The Great Betrayal (21 page)

The words spoken in the ruins of Karak Krum had come unbidden. They were also not meant to be heeded, but fate had other ideas it seemed. Briefly, he hoped he hadn’t begun a landslide with his trickling rock. Deciding it was done and could not be undone, he sagged in his ceremonial armour and began removing it. Unbuckling straps, uncinching clasps, he walked over to a stone effigy of a dwarf’s body. There he released the breastplate, followed by the rest of the cuirass. Resting it reverently on the armour dummy, he took off his helm and did the same with that. Then he grabbed a leather smock, stained with the evidence of forging, streaked black and scorched with burns. He passed through a dark chamber, beyond his forging anvil. No other smiths were present, Ranuld was alone. The sound of hammers echoed from the upper deeps, from the foundries and armouries above. Passing a weapons rack, he took up his staff and looped a hammer to his belt.

Smoke parted before him and the firelight of the forge itself cast deepening shadows, pooling in his craggy features. Through a narrow aperture in the stone, he crossed a small corridor to a door hewn from petrified wutroth. Ranuld merely presented his staff and a sigil hidden upon the door’s surface glowed. With the scrape of rock against rock, the portal parted wide enough for the runelord to enter. A muttered incantation and the solid door closed behind him again, sealing off the new chamber like a tomb.

It was dark within, darker even than the rune forge, and no sound reached its confines. Warmth radiated from inside, even standing at the threshold. Lifting his staff, Ranuld ignited the first braziers set into the flanking walls. Like ranks of fiery soldiers they came alight, first six then ten then twenty then a hundred. A chain of fire burst into life down both walls and threw an eldritch glow upon the contents.

‘
Duraz a dum
…’ he intoned, releasing a breath of awe.

No matter how many times he had seen them, they never failed to impress him.

Six immense anvils sat in front of Ranuld, arranged in two ranks of three. Silver flashed in the brazier light, the anvils capturing the potency of the magic used to ignite them and using it to set their own runes aflame.

Ranuld read each and every one, careful to speak them in his mind and not aloud. The rune hammer in his belt hummed with the proximity of the artefacts, and the runelord patted the weapon to calm its spirit.

Anvils of Doom were one of the single most powerful weapons the dwarfs had in their arsenal. Legend held that Grungni had forged them in the elder days, as a means of harnessing the elements. Mastery over lightning, earth and fire were the reward of any runesmith dedicated and skilled enough to mount an Anvil of Doom. Six more resided in each of the major dwarf holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains, presided over by their chief runelords.

Muttering oaths to Grungni and Valaya, Ranuld ran his hand over the surface of one. Its inner glow grew brighter still and a thin veil of lightning crackled across the metal. It fed to the others, leaping from anvil to anvil until all six were wracked by the same storm. Shadows that were impenetrable to the brazier light retreated before the magic and revealed further runic artefacts in silhouette and half-light, immense war gongs and battle horns the size of ballistae. Behind them, at the back of the chamber slumped onto their haunches, were statues. Stone golems, like the other artefacts in the room, were relics of the elder days. Even with the unfettered fury of the anvils crackling loudly before them, the golems did not stir. Magic was leaving them, fading just like the knowledge which had created it.

A last artefact caught Ranuld’s eye, a massive war shield turned on its edge and polished to a mirror sheen. Runes circled around a plane of pellucid silver in which the runelord could see his own image reflected back at him. He tried not to linger on the thought that he looked older than he remembered, so much so that he almost didn’t recognise himself any more.

‘A great doom, indeed,’ he muttered, recalling his earlier vision, and recaptured the lightning of the anvils back into his staff where it would dissipate harmlessly.

Approaching the shield, he spoke an incantation under his breath and the silver shone, rippling like a pool.

Only the
Burudin
were capable of harnessing its power. There were eight ancient lords of the rune that yet lived in the dwarf realm and one of those belonged to the expatriate hill dwarfs of the upper hold-forts. Over the centuries, many had perished through war or old age. Ranuld had known each and every one, just as he knew their like would not return and he like the remaining Burudin
would be the last of an era.

Feldhar Crageye, Negdrik Irontooth, Durgnun Goldbrow, these were the ancients that Ranuld sought next. Agrin Fireheart was second in venerability only to Ranuld. He had already answered the summons and was on his way from Barak Varr, but more were needed.

Ungrinn Lighthand, Jordrikk Forgefist, Kruzkull Stormfinger… Leagues upon leagues separated the distant holds but through the shield that would be as nothing. Ranuld wondered how many more would heed the call and come to the conclave. With regret, he realised that some would not, that some would already be dead. Old magic was leaving the world, never to return. And like all who are privy to secret knowledge, he feared what would happen when it did.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Reunions

Even as the
bronze doors slammed violently in his wake, Snorri felt the first pangs of regret. His ire, so quick to rise in the Great Hall, cooled quickly when faced with the quiet introspection of what he had done and said.

Bringing the name and memory of his mother into the argument was low. He regretted that, but couldn’t retract it.

