The Great Betrayal (35 page)

Blood streaming from his left nostril, Gotrek dropped to a crouch, bringing down with him Varnuf who hadn’t properly squared his feet. Rising, Gotrek uppercutted the King of Eight Peaks in the jaw, and Varnuf snapped back immediately because of the beard binding and took a sturdy elbow smash in the cheek. He kneed Gotrek in the stomach, forcing a pained shout, but the High King had fought in many grudgements before and thumped Varnuf hard and repeatedly in the kidneys.

Thrusting his shoulder, Varnuf barged Gotrek onto his heels.

Battered, both kings tried to retreat for a breather but their beards were well tethered and they lurched back into striking range.

Haft to haft they rained a score of heavy blows on one another, hitting so hard as to create a rain of splinters. Varnuf resorted to a punishing array of overheads, which Gotrek parried with both hands braced against his hammer. He grimaced as the last breathless blow fell and he managed to lock their weapons together.

‘Let me tell you something about when I purged the grobi and the urk,’ Gotrek growled when the two were inches apart and face to face. Sweat was pouring off both kings, sheeting their foreheads and darkening their tunics across the chest and armpits.

‘Go on,’ hissed Varnuf, straining against his opponent’s guard.

‘Well,’ said Gotrek, ‘I didn’t do it cleanly.’

The King of Eight Peaks’s face went suddenly blank.

‘Uh?’

Letting all of his resistance go, Gotrek quickly stepped aside as Varnuf’s momentum took him forwards. There was just enough beard length to get behind him and swing his hammer haft into the other king’s crotch.

For want of a better word, Varnuf yelped. It was so brief, so small a noise that it was missed by most of the spectators, but Gotrek heard it. Then he exhaled, a long, deep, agonised groan that echoed around the Great Hall and had every king present wincing.

‘Reet in the
dongliz
,’ whispered Grundin with a pained expression.

‘Bugger me,’ gasped Thagdor.

Most of the other kings crossed their legs.

Varnuf staggered. His eyes were watering and he tried to shuffle around to face Gotrek before collapsing. He half crouched, half slumped, held up by his bound beard.

Gotrek turned to Grundin, who was standing nearby with an axe.

‘Cut it,’ he said, and watched as Varnuf fell into a heap. ‘Eh,’ he added, giving the King of Eight Peaks a nudge so he looked up at him. ‘My balls are solid rock. That’s why I sit on that throne. That’s why I am High King.’

Varnuf nodded meekly, and whispered, ‘Tromm.’

Gotrek looked away.

‘Brynnoth,’ he said, singling out the lord of the Sea Hold. ‘You’ll have vengeance for Agrin Fireheart. I swear to Grimnir, he will be revenged, but not like this. We will find the truth of this first, if it was these druchii that the elgi prince spoke of.’ Then he shifted his attention to the others, regarding each king in turn as he uttered a final edict. ‘
I
am High King. Gotrek Lunngrin of the Thunderhorn clan, Starbreaker and slayer of urk. My deeds eclipse all of yours combined as does my will and power. Do not defy it. Here in these lands, my word is law. Obey it or suffer my wrath. Defend your borders and sovereign territory. Close your gates and hold halls to the elgi. No trade will pass between us. All dealings with them will cease. An elgi upon our roads will be considered trespass and you may reckon that to the very hilt of our laws, but we do not march.’ He shook his head slowly for emphasis. ‘We do not go to war. It will ruin us. Ruin the dawi and the elgi for generations.’ He let it sink in, let the silence amplify the resonance of his words before adding a final challenge.

‘Will anyone else gainsay me?’

None did.

Gotrek was alone
again as he went down into the grongaz. Amidst the smoke and ash, he discerned the glow of fire and heard the clamour of a single anvil. So he followed the sound. Passing through a solid wall of heat, he found Ranuld Silverthumb watching his apprentice.

‘He works a master rhun,’ said the ancient dwarf without looking up from his vigil.

‘My son’s az un klad?’

