The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Gathering Throng

A vast force of dwarf warriors had gathered on the shores of the Black Water.

Early morning brought with it a dense fog that rolled off the mirror-dark sheen of the lake-filled crater in a grey pall. Cloth banners, topped by icons of bronze and copper, fluttered in the wind. The standards of the brotherhoods were metal only, forged from gold and silver, and sat apart from the clans. The debris of over two hundred extinguished campfires littered the high-sided gorge where the dwarfs had sung songs, supped ale and eaten roast beef and pork, elk and goat the night before. What began as bawdy drinking ditties, the lyrical mottos of the clans and the sombre litanies of the brotherhoods, became a rousing war chant that disturbed crag eagles from their eyries and sent greenskins for miles around scampering in fear of death.

Khazuk! was the cry that pealed across the Black Water, in the shadow of Zhufbar where fifteen thousand warriors had assembled. Several hours later with the sun just reaching up over the peaks, the echo of their belligerence had still to fade.

War was coming to the elves, and the dwarfs would bring it to them.

They merely awaited the order of their general to march.

Snorri paced the edge of the lake, fancying he could discern the shadow of bestial creatures moving languidly in its fathomless depths. He was arrayed in his full war panoply, a winged helm fastened to his belt by its chinstrap, and chuntered loudly.

Most of the other dwarfs couldn’t hear him. They were too busy making preparations themselves, sharpening axes, tightening the bindings on hammers, fastening armour plates and tying off vambraces. Colours were unfurled, icons presented to the sky, horns and drums beat in a warm-up staccato. The clan warriors jostled and joked; but the brotherhoods, the longbeards and ironbreakers, the hearthguard and runesmiths, wore grim faces, for they all knew what they were about to undertake.

So did Snorri, and it was this thought as well as respect for his father that warred within him.

‘They gave us no choice,’ said a voice from behind him.

Snorri started. He had thought he was alone.

‘Drogor…’ he said, as if just speaking the dwarf’s name made him weary.

‘But,’ said Drogor, coming closer, ‘if you were to halt the march, no one would brand you a coward. You were merely fulfilling the wishes of your father and High King.’

‘I am not my father’s vassal lord, for him to command,’ Snorri snapped. ‘I have a destiny too.’

‘A great one,’ Drogor conceded, bowing his head in a gesture of contrition. ‘I meant no offence, my prince, only that you should not feel forced into action.’

‘We will march, by Grimnir,’ Snorri scowled. ‘This has gone on long enough. If my father lacks the courage to do something then I, as heir of Karaz-a-Karak, will.’

‘Justly spoken, my prince.’

Snorri frowned. ‘Drogor, please. To you I am Snorri, not “my prince”.’

Drogor bowed again as if at court. ‘As you wish, Snorri.’ He smiled. ‘Shall I see to the preparations of the warriors?’

Snorri nodded. ‘Yes, do it. Begin the muster and send runners to Thagdor and Brynnoth, even Luftvarr. I want to speak with all three before we leave Black Water.’

‘As you wish.’

Drogor departed just as another dwarf was coming into view, emerging through the lake fog which was thick as pitch.

Morgrim gestured to Snorri’s winged war helm. ‘Didn’t think you needed one.’

‘I like the wings. Makes me look important,’ Snorri replied, grinning. ‘Or perhaps my head has grown soft, cousin.’

‘Perhaps it has,’ said Morgrim, glaring after the Karak Zorn dwarf. He seemed to blend with the mist, becoming spectral until he was lost from sight completely. ‘I hope he is not giving you more bad counsel.’

‘He is a dutiful thane and valuable advisor,’ Snorri replied with a little bite to his tone.

‘Thane is it now?’

