The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Two Decades of War

The foothills north-east of Kazad Kro were swathed in darkness. It wouldn’t last; a pale sunrise was already breaching the horizon, smearing it in washed-out yellow. In less than an hour it would be vibrant and ochre, blazing like the summer. Light would paint the land, revealing the ruination, the barrows and the churned earth of over twenty years’ worth of battles.

Rundin had played no part in any of them. He had trekked from his city, walking over forty miles to reach this place, which was little more than a clearing of scattered rocks.

‘Took your time,’ said a familiar voice, the speaker squatting on one of the collapsed menhirs surrounding Rundin.

‘Just because we are not at war doesn’t mean I have no other duties to attend to, brother.’

Furgil smiled, jumping down from his rocky plinth, and went over to Rundin.

The two dwarfs embraced, clapping one another on the back with genuine bonhomie. Two decades was not so long to a dwarf, but their reunion was heartfelt.

‘Good to see you, Rundin.’

‘And you, Furgil. How fares the King of Everpeak?’

‘Troubled, as he has been for the last twenty years or more. The third siege has failed, Tor Alessi yet stands and other cities are mustering greater and greater armies of elgi. Reinforcements would be generously received, I am sure.’

At this remark, Rundin averted his gaze to the stone circle.

‘And I would grant them, had I the power to.’

Furgil grunted at that, suggesting Rundin already did, but chose not to press. Instead he asked, ‘And what of the skarrens, my former kinsmen?’

‘Trade has come back, after a fashion. Not with the elgi, of course, but dawi from the Vaults and the Black Mountains. They bring talk as well as trade,’ he ventured.

‘Such as?’ Furgil was typically guarded, and Rundin faced him again to gauge his humour.

‘That the south is embattled, and that Gotrek is reluctant to bring full force of arms to bear against the elgi.’

‘He is wise, our king. All-out war would destroy our race, as it would theirs. Hope still remains that some agreement can be reached, or that the elgi will lose heart and give up.’

‘I also hear their king has no intention of leaving the Old World, that he is as arrogant an elgi as one could possibly be.’

‘You hear much, old friend.’

‘That sounded almost like an accusation, Furgil.’

The pathfinder shook his head. ‘Not at all, but I’m surprised at your keen interest in the war, given the skarrens’ abstention from it.’

‘Not my choice.’

Furgil lit his pipe, allowing the silence to stretch before asking, ‘How many from the hill clans are there now? Eighty thousand, more?’

‘Is that why you’re here, why you requested we meet? Does Gotrek want the skarrenawi for his throngs?’

‘You know he does,’ said Furgil. ‘I just wanted to see if you did.’

‘And do I?’

Furgril didn’t answer, but asked another question instead. ‘He still mad, is he? Your “High King”, the Grum?’

Rundin’s face darkened, first with anger then shame when he realised he had no rebuttal. His voice lowered to just above a whisper, as if to speak louder would somehow heap further disgrace upon the truth.

‘Lucidity comes and goes with the fever, but he’s locked in the counting house most days now. I think the gold-masters are puppeting him, but there’s little I can do about that unless Kruk and Orrik change their minds. And for over twenty years they’ve shown no sign of doing so. Both are saying the war is over.’

Furgil scoffed, watching the first rays of dawn spear across the lowlands and slowly scrape against the mountainside. ‘’Tis far from over. I know longbeards that’ve slept for more than twenty years. This is nothing. High King Gotrek is mustering again, so are all the kings. You’d do well to join us. Don’t think the elgi will know the difference between dawi and skarren when their armies come calling, and don’t expect protection from your kith and kin in the mountains if you’re not prepared to take up az un klad.’

Rundin bared his teeth. ‘I don’t like threats, Furgil, especially from those whom I consider friends.’

‘It’s no threat, it’s a fact.’ The pathfinder’s defiance lessened, the edge to his words dulled. ‘Go back to Kruk and Orrik, convince them that this is the right thing to do. Please, Rundin.’

Rundin didn’t answer, he just watched Furgil go and wondered what he would have to do to get his people out from under the yoke of Skarnag Grum.

In the Great Hall a huge map of cured troll hide described the entire realm of the dwarfs and was laid out on an octagonal table of dark wutroth. It had turned from a throne room into a chamber devoted to war. Around the map, several kings and thanes of the Karaz Ankor were discussing strategy.

‘And there is still nothing from the south, I take it?’ Thagdor looked almost smug, despite the scar he now wore on his face. ‘Bloody soft.’