Ranuld supped on his pipe, took a deep pull. ‘Aye,’ he said, expelling a long plume of smoke. ‘You have given your word on the elgi?’ he asked after a moment or two of watching Morek’s hammer fall. It was rhythmic, measured. It rang out a dulcet chorus resonant with power. The very air was charged with it. Gotrek’s beard bristled, and the torcs and cinctures he had entwined in it grew warm to the touch.

‘I have,’ he said. ‘Though it was not easy to do. My heart says fight, my head says not to. What would you do, old one?’

‘I think I am not High King, therefore my opinion is moot.’

‘But I value your counsel.’

‘Of course you do, I am the oldest runesmith in the Karaz Ankor. My wisdom is worth more than your entire treasure vault, but it still matters not what I think. I see greed amongst our kin, an obsession towards gold gathering and hoarding. It was not always so. Once dwarfs crafted and were not so driven by the acquisition of wealth. What good is a hoard of gold to a dead king, eh?’

‘Tromm, old one, but Agrin Fireheart was one of your guild. Would you not see him avenged?’

‘Aye, one of the oldest, and his name shall be remembered. I mourn him but do not want revenge against all elgi for his death.’ Now he met his king’s gaze, showing the hard diamonds of his eyes. ‘A great doom is coming, and it is this which I fear. Elgi may be a part of it, though I think it is but a small part. I foresee destinies forged in battle and a time of woes.’

Gotrek looked away, searching his heart and his conscience.

‘I must do everything to prevent a war. It will destroy us both. The elgi are not as weak as some suppose them to be, though that is no reason not to fight them. They have been friends to the dawi. I will not cast that aside cheaply.’

‘And we have precious few allies in the world when our enemies are amassed around us above and below. You are rare, Gotrek Starbreaker.’

Gotrek raised an eyebrow questioningly.

‘We are changing, all of us, dawi and elgi both. You, like me, are hewn from elder rock. Less prone to change. I have seen another who is of similar stock. Stone and steel. He shall become king when you are dead, the slayer of the drakk.’

‘I don’t understand, old one.’ Gotrek frowned. ‘My son will be king when I am gone. It is his legacy.’

Ranuld said nothing further, and returned to his vigil.

‘Will it be ready soon?’ Gotrek asked, listening to the anvil, aghast at the lightning strikes cutting the air with every blow against it.

‘He works the magic,’ said Ranuld, gesturing proudly with his pipe. ‘It will take time, but with patience anything is possible.’

‘And should I show patience now?’

‘That is something a king must answer for himself.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The King of Elves

Oeragor was a
fading memory, as was his urgent flight across the Great Ocean, through the veils and on to the verdant pastures of his home. His army had gone ahead, led by the dragons but ensconced in a great fleet of elven galleons. Alone, it had been a hard journey for the prince through a succession of unearthly storms. Something unnatural persisted about the blackened clouds and the roar of the wind. He had hoped to find his warriors again, catch up to them before they reached home but the storm was all consuming. Though it was difficult to tell for certain, shadows lurked within those clouds. Bestial faces, the visages of the daemonic and the monstrous, loomed over Imladrik during his flight. They mocked and cajoled, raged and encouraged. The elf prince shut his eyes and tried to close off the rest of his senses to them.

More than once, Imladrik had faltered until a growl from Draukhain steeled him against the voices. He chanted the names of Isha, Asuryan, Kurnous, invoking the blessings of the elven gods to ward him against the unnatural tempest that had set about them.

It grew angry, and Imladrik had been forced below the clouds to keep from being struck by lightning or ripped out of the saddle by hurricane winds. He reached the veils surrounding the island with his nerves hanging by a thread. Never had he undertaken such a perilous journey, but after almost two weeks he had reached his ancestral lands alive and intact. And like a dream, the memory of the faces in the storm faded to nothing but a wisp of remembrance that Imladrik would only recall in his deepest nightmares.

Sorcerous mist, the ancient veils of Caledor Dragontamer that still protected his land, parted to reveal an island of verdant pastures, soaring mountains and crystalline rivers. Ports and fleets of ships resolved through the mist, together with sprawling forests and glittering towers. It shimmered, like an image half seen through a haze of heat, though the air was cool and refreshing. Imladrik breathed deep.

At last, he was home.

Ulthuan.

