The Great Betrayal (36 page)

‘I do not think this problem should be ignored.’

Caledor rose to his feet, shedding the leather armour for a close-fitting tunic of blue velvet. ‘And so why did you return if matters are so dire?’

Though he found it hard to admit, Imladrik was jaded. He thought his years spent in the Old World, living amongst and trading with the dwarfs, had fostered a culture of understanding. That assumption had been dashed when the High King had refused his aid, expelled the elves from his lands and shut his gates.

‘My presence there was not helping the situation.’ It was a half-truth.

Caledor seemed not to notice or care.

‘Let the colonies look after themselves. We have other vassals better suited to that task, do we not?

‘There is Lord Salendor of Athel Maraya and Lady Athinol of Kor Vanaeth, amongst others. In them I pledge my trust and confidence, but they do not share my temperance.’

At this remark, Caledor smirked. ‘And how is the Caledorian princess?’

‘Well, but belligerent as ever.’

‘Much like her father then,’ Caledor added by way of an aside. ‘Tell me, brother, have you seen your wife or have you yet to divest yourself of your army?’

‘Yethanial awaits me in Cothique.’

Swilling the last of his wine around the chalice, Caledor tried to appear nonchalant. ‘How many did you bring back with you, brother?’

‘Ten thousand warriors and a head of fifty dragons,’ Imladrik stated flatly.

‘Quite a host. And Oeragor, it flourishes?’

‘Less well without my presence, but yes.’

‘A pity, but the needs of Ulthuan must come first.’

‘Of course, brother.’

‘What is it they call you again?’ Caledor asked, feigning interest in his empty chalice. ‘Ah yes, that was it…
Master of Dragons
. Such a curious little honorific and one I have never really understood.’

‘It’s ceremonial, and a tad archaic. I am the last Master of Dragons.’

Caledor sniffed, mildly amused. ‘And they should be mastered, shouldn’t they?’

‘Our bond with the drakes is a harmonious one, forged of mutual respect.’

‘Indeed,’ Caledor replied, though he did not sound convinced. His disdain for dragons was well known, his opinion of their servitude to the elves a matter of some consternation amongst the older drakes. Fortunately, it was also one that had yet to be debated.

Imladrik got the sense that Caledor had discovered what he needed to and was rapidly losing interest in their conversation. This was confirmed when he changed subject.

‘I want to show you something, Imladrik,’ said Caledor, turning his attention to his retainers. ‘Hulviar.’

The retainer nodded, evidently prepared for his king’s theatrics as he tossed a scabbarded blade which Caledor caught and drew with ease.

‘It’s a sword, brother,’ observed Imladrik, nonplussed.

Caledor showed him the edge, the runes upon the flat of the blade and how it shone in the dappled sunlight coming through the forest canopy overhead.

‘Sapherian steel,’ he said. ‘As light as goose down but deadlier than a Chracian’s axe blade. I had it made.’

Caledor turned the weapon in a series of intricate moves, rolling it over in half-swings and switching from hand to hand in a dazzling, but vainglorious display of swordsmanship.

‘Impressive,’ said Imladrik without much enthusiasm. ‘You dropped your scabbard,’ he added, stooping to pick up the scabbard from where Caledor had carelessly discarded it.

The king took it and sheathed the sword, obviously upset with his brother’s apathy.

‘You have had a long journey,’ he said, ‘and must be tired, which explains your mood, Imladrik. Return to Cothique, see your wife and then come to Lothern and my court. We have much to discuss.’ He was already turning his back when he added, ‘You have six days.’

Imladrik bowed, albeit curtly and lacking in deference. His brother the king had measured the threat he posed to his rule and had positioned him here to neutralise it. Imladrik cared not for the trappings of rulership. He didn’t lust for power or standing and so was happy to oblige.

Mounting his horse at the edge of the deeper forest, his thoughts were troubled nonetheless, but not by that. The maps and charts strewn upon the war table showed the dark elves had made extensive inroads into Ulthuan. Attacks were obviously increasing and together with that, he suspected, was dark elf involvement in the Old World. Imladrik wondered just how spent a force Malekith really was.

A war with the dwarfs would decimate the high elves, take them to the brink of destruction. After that, it wouldn’t take much to push them over the edge and into oblivion.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The Gathering Throng

A vast force
of dwarf warriors had gathered on the shores of the Black Water.

Early morning brought with it a dense fog that rolled off the mirror-dark sheen of the lake-filled crater in a grey pall. Cloth banners, topped by icons of bronze and copper, fluttered in the wind. The standards of the brotherhoods were metal only, forged from gold and silver, and sat apart from the clans. The debris of over two hundred extinguished campfires littered the high-sided gorge where the dwarfs had sung songs, supped ale and eaten roast beef and pork, elk and goat the night before. What began as bawdy drinking ditties, the lyrical mottos of the clans and the sombre litanies of the brotherhoods, became a rousing war chant that disturbed crag eagles from their eyries and sent greenskins for miles around scampering in fear of death.

