Two walkers, dwarfs and nobles judging by their attire. They were armed, but looked as if they had already been in a fight, and they were alone.
Killing merchants in cold blood was one thing, murdering the sons of some thane or king was another entirely. It went against orders, and Sevekai was nothing if not a dutiful soldier.
‘Tempting, but too risky. The dwarfs will look more closely at their deaths.’
The black-clad warriors were peeling away from the summit of the ridge, back into the night, when Kaitar crept up behind Sevekai and gripped his shoulder. It was light, like a breath of wind brushing against him at first, but with a fearsome strength.
Sevekai snarled but his wrath died in his throat when he looked into Kaitar’s eyes. They were fathomless black, as deep pits of cruelty as he’d ever seen.
‘Two scalps like that are worth a hundred wagons,’ he purred without insistence, like he was stating an irrefutable fact.
Despite his earlier misgivings, Sevekai could see the sense in his words and the eagerness for spilling more blood in his followers. He wondered briefly if Kaitar was trying to usurp his leadership but could see no concealed blade, no desire for command in his eyes. He only exuded a frightful ennui, something dark and shrivelled that Sevekai couldn’t reach.
He turned to Numenos. ‘How many more asur shafts remain?’
‘Enough to stick two stunted pigs.’
Sevekai held his gaze then nodded. Licking the dryness from his lips, moistening his throat so his voice wouldn’t catch, he said to Kaitar, ‘We kill the nobles.’
Fashioned of heavy stone, the door to the Rorganzbar needed at least two dwarfs to push it. From the outside it was hard to find, even for those looking for it. Crafted in such a way that it blended in with its surroundings, only a dwarf who knew the exact place and correct height at which to stand could ever hope to find the way into the underdeep through the Rorganzbar.
Snow, light for the time of year, dappled the crags and grassy heaths as the dwarfs stepped outside. The door closed behind them, shut by its own weight in a clever piece of dwarf engineering.
Before them, a long and narrow path that wound around the foothills of the mountains. Above, the towering peaks of the Worlds Edge so high they were lost in thick cloud. Amongst them was Karaz-a-Karak, hold hall of the High King and their home.
It would be a long walk back.
‘See that crag over there?’ Morgrim pointed. ‘The one shaped like a tooth?’
Snorri nodded, mastering a sense of agoraphobia washing over him. A lifetime spent living under the earth where there was no sky apart from the vaulted chambers of the ancestors and the great hold halls had bred a fear of the upper world and all its vastness.
‘I see it, cousin,’ he gasped, not used to the crispness of the air.
‘That’s Karak Varn, and in that deep depression where the mountains and hills thin…’ He gestured again. Snorri nodded. ‘Black Water,’ said Morgrim. ‘We head south from here, and try to pick up the Silk Road then the Dwarf Road down from Black Fire Pass. Follow it all the way back to hearth and hold.’
‘Where I hope there’s meat and beer waiting for us and a fire to warm my feet.’ Snorri laughed, as the two began to walk. ‘You have been ranging with Furgil, I see.’
Thane of pathfinders, Furgil knew the roads and byways of the overground world well, better than any in Karaz-a-Karak. An expert tracker, he was seldom below the earth and spent much of his time under sky instead.
‘You’d do well to heed some of his wisdom, cousin.’
Snorri shrugged. ‘For a skarrenawi, he is not so bad, I suppose. But what need have I for trees and sky?’ He kept his eyes down on the road, on the earth, but his gaze drifted.
Hills undulated below, covered with thick forests of fir and pine, hardy even in winter. Elk and goats watched the passage of the dwarfs nervously from shadowed arbours and brush-choked glades. Deep within the forest, near to the low road, a crow cawed. This close to the mountain there were tors, thickly veiled with rock. Throughout the ages, much of the mountainside had slipped, creating crag-toothed valleys and boulder-strewn fields.
Snorri was glad to feel the solidity of the road underfoot. Strong and flat, it wended around the mountain out of respect. By contrast, the lands beyond it were wild and ragged. This was the domain of the skarrenawi, dwarfs who had left the mountain long ago to find fortune and sovereignty amongst the foothills. Their gilded cities had a dwarf aesthetic. Squat structures of stone and petrified wutroth, resilient to the elements and fortified against attack from beasts and urk or grobi, they had stood for centuries. Outposts dotted the lands of the low hills and plains but the larger cities were few. Kazad Kro was chief amongst them but there was also Kazad Mingol and Kagaz Thar.
Three kings were there of the skarrenawi, but Snorri’s father believed there would be more before the century was out.
In truth, the prince knew little more about them. His father had often remarked on how numerous the skarrenawi had become, of their flourishing trade with elves and men from distant lands he did not remember the names of. They were distinctly un-dwarfish names and so Snorri had no interest in them.
‘Have you ever visited the hill forts?’ asked Morgrim, following Snorri’s gaze.
‘Once. My father brought me to a council with Skarnag Grum, though I think he just wanted to remind the fat noble of who was High King. Two hundred hearthguard and retainers travelled with us and father was carried upon his throne.’
‘Are they like us?’ Morgrim asked. Though he knew Furgil, he had never been to the hill forts.
‘They are dawi… of a fashion. Their skin is lighter and softer. Fairer haired, too, and with shorter beards,
