‘Valaya’s mercy,’ Rundin breathed, stepping into the corona of light cast by the candle. ‘What has become of you, my noble King Grum?’
At the mention of his name, the king of the hill dwarfs looked up with rheumy, manic eyes.
‘Run-din.’ His mouth struggled to form the word, drooling saliva.
Holding back his anguish, Rundin knelt beside the king.
‘Yes, my liege,’ he said, cradling his cheek like a father to a beardling. ‘It is me.’
Capricious as winter snow, Skarnag Grum recoiled from his protector, his face a mask of accusation.
‘Why are you here?’ he snapped, gathering his gold to him, spilling piles of it and snatching at the errant coins. ‘You want my gold, don’t you? You want it!’
Rundin stood up, shaking his head.
‘No, my liege,’ he said calmly. ‘But you must leave this place. Come with me now.’
Skarnag’s eyes narrowed. ‘So you can slip in when I’m absent. You have the look of a skaz about you, Rundin.’ He stood, a filthy loincloth the only scrap of clothing to preserve a shred of dignity. ‘My protector turned skaz,’ he said, jabbing a finger, ‘coveting my gold from afar, waiting for his chance to steal it! Is that it? Eh? Eh!’
Rundin did not want to see any more. He turned around, the king cursing his every step until he sank back down amidst his hoard.
Wiping the tears from his eyes, Rundin paused as he reached the door. Skarnag Grum was still muttering,
‘And renk is glam and hnon is geln and bruz…’
The goldmasters were waiting for him on the other side, their faces caught between fear and admonishment.
‘There will be consequences for what you did,’ said one.
‘Defiance of the king is an act worthy of grudgement,’ said another.
Rundin did not meet their eyes. Such wretched dwarfs who had so utterly failed their king were unworthy of his attention.
‘Whatever that dawi was in there,’ he said, leaving the goldmasters in his wake, ‘he is not our king.’
Beyond the Great Hall, which led from the counting house, a long gallery was thronged with hill dwarfs. News had travelled fast of King Gotrek Starbreaker’s declaration of war. Clans were amassing, unsure what to do, waiting for the orders of their king. Orders that Rundin knew would not come.
‘Kerrik Sternhawk!’ he bellowed at one idle-looking warrior. ‘Follow me.’
The dwarf obeyed at once. He was fresh-faced with barely a growth of beard, a youth but one that Rundin knew he could trust.
‘Thane Rundin?’ asked the beardling, falling into step with the king’s protector.
‘You are the Kro’s fastest runner,’ he said. ‘I need you to convey a message of the utmost importance and secrecy. Can you do that?’
Kerrik looked concerned and confused as they left the gallery and walked out into the light, but nodded immediately.
‘Good,’ said Rundin. ‘Relate this exactly as spoken…’
Tracing his finger across a narrow line on the map, Snorri sucked his teeth.
‘Elgi will be thronging the roads,’ he said.
‘And if the last army we fought is any gauge, the numbers will be greater,’ Morgrim suggested.
‘They are bloody greater the closer we get to Tor-chuffing-Alessi,’ snapped Thagdor, finding the elf words difficult to pronounce. Since they were not dwarf holds, they had not bothered to name the elf cities in Khazalid. It had seemed unimportant.
Since Kor Vanaeth they had met the elves in battle three more times. On each occasion the dwarfs had been victorious, but on each occasion they had taken losses.
During the last engagement, a band of swift, bow-armed riders had destroyed several of the Karak Varn war machines. In another, over two hundred clansmen had died to the combined sorcery of three elven mages.
The rearguard, made up of clans from the Sea Hold, had been harried for over six days during the last march. Eighteen warriors lay dead as a result. Despite the best efforts of their rangers, the dwarfs could not bring the perpetrators to heel.
Arrows were the worst – the elves possessed uncanny accuracy. Digging graves for dwarfs slain by arrows had delayed Snorri’s army by several days already.
Snorri turned to King Brynnoth, who had promised further reinforcements from Barak Varr.
‘Any news from your hold, my king?’
‘Some,’ he said, chewing on a thigh bone he had divested of the meat several minutes ago. ‘Four wagons bearing arms and armour were lost whilst crossing the Vaults, a grudge against Dammin Cloud-eye for his ineptitude,’ he grumbled. ‘Another message speaks of foraging in the forest for wood and provisions when the throng was attacked.’
‘Attacked?’ asked Morgrim. ‘We are close to the forest, our route might take us into the neighbouring Grey Mountains.’
Brynnoth’s face reddened. ‘Said it was haunted by unquiet spirits. Trees came alive, they reckon.’
‘I have heard similar tales from our cousins of Karak Norn,’ uttered Valarik fearfully, making the protective sigil of Valaya.
Snorri frowned, unconvinced. Thagdor had to stifle a laugh.
‘Who leads this throng?’ asked the prince.
‘Ungrim Shaftcleaver,’ said Brynnoth. ‘A trusted thane of my hold, or so I thought.’
‘Perhaps he was addled by the sun?’ suggested Drogor. ‘I have seen such things happen before in the Southlands.’
‘In winter?’ said Thagdor, incredulous.
Snorri exhaled ruefully. ‘It doesn’t matter. Tell Shaftcleaver to get his warriors here as quickly as he can. We are now thirty thousand dawi, just over, and there’s still a long way to go to the elgi city.’
‘Which route do we take then, cousin?’ asked Morgrim. ‘The passes through the mountains, risking the wrath of the Fey Forest?’ He glared at Thagdor, who stopped chuckling to offer an apology, before carrying on, ‘Or march down the Brundin Road and walk right up to their gates?’
‘I’ll happily ruddy knock at their doors,’ boasted Thagdor.
‘Aye,’ agreed Ironhandson, who was still sore over the wrecking of his war engines. ‘Let them see us coming. Likely the pointy-ears will soil themselves first and then flee.’
Snorri doubted that. The elves were not as soft-skinned and callow-hearted as any of the dwarfs had believed.
Crouched over the map, his lords arrayed around him, he found he was at an impasse. Though he would never admit it, he
