The Great Betrayal (17 page)

Krondi laughed. ‘I’m no lord, but I’ll take a gander at what yer peddling.’ He nodded to Malchior who simply bowed and then unrolled his satchel. Unbeknownst to the dwarf, he was incanting silently beneath his breath.

As the leather satchel was unfurled, a rack of stunning ithilmar weapons was revealed. Jewelled daggers, short swords and spear tips were arrayed in rows. There were shimmering axes, both for felling and throwing, and a few smaller pieces of armour.

One in particular caught Krondi’s eye.

‘Is that…?’ He breathed and looked again, closer. ‘Gromril?’ There was a glint in Krondi’s eye as he met Drutheira’s, but also something else. Anger?

‘How did you come by this?’ It was less of a question and more of an accusation.

‘A gift,’ said Drutheira, drawing closer. Her eyes shone with power. ‘I take it you’re interested then?’

Krondi went back to the gromril blade. It was a sword, an uncommon weapon amongst dwarfs, who preferred hammers and axes. There were no runes, but the star-metal it was forged from was unmistakable.

‘How much?’ he asked, his gaze fixed on the blade.

‘Only a fair price. Does anything else catch your eye?’

‘I’ll take everything. All of it,’ he said gruffly.

Drutheira smiled thinly, and bade Malchior to wrap up the leather satchel.

‘You have made a considerably wise decision.’

She met Ashniel
on the outskirts of the settlement, away from prying eyes and ears.

‘Were you successful?’

‘Of course.’ Ashniel presented the athame dagger. Its blade was fire-blackened and the pearlescent gemstones had dulled to the lustre of bare rock. She then showed her mistress the flask, empty of its contents.

‘You used all of it, on the ale
and
wine?’

An evil smile curled Ashniel’s lips. ‘Even the water.’

‘Then there’s nothing further for us here.’ Drutheira looked to the distant horizon and the storm rolling across it. She could almost hear the thunder of hooves.

Several miles from
Zakbar Varf, a host of riders dismounted from a barge. They were hooded and twenty-five strong. Three more such bands were alighting from their own ship nearby. In a hidden grove, a few miles from the trading settlement, they would gather. Sharpening their blades and spear tips, they would wait for nightfall and then ride out.

CHAPTER NINE

Rinkkaz

Over eight hundred
dwarfs crowded the room and still it echoed like a tomb.

The Great Hall of Karaz-a-Karak was the single largest chamber in the entire hold. A small town could fit into its vastness. A vaulted ceiling stretched into a gem-studded darkness overhead and columns broad enough to be towers punctuated miles-long walls against which monolithic statues of the ancestors glowered. There was a stern austerity to the hall, despite its roaring hearth and the dusty banners that stirred gently on the hot air.

Three runes arranged in a triangular formation and confined by a circle of copper and bronze sat in the middle of the dwarf gathering. Each rune was wrought from gold and when the light caught them in a certain way they shimmered with captured power. They were devoted to the chief ancestors: Grungni’s rune of oath and honour; Valaya’s of hearth and hold; and Grimnir’s of wrath and ruin. Each described an aspect of the dwarf race, their very essence which made them sons and daughters of the earth. If lore and legend was to be believed, the magic within the runes had been put there by the ancestors themselves. It was latent power, but would protect the dwarfs when needed.

Gotrek Starbreaker looked upon those runes now and tried to remember their lessons.

A dry, rasping voice uttered from parchment lips intruded on the High King’s thoughts.

‘Such a rare gathering of kings and thanes is a strong sign of a liege-lord’s strength, even though they bicker like beardlings.’

The voice put Gotrek in mind of forgotten halls, lost holds and leatherbound tomes caked in dust.

Looking down from his throne, he met the rheumy eyes of the oldest dwarf in Karaz-a-Karak, he of the longbeards who was simply called ‘the Ancient’.

‘Tromm, old one.’ The Ancient was wise beyond reckoning, his age uncounted and unknown except by the High King’s Loremaster. ‘Should it not concern me that my vassal lords snap at each other like jackals?’ he asked in a sideways fashion. He needn’t have been so surreptitious, for the dwarf nobles were not paying any attention.