Pride and the slightest undercurrent of persistent annoyance kept him from turning around and apologising immediately, but a lot of those words, although harshly given, were true.

Gotrek Starbreaker was Lord of the Underdeep, High King of all the dwarfs, and he cast a long shadow. Snorri felt eclipsed by it. He had wanted to tell his father about the prophecy he had heard, of his foretold greatness, how he had fought the ratkin in their warrens and the threat they might mean for the hold, but instead he had chosen to swagger in and expect his place to be waiting.

Being discarded at the back of the assembly, in the seat reserved for the hill dwarfs of all creatures, had been a barb too hard to excise before they had exchanged words. Now they could not be withdrawn, as every dwarf knows. In any other circumstance, a grudge would have been made against Snorri but a father was not about to do that to his son.

Instead he would endure his wrath, and hope that like his own it faded.

Neither, of course, would admit they were in the wrong. It was not the dwarf way.

In the end, Snorri was glad the flickering darkness barely leavened by the ensconced braziers hid his face, although he could still feel the cold glare of accusation from the hearthguard that had been waiting outside.

The veteran warriors were not the only ones waiting for him upon leaving the Great Hall. A familiar figure approached from farther down the corridor, moving with long and light steps like a dancer. Warm and welcoming, his face did not mirror the dwarf’s even slightly. A scowl distorted Snorri’s expression, only partially hidden by his beard. He had at least removed his axe for the audience with his father and looked slightly less belligerent than the last time he had seen Prince Imladrik.

In lieu of his armour, the elf wore pearl-white robes trimmed with the fire-red commonly associated with Caledorian princes. A circlet of silver with a sapphire in the centre replaced his war helm and he carried no visible weapon. Clean and dressed, he had obviously been at Karaz-a-Karak for several hours already, perhaps even days. As the elf walked down the wide corridor towards him, Snorri wondered for what purpose.

No elf would ever be invited to the rinkkaz. Even in the pursuit of peace his father wouldn’t break that sacred oath. Imladrik’s presence in the hold halls must be for some other reason. Whatever the cause, Snorri found he resented it just as he resented the prince. After the dragon had turned on him, Snorri felt ridiculed and secretly blamed the elf for what happened. It only affirmed what he had always suspected, that you could never trust an elf or its beast.

Though he walked the hold halls unarmed, Imladrik had several retainers who were waiting for him at the threshold of Everpeak. Each was fully armoured, helmed and wore a long sword scabbarded at the waist. Short cloaks of dragon hide hung from their backs, not trophies but rather the honourable leavings of shed scales from the oldest and mightiest of the drakes.

The retinue reminded Snorri of elves masquerading as dragons, hoping perhaps to yoke some element of their obvious power. It drew a sneer to his lips at the sheer hubris of the notion.

Master of dragons and dragon lackeys,
thought Snorri, allowing the bitter curl to grow for the prince’s benefit. Heading towards the Great Hall, the elf was obviously here to meet with his father. More talk of peace and harmony, no doubt. Snorri’s fists clenched.

‘We meet again, Prince Lunngrin.’

Snorri didn’t return the nod of greeting, nor did he dawdle to exchange pleasantries.

‘You will find him in a foul mood, elfling.’

One of the guards stiffened at the flagrant disrespect but Imladrik quietened her with a glance.

‘I hope to bear news that will improve it, then.’ Imladrik’s reply was diplomatic, but fashioned so that he wouldn’t seem to be cowed in front of his warriors.

‘Doubtful,’ Snorri replied, hiding well his desire to know the elf’s business. ‘He is a curmudgeonly bastard, slow to calm down.’

‘I see
you
possess his fiery spirit too.’

Snorri ignored the comment as they passed each other. ‘You’ll have to leave your entourage outside,’ the dwarf said, thumbing over his shoulder at the formidable hearthguard standing sentinel before the doors.

Imladrik stopped as Snorri walked on. A light clanking refrain from his warriors sounded as they did the same, circling the prince protectively.

‘Tell me something, lord dwarf,’ he said, ‘what is it exactly that I have done which offends you?’

Snorri considered walking further. In the end he stopped too but left his back to the elf.

‘You left your island and came here.’

‘Your father wants peace, so do we,’ he called to the dwarf’s slowly departing figure.

Snorri’s reply echoed back. ‘My father wants many things. And not all of your kind desire peace. That’s what concerns me, dragon master. You’re squatters, nothing more. The Old World belongs to the dwarfs and will do always.’

The elf didn’t answer. There was nothing he could say, though it took all of his resolve not to rise to anger as the dwarf wanted. Instead he carried on in silence, ruminating on all he had heard.

‘I will not be the last dwarf to speak it, either,’ said Snorri to himself, and went to find Morgrim.

Alehouses were sombre
places, more akin to temples than bawdy drinking holes. Sitting by the roaring hearth, the air thick with the reek of hops and wheat, dwarfs came here to worship. For aside from gold, there were few things the sons of Grungni vaunted as highly as beer. But they were also discerning creatures, and would not put up with swill or any brew which they deemed weak or unworthy of their palate. Grudges, bloody ones, had been made for less than a brewmaster who served another dwarf a poor beer.

