoth,’ he said, singling out the lord of the Sea Hold. ‘You’ll have vengeance for Agrin Fireheart. I swear to Grimnir, he will be revenged, but not like this. We will find the truth of this first, if it was these druchii that the elgi prince spoke of.’ Then he shifted his attention to the others, regarding each king in turn as he uttered a final edict. ‘I am High King. Gotrek Lunngrin of the Thunderhorn clan, Starbreaker and slayer of urk. My deeds eclipse all of yours combined as does my will and power. Do not defy it. Here in these lands, my word is law. Obey it or suffer my wrath. Defend your borders and sovereign territory. Close your gates and hold halls to the elgi. No trade will pass between us. All dealings with them will cease. An elgi upon our roads will be considered trespass and you may reckon that to the very hilt of our laws, but we do not march.’ He shook his head slowly for emphasis. ‘We do not go to war. It will ruin us. Ruin the dawi and the elgi for generations.’ He let it sink in, let the silence amplify the resonance of his words before adding a final challenge.

‘Will anyone else gainsay me?’

None did.

Gotrek was alone again as he went down into the grongaz. Amidst the smoke and ash, he discerned the glow of fire and heard the clamour of a single anvil. So he followed the sound. Passing through a solid wall of heat, he found Ranuld Silverthumb watching his apprentice.

‘He works a master rhun,’ said the ancient dwarf without looking up from his vigil.

‘My son’s az un klad?’

Ranuld supped on his pipe, took a deep pull. ‘Aye,’ he said, expelling a long plume of smoke. ‘You have given your word on the elgi?’ he asked after a moment or two of watching Morek’s hammer fall. It was rhythmic, measured. It rang out a dulcet chorus resonant with power. The very air was charged with it. Gotrek’s beard bristled, and the torcs and cinctures he had entwined in it grew warm to the touch.

‘I have,’ he said. ‘Though it was not easy to do. My heart says fight, my head says not to. What would you do, old one?’

‘I think I am not High King, therefore my opinion is moot.’

‘But I value your counsel.’

‘Of course you do, I am the oldest runesmith in the Karaz Ankor. My wisdom is worth more than your entire treasure vault, but it still matters not what I think. I see greed amongst our kin, an obsession towards gold gathering and hoarding. It was not always so. Once dwarfs crafted and were not so driven by the acquisition of wealth. What good is a hoard of gold to a dead king, eh?’

‘Tromm, old one, but Agrin Fireheart was one of your guild. Would you not see him avenged?’

‘Aye, one of the oldest, and his name shall be remembered. I mourn him but do not want revenge against all elgi for his death.’ Now he met his king’s gaze, showing the hard diamonds of his eyes. ‘A great doom is coming, and it is this which I fear. Elgi may be a part of it, though I think it is but a small part. I foresee destinies forged in battle and a time of woes.’

Gotrek looked away, searching his heart and his conscience.

‘I must do everything to prevent a war. It will destroy us both. The elgi are not as weak as some suppose them to be, though that is no reason not to fight them. They have been friends to the dawi. I will not cast that aside cheaply.’

‘And we have precious few allies in the world when our enemies are amassed around us above and below. You are rare, Gotrek Starbreaker.’

Gotrek raised an eyebrow questioningly.

‘We are changing, all of us, dawi and elgi both. You, like me, are hewn from elder rock. Less prone to change. I have seen another who is of similar stock. Stone and steel. He shall become king when you are dead, the slayer of the drakk.’

‘I don’t understand, old one.’ Gotrek frowned. ‘My son will be king when I am gone. It is his legacy.’

Ranuld said nothing further, and returned to his vigil.

‘Will it be ready soon?’ Gotrek asked, listening to the anvil, aghast at the lightning strikes cutting the air with every blow against it.

‘He works the magic,’ said Ranuld, gesturing proudly with his pipe. ‘It will take time, but with patience anything is possible.’

‘And should I show patience now?’

‘That is something a king must answer for himself.’