Khazuk!
was the cry that pealed across the Black Water, in the shadow of Zhufbar where fifteen thousand warriors had assembled. Several hours later with the sun just reaching up over the peaks, the echo of their belligerence had still to fade.

War was coming to the elves, and the dwarfs would bring it to them.

They merely awaited the order of their general to march.

Snorri paced the edge of the lake, fancying he could discern the shadow of bestial creatures moving languidly in its fathomless depths. He was arrayed in his full war panoply, a winged helm fastened to his belt by its chinstrap, and chuntered loudly.

Most of the other dwarfs couldn’t hear him. They were too busy making preparations themselves, sharpening axes, tightening the bindings on hammers, fastening armour plates and tying off vambraces. Colours were unfurled, icons presented to the sky, horns and drums beat in a warm-up staccato. The clan warriors jostled and joked; but the brotherhoods, the longbeards and ironbreakers, the hearthguard and runesmiths, wore grim faces, for they all knew what they were about to undertake.

So did Snorri, and it was this thought as well as respect for his father that warred within him.

‘They gave us no choice,’ said a voice from behind him.

Snorri started. He had thought he was alone.

‘Drogor…’ he said, as if just speaking the dwarf’s name made him weary.

‘But,’ said Drogor, coming closer, ‘if you were to halt the march, no one would brand you a coward. You were merely fulfilling the wishes of your father and High King.’

‘I am not my father’s vassal lord, for him to command,’ Snorri snapped. ‘I have a destiny too.’

‘A great one,’ Drogor conceded, bowing his head in a gesture of contrition. ‘I meant no offence, my prince, only that you should not feel forced into action.’

‘We will march, by Grimnir,’ Snorri scowled. ‘This has gone on long enough. If my father lacks the courage to do something then I, as heir of Karaz-a-Karak, will.’

‘Justly spoken, my prince.’

Snorri frowned. ‘Drogor, please. To you I am Snorri, not “my prince”.’

Drogor bowed again as if at court. ‘As you wish, Snorri.’ He smiled. ‘Shall I see to the preparations of the warriors?’

Snorri nodded. ‘Yes, do it. Begin the muster and send runners to Thagdor and Brynnoth, even Luftvarr. I want to speak with all three before we leave Black Water.’

‘As you wish.’

Drogor departed just as another dwarf was coming into view, emerging through the lake fog which was thick as pitch.

Morgrim gestured to Snorri’s winged war helm. ‘Didn’t think you needed one.’

‘I like the wings. Makes me look important,’ Snorri replied, grinning. ‘Or perhaps my head has grown soft, cousin.’

‘Perhaps it has,’ said Morgrim, glaring after the Karak Zorn dwarf. He seemed to blend with the mist, becoming spectral until he was lost from sight completely. ‘I hope he is not giving you more bad counsel.’

‘He is a dutiful thane and valuable advisor,’ Snorri replied with a little bite to his tone.

‘
Thane
is it now?’

It had been several weeks since the High King’s pronouncement that all trade would be suspended with elves. Armies were mustering too, and the weapon shops of all the holds toiled day and night churning out armour and war engines for what Gotrek hoped would be a stockpile of materiel he would never need to call upon. Short of declaring outright war, it was as far as the High King could go to assert his authority as well as present a clear warning to the elves. His edict had been welcome news, but for many did not go nearly far enough. Snorri counted himself amongst that number and in Drogor found an ally more willing to listen to his concerns than his peace-favouring cousin. Nonetheless, he had wanted Morgrim by his side in this and so here they were, together, if at odds with one another.

‘Aye, thane. He has no hold, no clan. I will make him a clan lord of Karaz-a-Karak in recognition for his deeds and loyalty. It is only honourable and right.’

‘Then why do you look so troubled, cousin?’

‘Because I am about to go to war against the wishes of the High King and am painfully lacking in warriors.’

‘You have over fifteen thousand axes, if the loremaster’s tallying is accurate.’

‘Aye, but none from Eight Peaks and no word from King Varnuf.’

‘He was at the council of kings with your father.’

‘And, no doubt, my father has convinced him it was not in his best interests to support me. Musters take time, all dawi know that, but three weeks is enough to send a missive or a war party.’

‘Perhaps he saw sense as you should do.’

Snorri roared, ‘What, to sit on my arse as elgi kill kith and kin with impunity?’ Some of the dwarfs nearby looked up as the shout resonated around the gorge, and the prince lowered his voice. ‘I can be idle no longer. I said if my father did not declare war then I would. Once it’s begun, he will see I was right and have no choice but to call the clans to battle. I know it.’

‘I hope you are right.’

‘If you do not believe in this then why are you here, Morg?’