It had been years since he had last set foot upon the magical isle.

He had travelled south borne by Draukhain, across the harbours of Cothique where doughty merchantmen and sailors aboard catamarans pointed up at the sky at the passing of the dragon. From there Imladrik went east, skirting the Chracian mountains and letting Draukhain have his head amidst the cloud-wreathed peaks. Though he couldn’t see them from so high up, he knew the vigilant woodsmen of that land would be abroad in the dense forests and narrow passes through the cliffs, ever watchful for invasion.

Imladrik’s thoughts had strayed to Liandra and he had to banish them at once. His mind also wandered back to the carrier-hawk, soaring into the mountain fastness of the dwarfs, bringing his message to the High King. He hoped the words would hold some meaning, that a chance yet remained to avert a war. If it brought the dwarfs to the negotiating table then that at least would be something. Perhaps if they were willing to treat, he might be allowed to return to the Old World again and heal two rifts at once.

First he flew over the Phoenix Gate, the great bastion wall that sat on the borders of Chrace and Avelorn, its purpose to defend against invasion from the north across the hills of Nagarythe. It was a monolithic structure of pale stone and encrusted with jewels. The gilded image of the rising phoenix was emblazoned upon its vast and towering gate, a bulwark against attack. Silent guardians patrolled its battlements, grim-faced and clutching their halberds with fierce intent. Its neighbour, the Dragon Gate, was equally magnificent. Bordering Avelorn and Nagarythe, it was well garrisoned by spearmen and archers. The buttressed walls were scaled in keeping with its draconian aesthetic and the effigy of a soaring drake of Caledor was engraved upon the gate itself.

Even seen from high above, the gates were impressive. To Imladrik they looked nigh-on impregnable, which was just as well given the enemy they had been erected to repel. Many were the battles fought against the dark elves beyond their borders.

Once across the Phoenix and Dragon Gates, Imladrik was reunited with his army as he had set down on the plains of Ellyrion where his host were making ready for the next stage of their journey. He didn’t stay, for he had business elsewhere, but instead took a steed from one of the horsemasters who had been there to receive him and rode the borders of Nagarythe and Avelorn until he reached his destination.During that time he was regaled with familiar sights, sounds and smells, a cavalcade of sensations that whispered ‘home’. Except for Imladrik, this was no longer a place he understood.

This was no homecoming for the prince, it was more like a trial.

Dark arbours drenched
in shadows gave way to thicker brush, thorny branched pines and an altogether denser arboreal gloom. These were wild lands, heavily forested, and beasts lurked in the mountains brooding overhead. A small war party moved through the thickening forest, fleet of foot and lightly armoured but wary.

A tall warrior dressed in tan and crimson led the modest group. Leather-clad, he carried a long bow and had a quiver half full of arrows strapped to his back. He was lithe, with almond-shaped eyes and a mane of golden hair tightly bound in a ponytail behind his neck.

Sighting prey, the warrior stopped and signalled silently to his companions to do the same. One was a burly-looking woodsman with thick furs draped over his back. He had drawn a hunting knife and a large double-bladed axe sat in a sheath between his shoulders, haft sticking up. The other laboured under a red hauberk, not as used to the forest as the other two. A short sword slapped against his thigh and three more quivers full of arrows were slung over his shoulder. Despite his shorn hair, which was night black, he was sheened with sweat.

‘I see you…’ whispered the leader, silently drawing an arrow and nocking it to his bow in a single seamless motion.

Scenting danger, the great stag realised it was being stalked. Raising its mighty antlered head, it snorted the air and the muscles bunched in its legs as it made to flee.

The swan-feathered shaft made almost no sound as it was released into the air. It sped swiftly in a white blur, dagger sharp and lightning fast. It pierced the great stag’s heart, killing it instantly.

‘Ha!’ King Caledor looked pleased with his kill. A fine mist was coming off the beast, a fever sweat that was fading to nothing as the heat of its body expired.

‘Flense it, woodsman,’ he said to the fur-clad brute, who nodded. ‘I want fur, flesh and meat. Spare nothing except for the head, which I shall take as a trophy.’