‘King Hrallson is besieged, you northern oaf,’ snapped Brugandar. The King of Karak Drazh was the only one of the liege-lords south of Everpeak that had made the rinnkaz. He was a severe-looking character, with a wiry beard the colour of iron and a face just as unyielding. Drazh was known as the ‘Black Hold’ on account of its munificent mines and quarries. Coal was its principal export, but it also yielded much in the way of metal ore. In fact, Brugandar looked more like a miner than he did a king, just with all the bearing and confidence of one.

His declarative insult incited a raft of angered murmuring from some of the kings. All knew the elves had made solid inroads to the south. Varnuf of the Eight Peaks had done well to keep them at bay for this long but even his vast armies were not inexhaustible.

Finding only fools amongst the northern kings, Brugandar turned to the head of the table and the High King. His tone changed abruptly to one of the utmost respect. Although he had not personally fought in the first siege of Tor Alessi, he had lent many warriors to the cause.

‘Liege-lord,’ he intoned, ‘what about Karak Kadrin? Can we expect much from King Grundin and his throngs?’

Elbows leaning on the edge of the map, Gotrek looked over his steepled fingers at the many flags and icons representing elf and dwarf armies, as well as their bastions and holdfasts. There were a great deal on both sides, and the sight of this aged him further than the last two decades had. A war without end was the very thing he had fought so hard to avert, and now here they were.

‘Musters in the north must continue without interruption,’ he said. ‘And as requests to the mines at Silverspear and Gunbad have gone unanswered, I can only assume those greedy bastards have decided that digging is preferable to fighting. We are alone in this.’

‘Three times we’ve marched on those walls,’ said Valarik, ‘and three times we’ve failed to take the city. What else can we throw at it?’ The king of the Horn Hold had grown older too, but with experience and wisdom. For its part in the conflict thus far, Karak Hirn and its king had earned great respect amongst the lords of the Worlds Edge.

‘Dawi bloody grit and chuffing determination is what!’ said Thagdor, thumping the table. ‘They’ll yield, they have to at some point.’

Ironhandson was unmoved by the King of Zhufbar’s typically demonstrative outburst and stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘What of the garrison at Black Fire? Does your son bring any news, High King?’

Gotrek raised his eyebrows, arrested from whatever dark reverie had claimed him for the last few minutes. Snorri was not at the rinnkaz. Upon the third defeat at the gates of Tor Alessi, he had gone back to the fortress at Black Fire Pass, Kazad Kolzharr, to act as his father’s eyes and ears beyond the mountains.

It had been weeks since his last runner to Everpeak.

The High King was about to speak when Thurbad entered the war chamber and every pair of eyes within it turned to alight upon him.

‘Lords,’ he addressed the assembly, before approaching Gotrek. ‘A message from the Kolzharr, my king.’ Thurbad handed over a piece of slate the size of his fist.

‘As if Valaya’s own hand had a part in it,’ said Ironhandson, marvelling at his own apparent prescience.

Gotrek ignored him and took the slate.

Silence fell in the Great Hall as everyone present watched the High King read.

‘“Our rangers bring word that the king of the elgi has been sighted,”’ Gotrek began aloud. ‘“Tired of impasse, he has taken to the field at Angaz Baragdum with a sizeable army. I shall meet him and give battle.”’

Gotrek put the slate down, still staring at the Khazalid engraved upon it.

In the end, Thagdor broke the silence.

‘Well this is what we’ve been waiting for,’ he said. ‘Not since this bloody war began has the elgi king shown his pointy ears. Now, we have a chance to kill the bastard and send the rest of ’em running for their ships.’

Brugandar was nodding. ‘I agree. This is a mistake, born out of elgi arrogance. We must seize upon it.’

Gotrek wasn’t listening. He turned to Thurbad, who was waiting dutifully behind him.

‘Did the runner say if my son had already left the keep?’

‘Two days ago, my king. He marches with his cousin and most of the garrison.’

‘So, we won’t reach him before he gets to Angaz Baragdum.’ Gotrek knew the answer before it was given, and didn’t care that his face betrayed all of his concern for his errant son.

‘No, my king. We will not.’

A horn blared in one of the lower deeps. Its doleful echo carried all the way to the Great Hall, signalling the miners to the rockface. To Gotrek, it sounded like a death knell.

Had he believed his cousin would listen, Morgrim would have told Snorri to wait. True, the rift with his father had scabbed and healed over the last few years but the young prince was still convinced the only way to achieve the great destiny he so craved was to seize it for himself.

Slay the drakk, become king.

He had spoken of little else since word had come to Black Fire Pass that the elf king was in the Old World and marshalling an army.

‘I am surprised,’ said Snorri, marching at the head of an army twenty thousand strong.

‘Cousin?’ asked Morgrim, from Snorri’s left. Drogor, ever dutiful and silent, was on his right holding up the banner.

‘That Elmendrin is not here to dissuade me.’