It had been several weeks since the High King’s pronouncement that all trade would be suspended with elves. Armies were mustering too, and the weapon shops of all the holds toiled day and night churning out armour and war engines for what Gotrek hoped would be a stockpile of materiel he would never need to call upon. Short of declaring outright war, it was as far as the High King could go to assert his authority as well as present a clear warning to the elves. His edict had been welcome news, but for many did not go nearly far enough. Snorri counted himself amongst that number and in Drogor found an ally more willing to listen to his concerns than his peace-favouring cousin. Nonetheless, he had wanted Morgrim by his side in this and so here they were, together, if at odds with one another.

‘Aye, thane. He has no hold, no clan. I will make him a clan lord of Karaz-a-Karak in recognition for his deeds and loyalty. It is only honourable and right.’

‘Then why do you look so troubled, cousin?’

‘Because I am about to go to war against the wishes of the High King and am painfully lacking in warriors.’

‘You have over fifteen thousand axes, if the loremaster’s tallying is accurate.’

‘Aye, but none from Eight Peaks and no word from King Varnuf.’

‘He was at the council of kings with your father.’

‘And, no doubt, my father has convinced him it was not in his best interests to support me. Musters take time, all dawi know that, but three weeks is enough to send a missive or a war party.’

‘Perhaps he saw sense as you should do.’

Snorri roared, ‘What, to sit on my arse as elgi kill kith and kin with impunity?’ Some of the dwarfs nearby looked up as the shout resonated around the gorge, and the prince lowered his voice. ‘I can be idle no longer. I said if my father did not declare war then I would. Once it’s begun, he will see I was right and have no choice but to call the clans to battle. I know it.’

‘I hope you are right.’

‘If you do not believe in this then why are you here, Morg?’

Morgrim was already turning his back, disgusted by what he saw as warmongering for its own sake. Snorri wanted to prove his worth and the only way he could see of doing that was to wilfully go against his father and pick a fight with the elves.

Snorri called after his cousin. ‘Well? If you don’t want a fight then why come here bearing az un klad, eh? Why are you here, Morg?’

‘To stop you from getting yourself killed, you ufdi.’

He walked away and Snorri, though he wanted to apologise, to take back his words, could only watch.

With one last look at the stygian depths of the Black Water and the endless darkness within, he went to meet the kings. Heart-sore and weary beyond fatigue, his armour had never felt so heavy.

He did not want to defy his father but what choice did he have? Destiny, his destiny, was in the balance. Snorri would be king and this would cement his legacy. Gotrek had purged the greenskins, he would kill the elves.

Two kings with their ceremonial hearthguard awaited Snorri beyond the mist-shrouded shores of Black Water. Brynnoth of Barak Varr was bedecked in scaled armour of sea green. A teal leather cloak, emblazoned with images of mermen and other sea beasts, was cinched to his shoulders by a pair of kraken-headed pauldrons. His war helm bore a nose guard studded with emeralds and carried an effigy of a sea dragon as its crest. Snug in its belt loop was a broad-bladed axe with a toothed edge like the fangs of some leviathan.

Thagdor’s armour was less ostentatious. He favoured a simple bronze breastplate over gilded chainmail. His vambraces were leather and sewn with the images of hammers. An open helmet with a slide-down faceplate sat on the table beside him and his hammer was strapped to his back, the haft jutting out from behind a cloak of purple velvet.

From where he’d been stooping over the table, Brynnoth looked up. He scratched the hollow under his eyepatch as Snorri approached.

‘My prince,’ he said, sketching a short bow.

Thagdor did the same, but was less deferential to the young heir of Karaz-a-Karak.

‘So when are we getting bloody going then?’ he asked. ‘My boots are rough as a troll’s arse I’ve been standing around that chuffing long.’ Thagdor thumbed over his shoulder to where a large cohort of dwarfs was gathering. ‘I’ve got nigh on seven thousand beards mustered behind me, lad, and they want a bloody good scrap.’

The sun had risen higher in the last few minutes and was slowly burning away the morning mist, revealing the full glory of the dwarf throng.