‘See, Hulviar,’ said Caledor to the other elf, gesturing to the woodsman who was quickly about his task. ‘Chracians do have their uses.’

‘Ever since your father’s time, they have been the protectors of the king, my liege.’

‘Yes, the White Lions,’ Caledor sneered, ‘but
he
is just some peasant.’

If the Chracian heard his noble lord, he was wise enough not to show it.

‘How many is that today?’ Caledor asked.

‘Seven, my liege. You have denuded this part of the forest.’

Caledor’s eyes narrowed and he smiled self-indulgently. ‘Indeed, I have.’

The sound of branches snapping underfoot had the king raise his bow again, and Hulviar draw his sword.

‘Who goes there?’ demanded the retainer.

The woodsman had work to do, and continued with it. Besides, he had been aware of the intruder several minutes ago and knew it was no threat.

‘Stand down, Hulviar. I am no great stag to be skewered by my brother’s wayward arrow,’ came a voice from the gloom.

Another warrior emerged into the clearing where the woodsman was butchering the dead stag.

‘Khalnor,’ said the warrior, who received a warm nod of greeting from the Chracian.

The king smiled so broadly that it filled his face, if not quite his eyes.

‘Never forget a name, do you, little brother?’ Handing the long bow to Hulviar, Caledor went over to the warrior and embraced him.

‘A lesson you would benefit from learning,’ he chastised mildly.

Caledor whispered, ‘I can always call them peasant, can I not, Imladrik?’

There was amusement in the king’s face that Imladrik hoped wasn’t genuine.

‘I have returned, brother.’

‘For which you have my thanks.’ Caledor let him go, favouring his brother with another half-smile, before walking from the clearing.

Imladrik followed. He was still clad in his dragon armour, though he’d removed the greaves and wore only the cuirass and vambraces.

‘When I received your missive, I was under the impression that the skirmishes had escalated to something more serious and yet here you are… hunting.’

‘It is good sport during this part of the season, brother, and as you can see…’ Parting the thick bracken, Caledor stepped into another clearing where several more high elves pored over a map stretched across a white table. It sat beneath a tented pavilion where servants decanted wine and served silver platters of truffles. ‘My advisors keep me well apprised.’

Imladrik joined them at once as Caledor slumped upon a plush couch to remove his boots and hunting apparel.

He nodded to the assembled lordlings, greeting them all by name. To a man, they responded in kind, showing Imladrik the same amount of deference as their King.

Though he thought he had kept it hidden, the prince noticed his brother’s scowl at the way the other nobles and warriors treated him. Imladrik was beloved.

‘He seeks inroads through the Caledorian Mountains and Ellyrion,’ he observed, fathoming the situation instantly without need of assistance from any of his brother’s advisors.

‘Lord Athinol requires reinforcement,’ said Caledor idly. ‘More swords and spears to watch the passes. Every day more Naggarothi scum penetrate our watchtowers.’

‘I am dismayed to hear that,’ Imladrik said honestly, ‘but unfortunately I bring further bad tidings.’

Caledor frowned, as if sensing his hunting trip was about to be curtailed.

‘Relations with the dwarfs have soured.’ Imladrik looked up from the map to regard his brother, who was sipping from a silver chalice.

‘Hardly a surprise. What of it?’

It took all of Imladrik’s composure to bite back his exasperation. ‘Our colonies in the Old World are in danger. There have been murders, I believe by druchii, designed to foment ill will between our two races.’

Caledor sat up, but held on to his wine.

‘Again, I cannot see how this is of import to Ulthuan. We have our own problems to deal with.’

‘There are over eighty thousand elves in the dwarf realm, with more arriving every day. Trade has been completely suspended by their High King.’

‘And still I do not see the imperative here,’ said Caledor. ‘Malekith has been beaten. Sorely. But he is not vanquished. Did you not hear what I said about our borders, brother?’

‘I did hear it, but I am talking about the prospect of a full scale war on foreign soil.’

‘With the mud-dwellers,’ Caledor laughed, loudly and derisively. ‘Let them return to their holes and tunnels. Our lands here in Ulthuan are threatened and I have need of generals to protect them.’ He nodded to Imladrik. ‘
You
, dear brother.’