The rinkkaz was a sacred oath that bound all kings. Barring recent death, war, plague or invasion, the council of kings was observed by all of the dwarf holds and occurred every decade. But it was also a chance to settle old scores or revive grudges that were never truly forgotten. For every rinkkaz, which often lasted several days, the incumbent High King would allow a period of
grudgement
for the other kings to vent some spleen. It made later discussion swifter and more amiable.

Gotrek was patient. He had to be. The Ancient never answered quickly and always considered every word. He would often say, at length, it was why he had lived for as many centuries as he had. In the end his breath came out of his wizened mouth like a pall of grave dust.

‘Better they bite at one another than sharpen their teeth on your hide.’

Leaning over, Gotrek whispered conspiratorially, ‘They would find it leathery and tough if they did, old one.’

The Ancient laughed at that, a grating, hacking cough of mirth that brought up clods of phlegm.

Gotrek slapped him on the back, loosening whatever was lodged in the old dwarf’s throat, and received a nod of thanks. He regarded the throng in front of him.

No fewer than seven dwarf kings, not including the High King himself, were in attendance. If a king could not be present at the rinkkaz then a delegate, an ambassador, lord or high thane, even a regent, was sent in his stead. Only the kings of the hill dwarfs were absent, a fact that was noticed by all.

‘Yet again, Skarnag makes his insolence plain to the realm…’ muttered Ranuld Silverthumb. The runelord was seated on the opposite side of the High King, wisdom and knowledge to his left and right. Only the captain of the hearthguard was closer, but the imposing figure of Thurbad was absent for the moment. ‘Wazzock.’

Since their expatriation from the Worlds Edge Mountains, Skarnag Grum and his fellow lords had not once attended the rinkkaz.

‘He might surprise us yet,’ muttered Gotrek, though without conviction. His gaze strayed to the distance, where he could just make out the bronze doors to the Great Hall, but he wasn’t about to hold his breath in expectation of them opening.

Bedecked in his finest runic panoply, a staff of wutroth and banded gromril clenched in his left fist, a helm of gilded griffon feathers upon his beetling brow, Ranuld cut as stern a figure as his liege-lord.

‘I’d suggest we march on Kazad Kro and bring the rinkkaz to his gates if it were not for my weary back and legs.’ Ranuld grimaced as he said it, and Gotrek smiled to himself. The runelord was much more hale and hearty than he let on. ‘Besides,’ he added, thumbing over his shoulder, ‘the Ancient would never make it.’

A snorting, nasal dirge was coming out of the old dwarf’s mouth. None in the hold could snore so loudly.

Ranuld frowned, waggled a finger in his ear. ‘Like a boar rutting with an elk.’

Gotrek stifled a laugh then asked, ‘Did you find what you were looking for in the old halls?’

The runelord shook his head, ‘No, my High King.’

Ranuld Silverthumb was amongst the High King’s royal retinue and occupied one of ten seats reserved for the high council. At Gotrek’s edict, all of his advisors were present including his Loremaster and Grudgekeeper, both of whom scribed in leatherbound books cradled on lecterns in front of them, thick parchment pages cracking as they were turned. As well as the Master of Engineers, who sat with a thick belt of tools around his waist, there was also the Chief of Lodewardens, he who was responsible for the mines and therefore much of the hold’s wealth and prosperity, and the Chief of Reckoners who ensured that grudgement was meted out and reconciled on the behalf of the clans of Karaz-a-Karak, including the royal clan of Thunderhorn, against other clans and other dwarfs if needed.

Disputes were commonplace for a race that valued honour so highly and held grudges so easily. Dwarfs would seldom forgive; and they would never forget. Therefore a record and a means of settling disputes was needed in order for their culture to function without constant wars breaking out between the clans. As High King, Gotrek was fierce but also wise. He had mediated many grievances between his clan lords and those of his vassal kings. His rise to power was not only assured through the greenskin purges of his early reign, but also the agreements he brokered between the northern and southern kings when the former encroached on the latter’s territory by mistake. Blood was shed, for dwarf clans are not above fighting one another, but not so much that the warring nobles could not be reconciled.