Thagdor had brought the bulk of the army and a great many siege engines, but then they were practically on the doorstep of Zhufbar. It was mainly clan dwarfs and miners, but with a strong cohort of hearthguard. Sailed up from the Sea Hold across the Skull River were another five thousand dwarfs of King Brynnoth’s throng, many of which were longbeards roused to battle by the tragic death of Agrin Fireheart. The rest came from Luftvarr, two thousand Norse dwarfs who just wanted a decent fight, and the clans that were loyal to Snorri in Everpeak. Others had pledged their allegiance to his cause too. Hrekki Ironhandson of Karak Varn and dwarf throngs from Karak Hirn were to meet them at the edge of Black Fire Pass.

The route was inked out on the parchment map lying on the table. South across the fringe of the mountains, along the hills and rocky tors until reaching the mouth of the pass. From there, with some twenty thousand dwarfs in tow, north-west to the first elven city of Kor Vanaeth. Only by attacking a settlement of some significance would the dwarfs make clear the elves were no longer welcome in the Old World. Snorri meant to sack Kor Vanaeth, to raze it to the ground utterly. It was a long march, one that would take several weeks with mules and trappings, but the prince was patient. He had waited this long for his father to act and been content to watch as the High King did nothing. Now, he would show his mettle and seize the destiny that had been foretold to him by Ranuld Silverthumb.

‘We are ready,’ he said huskily. It was no small thing to defy his father, but Snorri kept telling himself the dishonour of it was outweighed by the indignity of standing by and letting elves kill dwarfs without retribution.

Brynnoth gripped the young prince’s hand. There were tears in the dwarf king’s eye. Salt stained his beard and a briny odour emanated off his clothes.

‘Thank you, lad,’ he whispered. There was fire in Brynnoth’s gaze too, fuelling his desire for vengeance at Agrin’s death.

Nodding, Snorri slipped free of the sea king’s hand and signalled the call to march.

Drums and horns echoed around the gorge, followed by the raucous clanking of armoured dwarfs moving into position.

To the outsider dwarfs might appear stunted and slow, but when properly motivated they are quick and direct. Such a fact had often caused their enemies to underestimate them, and believe them cumbersome creatures when the opposite was true.

‘Luftvarr of Kraka Drak,’ Snorri called, seeing the Norse dwarf king who looked up at the prince from brawling with his warriors. ‘Do you stand with me?’

Brandishing his axe into the sky, Luftvarr roared and his huscarls roared with him, a belligerent chorus that shook the earth from the surrounding mountains.

‘Khazuk!’ they cried as one, before the king silenced them to speak. ‘Luftvarr think this will be a mighty runk… Ha, ha!’ His warriors laughed with him and kept going until they were ranked up in the order of march.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing trusting to those savages,’ muttered Brynnoth.

‘I can heel them easily enough,’ said Snorri, eyeing the berserkers with a wary look. ‘Luftvarr just wants to kill elgi, we can all empathise with that.’ He tromped off to join the Everpeak dwarfs at the head of the army. Who he saw there when he reached them was unexpected.

Standing by Morgrim’s side, dressed in a travelling cloak and wearing a light suit of mail, was Elmendrin Grimbok.

‘Come to wish us on our way, priestess?’ Snorri uttered coldly, and tried to deny the heavy beating of his heart at the sight of the dwarf maiden. ‘War is no place for rinns,’ he said, ‘despite the warriors you have brought with you.’ A small band of ironbreakers, clad in gromril with their faceplates down, stood back from the maiden, together with two more priestesses from the temple. Snorri glared at Morgrim before she could answer. ‘I assume you are responsible for this?’

Elmendrin stepped in front of him.

‘He merely told me where you would be mustering. I chose to come here of my own accord. The warriors are for the protection of my sisters who insisted on accompanying me.’

‘What would your brother say, I wonder?’ Though he tried, Snorri could not help it sounding petulant.

‘Since he is with your father, trying to find a way to maintain peace with the elgi, I would not know.’ She paused, searching for some mote of conscience in the prince’s eyes. ‘I would speak with you, Snorri Lunngrin.’

