The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Awaken my Wrath

Gotrek’s face was as cold as the marble slab upon which his son was lying.

The tomb was hewn by Everpeak’s finest craftsmen, and the hoard of a lesser king would have been needed to fashion it. Opulent yet austere, it was a monument to dwarf grief and a reminder of a father’s abject failure.

‘It should be me,’ he said to the dark.

Thurbad answered. ‘You could not have known the elgi’s intentions, my king.’

His granite features stained by tears, Gotrek looked up to a shaft of hazy yellow light breaching the ceiling. It peeled back some of the shadows that had settled like a veil upon this sombre place. Statues, great monolithic effigies of the ancestors, were revealed in it. They looked down sternly but benevolently on the High King, who still found it hard to meet their stony gaze. The rest of the vast chamber was lost to echoing darkness, a hollow tomb of broken vows and empty promises.

‘He was to be my heir, Thurbad. I never wanted this for him. I strove to carve out a kingdom that he could rule in peace and prosperity.’

‘Yours has always been a just rule, my king.’

Gotrek sagged. He was only wearing a furred cloak, simple tunic and breeches, but he felt the weight of Snorri’s death like twenty suits of chainmail. Old hands gripped the edge of the marble tomb for support.

‘Fathers should not bury sons, Thurbad. This is not the way of things. It should be me lying upon this slab in grim quietude. It should have been me that met the elgi king at Angaz Baragdum.’ The High King let out a long breath that shuddered with the power of his grief. ‘He baited us. Snorri went to meet him on the field and could not have known he was stepping into a trap. It reveals something to us, though,’ Gotrek added, his back straightening as he found inner reserves of strength.

‘What is that, my king?’

‘This Caledor, son of kings, is arrogant. To believe he could set foot in our lands, slay my son and return without retribution… It will be his death when I meet him on the field. Throughout this sorry affair, I have held on to the belief that war could be averted. Even when the first battles were fought, when cities were burning, I clung to the hope that we could still find a way out of conflict and return to some measure of civility. That has ended with the death of my son.’ His fist clenched like a ball of iron. ‘I will level the full might of the Karaz Ankor against these interloping murderers. No elgi will be safe from my wrath, for it has been awakened by this perfidious deed! Every axe, every quarrel and bolt and hammer shall be bent towards the destruction of this enemy in our midst. Vengeance will be done. So swears Gotrek Starbreaker!’

The grongaz echoed like a tomb. Ranuld Silverthumb embraced the silence gratefully, hunched in deep contemplation before the statues of the gronti-duraz. Morek was gone, bound for Tor Alessi and the fourth siege. For his endeavours fashioning the axe and armour of Snorri Halfhand, Ranuld had granted his charge the use of an Anvil of Doom and bestowed upon him the title of ‘master runesmith’.

Great had been the undertaking to forge the prince’s rune weapons. After fashioning the axe, Morek had left the hold in search of what was needed to begin his labours on the armour. Scarred was the young runesmith now, and more furrowed than ever. For the blood and scale of monsters, jewels that could only be found in the dark, forgotten places of the world, were required to craft such an artefact. Rites were not enough; like all magic, rune forging needed ingredients. Since his return, he had not spoken of his journey nor would Ranuld ask him to. The runelord had his own dark travels to remind him of such endeavours.

Over two decades of toil had changed him, and Morek was apprentice no longer.

And though the death of Prince Snorri had grieved them both, Ranuld allowed himself a sigh of relief. Perhaps the old magic was not dead after all. Perhaps there were those that could still wield it when his like was gone forever from the world. The tremor in the old runelord’s heart told him his thread was thinning, that soon it would become so frayed that the tendrils of his life would unravel and snap, and then Grungni would welcome him to his halls.

Soon… he prayed.

Elves were gathering. The death of the High King’s only son had galvanised and emboldened them. Gotrek would retaliate. Death would be the only victor, and once again Ranuld was reminded of the darkness that infected the Old World. It came from the gate in the north and could not be gotten rid of now that it was closed. He had to endure, at least until the conclave was concluded and the stone giants roused from their millennia of slumber.

Ranuld opened his eyes, saw the axe and the armour, knew at once who would bear them into battle now.

‘Dawi barazen ek dreng drakk, un riknu…’ He spoke the ancient words of the prophecy aloud. ‘He who will slay the dragon, and become king.’

Four other runelords, ancients all, nodded in agreement.

Feldhar Crageye, Negdrik Irontooth, Durgnun Goldbrow.

Last of all was Thorik Oakeneye, he who had taken the place of Agrin Fireheart in the Burudin. The runelord of Barak Varr carried his own darkness from all he had seen on the island of the elves.

More were needed — the conclave was not yet complete. Around a circular table of stone, three empty places remained.

‘We know his name,’ uttered Feldhar Crageye of Karak Drazh, stroking the forks of his black beard and squinting through his good eye, the other shrouded by a stone patch.

‘Aye,’ said Negdrik Irontooth, grinning to reveal metal-plated bone. ‘Elgidum.’

The blond-maned Durgnun Goldbrow nodded. ‘The elf doom.’

‘The dawi known as Ironbeard,’ concluded Thorik Oakeneye.

A vein of fire ran through the dragon-slaying axe lying on the table before them. Its master runes shone, eager to be ignited; so too the armour alongside it, which was impervious to flame. Fate not design had guided Morek’s hand in their creation.

‘Let it be known,’ said Ranuld Silverthumb, folding his arms, determined not to make another mistake. ‘Morgrim Bargrum will be the one to lift the doom of our race.’