As Snorri entered the hall, a dozen pairs of eyes looked up at him, glittering like jewels. Several of the dwarfs acknowledged the prince, uttering a sombre ‘tromm’ in Snorri’s direction. Others were too lost in grim reverie to notice.

A strange gloom pervaded in the drinking hall where scores of dwarfs clasped gnarled fingers around foaming tankards of clay and pewter. It was a half-light, a gloaming that settled upon patrons and furnishings alike. Long rectangular tables filled the main hall, surrounded by stout three-legged stools and broad benches. An antechamber, the brew store, fed off one side of the expansive drinking hall and was festooned with wide, iron-bound barrels. Every barrel was seared with a rune describing the beer’s name and potency. Only the ones behind the bar and the alehouse’s brewmaster were tapped.

Brorn Stoutnose was cleaning his tankards with a thick cloth behind a low wooden bar. Deliberate, exact, there was ritual to the task he performed and he muttered oaths to the ancestors as he did it. Several other cloths, one for drying, one for polishing, another for wringing, sat snugly beneath a thick belt girdling an impressive girth nurtured by many years of dedicated quaffing. Nodding at the prince of Karaz-a-Karak, he gestured with raised chin to one of the low tables where two dwarfs were in hushed conversation.

‘Of all the brew halls in the karak, you managed to find the soberest,’ said Snorri.

Morgrim looked up sternly from his tankard, which he’d only half drained, but couldn’t suppress a wry grin. ‘I see you escaped your father’s wrath more or less intact.’

At mention of the High King, Snorri’s face darkened. ‘Words were exchanged,’ he said, and read from his cousin’s face that Morgrim knew some of those words were regretful.

‘Did you tell him about the rats of the underdeep?’

‘The elgi sit at the forefront of his mind, and the precious peace he has fought so hard to win. I even saw that elfling prince on his way to the Great Hall.’

‘Imladrik?’

‘Yes, but not his drakk. I cannot even imagine where he would have stabled such a creature.’

‘Likely it nests in one of the peaks. He must have business with your father.’

‘Indeed, but what?’ Glancing over to the other stool, Snorri addressed the dwarf sitting opposite his cousin. ‘And who might you be?’ He took in the bronze pauldron, the sigils on his belt and armour. ‘Strange trappings for a dawi.’

Morgrim introduced them. ‘This is Drogor…’

‘Of Karak Zorn,’ said Drogor, rising to offer a hand to the prince. ‘My lord.’ His eyes flashed in the firelight from the hearth. ‘I can see the blood of kings in you.’

Morgrim clapped Snorri on the back, so hard it made the prince’s eyes bulge a little.

‘This is Snorri Lunngrin, Prince of Karaz-a-Karak.’

Drogor bowed deeply. ‘I am honoured, my lord.’

‘Karak Zorn in the Southlands?’ asked Snorri, ignoring the flattery. His eyes narrowed, only half shaking the other dwarf’s hand. ‘How is it you are here, yet your king was absent from the rinkkaz?’

‘Drogor is only here by the mercy of Valaya, cousin,’ said Morgrim.

‘My party and I were ambushed south of Karak Azul,’ Drogor explained. His eyes dipped slightly. ‘I alone lived to tell of it.’

‘Dreng tromm,’ uttered Snorri, suspicions fading. ‘Was it grobi?’

‘They were… archers, cousin.’

Snorri regarded Morgrim sternly.

‘Elgi?’

Morgrim shook his head then looked at Drogor, who answered, ‘Perhaps. The arrows were not crude enough for grobi or urk, though I didn’t wait for the killers of my kin to reveal themselves.’

Snorri’s gaze was on the table at the two slowly warming tankards of ale, but he wasn’t thirsty. When he looked up, his face was creased with concern.

‘I’m sorry for your loss, but you should seek an audience with my father and tell him what happened to you and your kin,’ he said to Drogor. ‘There has been no word of Karak Zorn for years, and then there is the matter of your ambushers.’

The sound of a door opening arrested the dwarfs’ attention.

A familiar figure had just entered the alehouse, and was looking around.

‘Furrowbrow,’ Snorri scowled. ‘What does he want?’

When the runesmith’s gaze alighted on their table, he began to walk towards them.

‘Looks like he wants you, cousin,’ said Morgrim.

Folding his arms in a gesture of annoyance, Snorri said, ‘Aside from his master, I have never known a more saturnine dawi.’

‘He is certainly dour,’ agreed Morgrim.

‘Why the perpetual frown though, cousin? Perhaps his gruntis are too tight, eh?’ Snorri leaned over to speak to Drogor. ‘What do you think, Dro…’

But the dwarf from Karak Zorn was gone. Snorri thought he saw him at the back of the drinking hall, disappearing into a pall of pipe smoke, lost to the gloom.

‘Let’s hope that wasn’t because of something I said,’ Snorri remarked, and turned to face Morek Furrowbrow.