‘Aye,’ agreed King Orrik. He’d looped his thumbs beneath his belt and rocked back on his heels as he eyed the arboreal gloom nervously. ‘In times of war, we should hole up behind walls, shut our tower doors and gates until this wind of conflict passes by.’
The King of Kazad Mingol wore a tall helm that resembled the towering keep from which his hold hall took its name. His beard was long, bound by clasps of iron, and his moustaches curled in blond loops beneath his nose. His teeth seldom parted when he spoke, a portcullis ever shut, his mouth a tight line that rarely broke a smile. Lamellar armour clad his body, and one of his warriors hefted a large shield that bore the emblem of his hold, a tower fort impervious to attack.
‘Please,’ uttered Kerrik, who could not be further out of his depth if he were swimming the length of the Black Water in full armour, ‘all will be explained soon.’
‘Three hours we have been here already!’ snapped Orrik, glowering at the youth. ‘When do you expect soon to be?’
‘I…’ Kerrik looked around but could find no sign or suggestion of his lord. ‘I don’t know.’
‘This is a lot of krut,’ said Kruk, gesturing to his warriors. ‘I have waited long enough.’
‘You’re leaving?’ asked Orrik, his indignation vanishing. ‘But what of Grum? You would defy his summons?’
King Kruk paused, as did his warriors. Grum was a fearsome and brutal king. Neither Kruk nor Orrik wanted to incur his wrath, but waiting in the forest for something that might never happen could be just as deadly to their health.
‘It does not sound like Grum to me. Why would he leave his counting house, the warmth of his hall to meet us out here?’ He leaned in close, hissing. ‘There might be elgi, or the Starbreaker’s warriors. And I wish for neither an arrow in the back nor to be pressed into the mountain king’s horde.’
Orrik nodded, seeing the sense in that.
Both were set to leave when a voice rang out of the shadows.
‘Hold,’ it said, as Rundin stepped into the light.
‘Ravenhelm?’ asked Kruk, turning.
Orrik eyed him shrewdly. ‘The High King’s champion. What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for some skarren backbone, but seeing little,’ he snapped. ‘This beardling has more courage.’
Kruk snarled. ‘Be careful, king’s thane,’ he said, gesturing to his warriors.
One hefted his axe until he heard the tautening string of a crossbow.
Orrik looked around. Over twenty of Rundin’s rangers surrounded them, though they had yet to take aim. Silent as shadows, they had crept up on the dwarf host without being noticed.
‘I brought them so you would listen,’ said Rundin.
Grumbling, both kings turned around and settled in to hear what the champion had to say.
‘I’m not here on Grum’s behalf,’ Rundin began.
‘Then whose are you here on?’ Kruk’s eyes narrowed.
‘Our people’s, the skarrenawi.’
‘You mean your own,’ said Kruk. ‘What are you brewing, king’s thane?’
‘He speaks of betrayal, dressed in the cloak of patriotism,’ spat Orrik, hawking up a fat gob of phlegm at the champion’s feet.
‘Aye,’ said Rundin, advancing on the two liege-lords until they were almost nose to nose. ‘I do. But not of mine, of our High King’s.’
‘Thagging traitor!’ Kruk made to move, slipping his hand around the haft of his axe, but Rundin put him down with a swift punch. Now the rangers brought up their crossbows, keeping King Kruk’s warriors in check.
‘I am sorry, my king,’ said Rundin, ‘but I need you to listen.‘ He glared at Orrik who was just releasing the grip of his hammer, adding, ‘Both of you.’
Kruk was rubbing his jaw but got to his feet unaided. Begrudgingly, he conceded.
‘Go on then, speak your piece.’
Rundin nodded and stepped back, adopting a less threatening posture.
‘Our liege-lord is mad. His mind is lost to the yellow fever.’
Orrik was shaking his head, incredulous. ‘What do you mean, “lost”?’
Rundin rounded on him. ‘Gorl and galaz and bryn. Gold, King Orrik. Skarnag Grum had succumbed to the gold lust. He drools in his counting house, oblivious to his kingdom and his people. I entered in search of counsel and found not a king, but a zaki in his place.’
‘Grum has always been covetous, but the fever?’ said Kruk. ‘I can’t believe that.’
‘Come and see it for yourselves if you must,’ said Rundin.
Orrik sniffed with mild contempt. ‘Even if he has succumbed to the fever, what care is it of ours?’
‘Our High King is lost, and one of you must take his place.’
The glint of pride shimmered in the eyes of both kings as they weighed up the possibilities. That pride vanished with the champion’s next words.
‘To lead us into the war.’
‘Out of the question!’ Kruk was already leaving. He glared at the nearest ranger, daring him to shoot.
Orrik squared up to Rundin. He was taller than most dwarfs, even the champion, but the extra foot he had on him didn’t make Rundin balk.
‘You’re a fool, Ravenhelm. Why would we go to war when we can batten our hatches and seal our gates? We’ll weather this storm. It’ll blow itself out soon enough.’
‘It won’t,’ Rundin told him. ‘You think the elgi will yield? Did you not hear what their king did to our ambassadors? He shaved them, sheared the hair from their faces like they were hruk. If that is his reaction to a banner of peace, what do you think he’ll do to a host of dawi under the banner of war?’
Now surrounded by his warriors, Kruk looked over his shoulder. ‘The Starbreaker will crush them, send them back across the sea. Why should we get involved?’
‘Because we are dawi by any other name!’ Rundin declared. ‘Our blood runs the same as the mountain clans. We should take up arms, honour them with our pledge of allegiance.’
‘For what?’ asked Orrik, backing down when he realised Rundin couldn’t be intimidated by his size. ‘So our throngs can dwindle in the war, so our