‘It’s Halfhand.’ He brandished the gauntlet. ‘And I am here,’ said the prince, ‘so speak. Though be quick, I have an army to lead.’

‘So I can see.’ She scowled disdainfully, then gestured to where one of the encampment tents had yet to be taken down. ‘I would prefer to talk alone.’

Snorri smirked. ‘Finally want to get me alone do y-’

‘Stop it!’ Elmendrin snapped, and there was venom in her eyes that told Snorri his remark had been an unworthy one. ‘You are acting like a wanaz.’

He capitulated at once. ‘Tromm, I’m sorry. We can talk, but I cannot linger.’

‘That’s all I ask,’ she said, and headed for the tent.

Snorri turned to his cousin. ‘Morg…’

‘I’ll keep them here until you return,’ he said, gripping Snorri’s shoulder before he left. ‘Listen to her. Please.’

Snorri nodded. He caught Drogor’s gaze as he went after Elmendrin — he was standing with the Everpeak dwarfs and had an intensity about him that disquieted the prince. Shrugging off a profound sense of urging to expel the priestess, he followed her into the tent.

She had her back to him as he entered the narrow angular chamber. It was gloomy inside and the canvas reeked of sweat and stale beer. Snorri found it embarrassing that she should have to endure this, and felt suddenly crude and ungainly in his armour.

‘I would offer you something, but the victuallers have packed it all up. Not even a crumb of stonebread remains.’

‘We’ve recently eaten. It’s fine.’ She was wringing her hands, clearly nervous.

Snorri wanted to go to her, but knew it was not his place.

‘It has been a while since I last saw you,’ he ventured awkwardly.

‘You had lost some fingers to a rat, if I remember.’

Snorri looked to his gauntlet, tucking it behind his back as Elmendrin turned around to face him.

‘It was a big rat,’ he said, frowning.

She smiled, but all too briefly and all too sadly for it to warm the prince.

‘I thought… I mean, I saw you at the brodunk, did I not?’ he asked.

‘Yes, you did. I was in the healing tent, tending to the wounded. You seemed to be on better terms with your father then.’

Snorri’s face darkened and he half turned away. ‘My father doesn’t know me. He sees only a petulant son, who must be kept in his place.’

‘He sees what you show him,’ said Elmendrin.

The scathing glance Snorri was about to give her faded when he realised she wasn’t remonstrating with him.

‘He loves you, Snorri,’ she told him.

Snorri sagged, and his pauldrons clanked dully against his breastplate.

‘And I him.’

‘Then don’t be so pig-headed, you stubborn, obstinate fool. Look beyond your own selfishness and see what this will mean. If you make war on the elgi, you will invite devastation on us all and estrange your father into the bargain. Is that what you want? Is that why you are here?’

‘It’s my destiny.’

‘To kill wantonly to satisfy your need to be honoured by your father? Do you think he will clap you on the back and tell you how proud he is of you for defying his will? He will not respect you for this. He will despise you for it. So will I,’ she whispered.

Snorri had no answer. In his heart, he thought what he was doing was right. Some small part of him knew it was to serve selfish needs, but he assuaged that guilt with the certain conviction that he was acting on behalf of the greater good. Confronted by the hard truths from Elmendrin, he wasn’t so sure.

‘Hearth and hold, oath and honour,’ she asked. ‘Whatever happened to that?’

‘Wrath and ruin, that is what we must do in times of war.’

‘We aren’t at war. Not yet.’

‘Not yet, indeed.’ Snorri started pacing, exasperated but also conflicted. Elmendrin had a way of clearing his thoughts, easing away the fug of doubt and guilt that fostered his belligerence. ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked, pointing to the entrance of the tent. ‘Out there, fifteen thousand dawi await my command. At Black Fire Pass another five thousand will join us. It is too far gone to turn back now. I cannot.’