There was hope in the prince’s voice, not that the priestess would convince him not to fight the elf king but that she would be there before he did to see it.

‘She would not wish this for you,’ Morgrim answered.

‘Of course she would. Elmendrin understands legacy and its importance. I don’t want to usurp my father, I just want to ease the burden of kingship from his shoulders. Ending this war will let me do that.’

‘Twenty years ago we were going to end this war, cousin. Seems we only started it, though.’

‘Aye,’ Snorri sighed. The attack on Kor Vanaeth had been rash, but necessary. ‘But it was right that we did. Kill or capture the elf king and the war ends, though, Morg. That I know.’

‘Do you wish she was here, Elmendrin I mean?’ Morgrim asked.

Most of the Valayans had returned to Everpeak after the third siege. A handful remained at the keep, but Elmendrin was needed back at the capital.

Snorri nodded. ‘It would have been good to see her again, but her brother takes up much of her time these dark days.’

At this, Morgrim looked down. All who had returned from the ambassadorial mission to Ulthuan had come back with deep scars. None more so than Forek Grimbok, and even then not all had made it. Gilias Thunderbrow was dead, slain through elven treachery. Morgrim thought this must trouble Forek the most. Few dwarfs had seen him since he had come back. In fact only the High King and his closest advisors knew where the shamed dwarfs were now, and the priestess who ministered to them of course.

‘I knew she was there, you know,’ said Snorri.

‘Where, cousin?’

‘At the first siege. I saw you talking with her as she tended the wounded.’

Morgrim frowned. ‘And you wait until now to mention it?’

Snorri shrugged. ‘Seemed as good a time as ever. Besides, we have been busy.’

The war had thrust the cousins apart for the last few years. Ever since the end of the first siege and the retreat, both Snorri and Morgrim had returned to their clans to prepare further musters. The elves had surprised them with their discipline and the size of their armies. Not content to merely soak up the dwarfs’ punishment, the elves had gone on the offensive. Several lesser holds had been attacked, particularly in the south. Most notably Karak Azul had sustained serious damage to its some of its upper deeps during one assault. King Hrallson was still refortifying his walls and sealing off the damaged areas, which had become infested with greenskins and giant rats, if the rumours were to be believed.

Morgrim had gone south to bring reinforcement, and turned back the elf army camped on Azul’s doorstep so its clans could return to their forges and fashion the engines and armour the dwarf war effort so badly needed. Snorri had greeted him warmly upon his return, but couldn’t entirely conceal his jealousy at his cousin’s success.

Now, it seemed he was just glad to have him back at his side.

‘What did she say to you in the field of the dead, Morg?’ he asked.

Morgrim snorted with amusement. ‘She asked me to try and keep you alive.’

Snorri clapped him on the back. ‘Well, you’ve done your task well then.’ He laughed. ‘Do you ever wish we were back in the ruins of Karak Krum chasing talking rats, eh?’

Morgrim laughed too but stopped when he saw the seriousness in his cousin’s eyes. ‘Every day,’ he muttered soberly.

Snorri slowly nodded.

‘Lords,’ Drogor interrupted. ‘The Angaz Baragdum is over the next hill. We should be able to see the elgi throng arrayed.’

‘And they us,’ noted Snorri, signalling a halt. He turned to one of his rangers, who was outriding at the edge of the army. ‘Any sign?’ he called.

‘The skies are clear, Prince Snorri.’

‘No eagles, that’s a good thing,’ Snorri said to himself.

Morgrim drew close to him as the dwarf column ground to a halt with a clattering of armour. ‘Are you certain of this plan?’

‘Arrogance has brought the elgi king to this place. He must be made to realise the folly of that, and when he does he cannot be allowed to escape. For the same reason we strike now and do not wait, you must do what I’ve asked you to next.’ Snorri smiled, gripping Morgrim’s armoured shoulder with his gauntleted hand. ‘Do not fear, cousin. Drogor is by my side. Neither I nor the banner will fall this day.’

Not entirely convinced, Morgrim summoned his warriors. He gave Drogor a parting glance but could find no clue as to the Karak Zorn dwarf’s thoughts. His own were fraught with concern that he would not be there to temper the prince’s eagerness. Certainly, Drogor would not do it.

Half the army would go with Morgrim. Sheltered by the foothills, they would take the wide and rugged path east, come around the back of the enemy and close off any route of escape. Dwarfs knew the mountains better than anyone; they could sneak up on elves easily enough. It would leave Snorri with only ten thousand to face whatever host the elf king had amassed. According to their scouts, it was considerable.

Before he left, he said to Snorri, ‘Hold them until I get there, cousin. Hold them and only then engage the king.’

‘Aye.’ Snorri grinned. ‘I’ll cut off his pointy-eared little head.’