Morgrim was already turning his back, disgusted by what he saw as warmongering for its own sake. Snorri wanted to prove his worth and the only way he could see of doing that was to wilfully go against his father and pick a fight with the elves.

Snorri called after his cousin. ‘Well? If you don’t want a fight then why come here bearing az un klad, eh? Why are you here, Morg?’

‘To stop you from getting yourself killed, you ufdi.’

He walked away and Snorri, though he wanted to apologise, to take back his words, could only watch.

With one last look at the stygian depths of the Black Water and the endless darkness within, he went to meet the kings. Heart-sore and weary beyond fatigue, his armour had never felt so heavy.

He did not want to defy his father but what choice did he have? Destiny, his destiny, was in the balance. Snorri
would
be king and this would cement his legacy. Gotrek had purged the greenskins, he would kill the elves.

Two kings with
their ceremonial hearthguard awaited Snorri beyond the mist-shrouded shores of Black Water. Brynnoth of Barak Varr was bedecked in scaled armour of sea green. A teal leather cloak, emblazoned with images of mermen and other sea beasts, was cinched to his shoulders by a pair of kraken-headed pauldrons. His war helm bore a nose guard studded with emeralds and carried an effigy of a sea dragon as its crest. Snug in its belt loop was a broad-bladed axe with a toothed edge like the fangs of some leviathan.

Thagdor’s armour was less ostentatious. He favoured a simple bronze breastplate over gilded chainmail. His vambraces were leather and sewn with the images of hammers. An open helmet with a slide-down faceplate sat on the table beside him and his hammer was strapped to his back, the haft jutting out from behind a cloak of purple velvet.

From where he’d been stooping over the table, Brynnoth looked up. He scratched the hollow under his eyepatch as Snorri approached.

‘My prince,’ he said, sketching a short bow.

Thagdor did the same, but was less deferential to the young heir of Karaz-a-Karak.

‘So when are we getting bloody going then?’ he asked. ‘My boots are rough as a troll’s arse I’ve been standing around that chuffing long.’ Thagdor thumbed over his shoulder to where a large cohort of dwarfs was gathering. ‘I’ve got nigh on seven thousand beards mustered behind me, lad, and they want a bloody good scrap.’

The sun had risen higher in the last few minutes and was slowly burning away the morning mist, revealing the full glory of the dwarf throng.

Thagdor had brought the bulk of the army and a great many siege engines, but then they were practically on the doorstep of Zhufbar. It was mainly clan dwarfs and miners, but with a strong cohort of hearthguard. Sailed up from the Sea Hold across the Skull River were another five thousand dwarfs of King Brynnoth’s throng, many of which were longbeards roused to battle by the tragic death of Agrin Fireheart. The rest came from Luftvarr, two thousand Norse dwarfs who just wanted a decent fight, and the clans that were loyal to Snorri in Everpeak. Others had pledged their allegiance to his cause too. Hrekki Ironhandson of Karak Varn and dwarf throngs from Karak Hirn were to meet them at the edge of Black Fire Pass.

The route was inked out on the parchment map lying on the table. South across the fringe of the mountains, along the hills and rocky tors until reaching the mouth of the pass. From there, with some twenty thousand dwarfs in tow, north-west to the first elven city of Kor Vanaeth. Only by attacking a settlement of some significance would the dwarfs make clear the elves were no longer welcome in the Old World. Snorri meant to sack Kor Vanaeth, to raze it to the ground utterly. It was a long march, one that would take several weeks with mules and trappings, but the prince was patient. He had waited this long for his father to act and been content to watch as the High King did nothing. Now, he would show his mettle and seize the destiny that had been foretold to him by Ranuld Silverthumb.

‘We are ready,’ he said huskily. It was no small thing to defy his father, but Snorri kept telling himself the dishonour of it was outweighed by the indignity of standing by and letting elves kill dwarfs without retribution.

Brynnoth gripped the young prince’s hand. There were tears in the dwarf king’s eye. Salt stained his beard and a briny odour emanated off his clothes.

‘Thank you, lad,’ he whispered. There was fire in Brynnoth’s gaze too, fuelling his desire for vengeance at Agrin’s death.

Nodding, Snorri slipped free of the sea king’s hand and signalled the call to march.

Drums and horns echoed around the gorge, followed by the raucous clanking of armoured dwarfs moving into position.

To the outsider dwarfs might appear stunted and slow, but when properly motivated they are quick and direct. Such a fact had often caused their enemies to underestimate them, and believe them cumbersome creatures when the opposite was true.

‘Luftvarr of Kraka Drak,’ Snorri called, seeing the Norse dwarf king who looked up at the prince from brawling with his warriors. ‘Do you stand with me?’

Brandishing his axe into the sky, Luftvarr roared and his huscarls roared with him, a belligerent chorus that shook the earth from the surrounding mountains.