‘You are the prince of Karaz-a-Karak, what can you not do?’ She came over to him, touched her fingers to his arm, and drew the gauntleted hand out of hiding from behind Snorri’s back. ‘Losing a few fingers is one thing, but the consequences of a reckless decision here are far worse. Stay your armies. Show what kind of a king you will be, one who calls for calm when all others are losing their heads, one who is not afraid to take the hard path if it is the best of all roads, a king who puts his people before himself.’

Though Elmendrin was proud, by far the proudest dwarf woman he had ever known, Snorri saw the tears in her eyes and knew she was pleading with him. He willed her not to get onto her knees. He didn’t want that.

In the end he sighed. ‘Brynnoth will not be pleased, nor Luftvarr.’

Morgrim was waiting at the entrance to the tent. Evidently, the army was waiting but could do so no more. He had overhead the last part.

‘I’ll tell them both,’ he said.

‘No, Morg, it should fall to me.’

Snorri was on his way out when he turned back to Elmendrin.

‘Though I sheathe my axe today, war is coming. My father knows it too, though he would deny it to all but his own heart. Peace cannot endure, but I won’t break it. Not yet.’

Then he left and so did Morgrim, who gave a nod to the priestess, left alone in the gloom.

‘Thank you, cousin,’ said Morgrim, walking by Snorri’s side as he went to address the throng. ‘For heeding her, I mean.’

‘It will do no good,’ said the prince. ‘None of this will. I meant what I said, war will come. Dawi and elgi are too different, it’s only a matter of time before we start killing each other for real.’

‘Then why disband the army if that’s what you believe?’

‘Because she asked me to, and I’m not disbanding us.’

‘What then?’

‘There is a fortress at Black Fire Pass, large enough to hold a force this size. I plan to garrison it and set up pickets along the mountains.’

Morgrim stopped him. ‘You’re waiting, aren’t you?’

‘Isn’t that what we dawi do best?’

‘Do you really think there can be no peace between our races?’

Snorri favoured his cousin with a stern glance. ‘None.’

‘And what of the kings? They have holds and will not wait for war to begin.’

‘None will march without me. Even Luftvarr is not so bold as to go against my father without the presence of his son. Thagdor will return to Zhufbar, and Brynnoth to Barak Varr. But both will leave warriors in my charge. The Norse will probably go back to Kraka Drak, but I’d prefer to be without the savages anyway. The rest will remain here for as long as it takes, a bulwark against further elgi aggression.’

‘So this is a shield wall now, is it? One to keep the elgi out.’

‘We’ll lock our shields for now, but we will become a hammer when needed and mark me, cousin, it will be needed. The only difference now is that when I do eventually march it will be at the head of a much larger throng. Word will be sent to the lesser mountains and when my father sees how many have come to my banner, he will have no choice but to throw in with me.’

They had reached the army, fifteen thousand dwarfs waiting silently for their prince to lead them. Even the Norse were quiet but the scowl on King Luftvarr’s face suggested he suspected all was not as it had been before the prince had entered the tent.

An oath stone was embedded in the earth in front of the throng, set there by Snorri’s hearthguard. These warriors were as dour as any of Thurbad’s praetorians but they believed that war was the only answer to the elves and had thrown in with the young prince. Snorri nodded grimly to them as they parted their armoured ranks for him. Just before he climbed the oath stone, he saw Elmendrin’s silent departure back towards Everpeak. He watched her for a few moments but she didn’t look back, not once. In her absence he felt his anger returning, and found he was drawn to Drogor who waited in the front rank of the Everpeak dwarfs.

‘While our axes remain clean, there is still hope for peace,’ said Morgrim, wrestling Snorri from the other dwarf’s gaze.

Snorri looked down on him before he addressed the army, clutching in his gauntleted fist a large speaking horn handed to him by one of the hearthguard.

‘Peace died in that gorge, cousin. It died when Agrin Fireheart was murdered. A wall of shields has risen up in answer. With you by my side or not, Morg, I shall kill the elgi and drive them from the Old World. Whether now or in ten years, war is coming. And I will be ready for when it does.’