‘Which is it to be then, lad?’ asked Thagdor, stabbing at the map with his finger. ‘Road or mountain pass?’
Snorri rubbed his beard. Both ways were perilous, and so far no rangers had returned from their scouting to offer any idea of the sort of numbers the dwarfs faced at Tor Alessi. It was their largest settlement, but Kor Vanaeth had fallen easily enough. Surely, this Tor Alessi would capitulate in similar fashion.
‘Cousin,’ muttered Morgrim, ‘you must make a decision.’
Snorri answered through clenched teeth, ‘I am thinking.’ He had settled on a course and was about to tell his generals when a shout came from deeper in the camp. Through the parting throngs, there hurried a beardling, a runner.
‘Prince Snorri,’ he gasped, struggling for breath. The youth kneeled until Snorri told him to get up and spit out whatever he had come to tell him. ‘Rangers, my liege,’ said the youth, ‘from Karaz-a-Karak.’
At some instinctive sign Snorri looked up over the runner’s shoulder and beheld a face he hadn’t seen for some time. Despite the obvious tension associated with the ranger’s arrival, he smiled.
‘Tromm, Furgil.’
Supping deep of the black beer in his tankard, Furgil smacked his lips and sighed.
‘Been a while since I had the taste of proper ale on my tongue,’ he said. ‘Grog has been all we had to sustain us for the last two weeks.’
The pathfinder had arrived in camp with nineteen other rangers, all well-worn and travel-weary but clearly having seen little actual battle. Apparently, they had skirmished with orcs and goblins of the mountains, even seen a band of elven riders in the distance, but little else. Wisely, their enemies were moving away from the dwarf holds of the Worlds Edge. Should they not, they would be trampled by a shield wall of some fifty thousand dwarfs or more. Warriors were amassing; the High King had called the clans and declared war.
When he had heard of the ambassador’s shaming, he and his guardians, Snorri had spat numerous oaths of vengeance. Grimbok was no friend to him, but he was a dwarf and no son of Grungni should endure such mistreatment. When his apoplexy had passed, he fell into a deep introspection, chewing at his beard as his father might have done in a similar situation.
Snorri reclined on a leather-backed throne sitting in the lee of his tent. A hearthguard stood nearby, eyes fixed on the horizon line that presaged storm. Grey, black clouds streaked low and fast, swelling with each passing moment and filling the sky with an endless gloom.
‘A wretched day to march,’ said the prince, drawing on his pipe. He was fully armoured, only his war helm resting against the leg of his throne, and shifted uncomfortably in his full panoply of battle. ‘I would prefer a steam bath and the attention of a buxom rinn.’
‘Wouldn’t we all,’ remarked Furgil, taking another pull of the black beer and leaving the foam to evaporate on his beard. ‘Except the bath, of course. An annual dunkin is just fine for me, my prince.’
‘Am I still your prince?’ Snorri asked curtly. ‘You have brought message of my father, his intention to make war, but said nothing of his mood.’
The tent was pitched on a rugged hillock that offered a decent view of the encampment. With his back to his lord, Furgil swept his gaze across the numerous snapping pennants, clan icons and banners that were mounted on the army’s tents. Dwarfs were massed outside them, some sparring, others merely sitting. They encircled fires, clutching tankards like he was, smoking or muttering. Some recounted grudges, others sang songs or bemoaned the weather and the air. Dwarfs were not so fond of air, at least not that which smelled of grass and river and bird. They longed for heat, for ash and smoke, for the reek of the deep earth.
There were a host of machineries, mostly under tarp but some being tended by engineers and their journeymen. He saw ballistae and catapults of varying size and girth. Many bore the rune of Karak Varn.
‘You have gathered quite the host,’ said Furgil, turning to face Snorri at last, ‘and, yes, you are still my prince and always shall be.’ He bowed his head, low in respect and fealty. ‘Your father is angry,’ he said, ‘and asks me to bid you wait for his army to reach you before marching further.’
Snorri scowled. ‘I will not be cowed by him, Furgil. When you return, you must tell him that. This–’ he gestured to the throng of dwarfs below, ‘–is my army. He may have declared war but it is I who have waged it first.’
‘As you wish, my prince. I merely convey the message.’
Snorri’s scowl turned into a questioning frown, and he leaned forwards. ‘Have all the holds mustered?’
Furgil nodded, draining his tankard before answering. ‘Aye. As well as the clans of the capital, your father the High King has Karak Drazh and the mining clans of Gunbad and Silverspear with his banner. Even Varnuf of the Eight Peaks marches, along with the holds of the south. North, there’s King Grundin and a contingent from Karak Ungor who have already suffered from elgin perfidy.’
Snorri raised an eyebrow in query.
‘Bagrik, their king, was slain by treachery,’ Furgil explained. ‘The length and breadth of the Worlds Edge, even the Vaults, the Grey and the Black, are bound to this war.’
‘Not all the realms of the dawi, though,’ said Snorri, his eyes never leaving the ranger who lowered his gaze in shame.
‘No, not all. Not yet.’
‘You know something