Many years later the grudges on both sides were still remembered. It was echoed by the fact that all the northern kings sat on Gotrek’s left and the southern kings his right. He wondered absently where the kings of the hill dwarfs would have sat, should they ever have graced his hall with their presence.

Gotrek had made his disdain for Grum’s insolence plain to all, and only current matters prevented him from taking steps to redress it. From atop his Throne of Power, seat of the High Kings since before Snorri Whitebeard’s days, he glowered. Clan bickering had turned to matters of the realm. It was a subject that had cropped up often during the rinkkaz, and Gotrek felt its unwelcome weight upon him like a cloak of anvils.

Ever since they had returned to the Old World, the grumbles from the other kings had been the same.

Elves
.

No one wanted war with them, but then no one especially wanted peace either. Of all the liege-lords of the dwarf realm, it was Gotrek who had extended the hand of friendship most readily. Like his forebears, he recognised the nobility and power of the elves. There was also the honour of heritage and ancestry to uphold. For was it not Snorri Whitebeard himself who had made an ally of the Elf Prince Malekith and even called him friend?

Who were they not to maintain such a fine tradition?

‘They encroach too far onto my lands,’ griped Thagdor. As he puffed up his chest, the King of Zhufbar clanked in his ceremonial armour. The majority of the kings and their delegates were smoking pipeweed. Thagdor was no exception, and a palpable fug of their combined exhalations clung to the lower vaults of the massive chamber in an expansive cloud. Together with the smoke issuing from the roaring fire in the High King’s mighty hearth, it muddied the air, obscuring the many warriors Thagdor had brought with him.

A traditionalist, fond of engineering and with a thriving guild, Thagdor was just slightly paranoid. Zhufbar had been besieged by greenskins many times, in the early days before Gotrek had made his war against the creatures and all but eradicated them. It had made Thagdor wary of constant attack, his back perpetually up. A hundred hearthguard had accompanied him into the great hold hall; a hundred and fifty more awaited him above in the entrance hall.

‘Every time I step beyond my halls for a stroll, there’s a bloody elf wandering about,’ he went on. ‘I am fed up with it, Gotrek.’

No lord other than Thagdor ever called the High King by his first name during a rinkkaz. There was none more down to earth than the lord of Zhufbar and this extended to the way he greeted his liege-lord, so it was tolerated.

There were mutterings of agreement from Brynnoth of Barak Varr and the fierce-looking Luftvarr of Kraka Drak at this proclamation. The former resembled a sea captain more than a king, with a doubloon eye-patch and a leather cloak festooned with sigils of sea monsters and mermen. Brynnoth had a long, plaited beard that flared out at the ends where it was attached to tiny hooks that tied to his armour.

Luftvarr wore furs and pelts, in keeping with the Norse dwarfs who had to travel vast distances to reach such proceedings. His scowl was legendary, said to have killed a stone troll at fifty paces. His beard was rough and wild, his helmet crested by two massive mammoth tusks. Ringmail swathed his muscular body and his arms were bare apart from knotted torcs just below the elbow.

‘And what of the rats in the lower deeps?’ said King Aflegard of Karak Izril. The Jewel Hold was well known for its wealth and its deep mines. Rich veins of ore ran through its hewn halls, much to the envy of the other liege-lords present.

King Bagrik of Karak Ungor, the farthest of the northern holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains from Karaz-a-Karak, nodded in agreement with Aflegard. He was called ‘Boarbrow’, an honorific earned because of the mighty pelt he wore over his back and shoulders, beneath which was a red and gold tunic armoured with a coat of silver mail.

Aflegard was as bejewelled as his hold and wore a great many rings and bracelets. It made him appear slightly effete, especially given his silk garments and the fact he was known for trading openly with elves. Every rinkkaz he protested about the rats, claiming them to be more numerous, larger and cleverer with each passing decade. Thus far, his concerns had fallen on deaf ears.

‘I have seen them too,’ said Thane Brokk Stonefist of Karak Azul. He was no king, not even a high thane, but had been trusted to come in his liege-lord’s stead. As militaristic as his king, Brokk’s attire was functional and war-ready. His armour was thick plate. He carried a pickaxe and wore a miner’s soot-stained features. ‘Heard them even,’ he added. ‘Rats that walk like you or I, noble kings. Rats that can–’