‘And you, Furgil. How fares the King of Everpeak?’
‘Troubled, as he has been for the last twenty years or more. The third siege has failed, Tor Alessi yet stands and other cities are mustering greater and greater armies of elgi. Reinforcements would be generously received, I am sure.’
At this remark, Rundin averted his gaze to the stone circle.
‘And I would grant them, had I the power to.’
Furgil grunted at that, suggesting Rundin already did, but chose not to press. Instead he asked, ‘And what of the skarrens, my former kinsmen?’
‘Trade has come back, after a fashion. Not with the elgi, of course, but dawi from the Vaults and the Black Mountains. They bring talk as well as trade,’ he ventured.
‘Such as?’ Furgil was typically guarded, and Rundin faced him again to gauge his humour.
‘That the south is embattled, and that Gotrek is reluctant to bring full force of arms to bear against the elgi.’
‘He is wise, our king. All-out war would destroy our race, as it would theirs. Hope still remains that some agreement can be reached, or that the elgi will lose heart and give up.’
‘I also hear their king has no intention of leaving the Old World, that he is as arrogant an elgi as one could possibly be.’
‘You hear much, old friend.’
‘That sounded almost like an accusation, Furgil.’
The pathfinder shook his head. ‘Not at all, but I’m surprised at your keen interest in the war, given the skarrens’ abstention from it.’
‘Not my choice.’
Furgil lit his pipe, allowing the silence to stretch before asking, ‘How many from the hill clans are there now? Eighty thousand, more?’
‘Is that why you’re here, why you requested we meet? Does Gotrek want the skarrenawi for his throngs?’
‘You know he does,’ said Furgil. ‘I just wanted to see if you did.’
‘And do I?’
Furgril didn’t answer, but asked another question instead. ‘He still mad, is he? Your “High King”, the Grum?’
Rundin’s face darkened, first with anger then shame when he realised he had no rebuttal. His voice lowered to just above a whisper, as if to speak louder would somehow heap further disgrace upon the truth.
‘Lucidity comes and goes with the fever, but he’s locked in the counting house most days now. I think the gold-masters are puppeting him, but there’s little I can do about that unless Kruk and Orrik change their minds. And for over twenty years they’ve shown no sign of doing so. Both are saying the war is over.’
Furgil scoffed, watching the first rays of dawn spear across the lowlands and slowly scrape against the mountainside. ‘’Tis far from over. I know longbeards that’ve slept for more than twenty years. This is nothing. High King Gotrek is mustering again, so are all the kings. You’d do well to join us. Don’t think the elgi will know the difference between dawi and skarren when their armies come calling, and don’t expect protection from your kith and kin in the mountains if you’re not prepared to take up az un klad.’
Rundin bared his teeth. ‘I don’t like threats, Furgil, especially from those whom I consider friends.’
‘It’s no threat, it’s a fact.’ The pathfinder’s defiance lessened, the edge to his words dulled. ‘Go back to Kruk and Orrik, convince them that this is the right thing to do. Please, Rundin.’
Rundin didn’t answer, he just watched Furgil go and wondered what he would have to do to get his people out from under the yoke of Skarnag Grum.
In the Great Hall a huge map of cured troll hide described the entire realm of the dwarfs and was laid out on an octagonal table of dark wutroth. It had turned from a throne room into a chamber devoted to war. Around the map, several kings and thanes of the Karaz Ankor were discussing strategy.
‘And there is still nothing from the south, I take it?’ Thagdor looked almost smug, despite the scar he now wore on his face. ‘Bloody soft.’
‘King Hrallson is besieged, you northern oaf,’ snapped Brugandar. The King of Karak Drazh was the only one of the liege-lords south of Everpeak that had made the rinnkaz. He was a severe-looking character, with a wiry beard the colour of iron and a face just as unyielding. Drazh was known as the ‘Black Hold’ on account of its munificent mines and quarries. Coal was its principal export, but it also yielded much in the way of metal ore. In fact, Brugandar looked more like a miner than he did a king, just with all the bearing and confidence of one.
His declarative insult incited a raft of angered murmuring from some of the kings. All knew the elves had made solid inroads to the south. Varnuf of the Eight Peaks had done well to keep them at bay for this long but even his vast armies were not inexhaustible.
Finding only fools amongst the northern kings, Brugandar turned to the head of the table and the High King. His tone changed abruptly to one of the utmost respect. Although he had not personally fought in the first siege of Tor Alessi, he had lent many warriors to the cause.
‘Liege-lord,’ he intoned, ‘what about Karak Kadrin? Can we expect much from King Grundin and his throngs?’
Elbows leaning on the edge of the map, Gotrek looked over his steepled fingers at the many flags and icons representing elf and dwarf armies, as well as their bastions and holdfasts. There were a great deal on both sides, and the sight of this aged him further than the last two decades had. A war without end was the very thing he had fought so hard to avert, and now here they were.
‘Musters in the north must continue without interruption,’ he said. ‘And as requests to the mines at Silverspear and Gunbad have gone unanswered, I can only assume those greedy bastards have decided that digging is preferable to fighting. We are alone in this.’
‘Three times we’ve marched on those walls,’ said Valarik, ‘and three times we’ve failed to take the city. What
