‘You used all of it, on the ale and wine?’
An evil smile curled Ashniel’s lips. ‘Even the water.’
‘Then there’s nothing further for us here.’ Drutheira looked to the distant horizon and the storm rolling across it. She could almost hear the thunder of hooves.
Several miles from Zakbar Varf, a host of riders dismounted from a barge. They were hooded and twenty-five strong. Three more such bands were alighting from their own ship nearby. In a hidden grove, a few miles from the trading settlement, they would gather. Sharpening their blades and spear tips, they would wait for nightfall and then ride out.
CHAPTER NINE
Rinkkaz
Over eight hundred dwarfs crowded the room and still it echoed like a tomb.
The Great Hall of Karaz-a-Karak was the single largest chamber in the entire hold. A small town could fit into its vastness. A vaulted ceiling stretched into a gem-studded darkness overhead and columns broad enough to be towers punctuated miles-long walls against which monolithic statues of the ancestors glowered. There was a stern austerity to the hall, despite its roaring hearth and the dusty banners that stirred gently on the hot air.
Three runes arranged in a triangular formation and confined by a circle of copper and bronze sat in the middle of the dwarf gathering. Each rune was wrought from gold and when the light caught them in a certain way they shimmered with captured power. They were devoted to the chief ancestors: Grungni’s rune of oath and honour; Valaya’s of hearth and hold; and Grimnir’s of wrath and ruin. Each described an aspect of the dwarf race, their very essence which made them sons and daughters of the earth. If lore and legend was to be believed, the magic within the runes had been put there by the ancestors themselves. It was latent power, but would protect the dwarfs when needed.
Gotrek Starbreaker looked upon those runes now and tried to remember their lessons.
A dry, rasping voice uttered from parchment lips intruded on the High King’s thoughts.
‘Such a rare gathering of kings and thanes is a strong sign of a liege-lord’s strength, even though they bicker like beardlings.’
The voice put Gotrek in mind of forgotten halls, lost holds and leatherbound tomes caked in dust.
Looking down from his throne, he met the rheumy eyes of the oldest dwarf in Karaz-a-Karak, he of the longbeards who was simply called ‘the Ancient’.
‘Tromm, old one.’ The Ancient was wise beyond reckoning, his age uncounted and unknown except by the High King’s Loremaster. ‘Should it not concern me that my vassal lords snap at each other like jackals?’ he asked in a sideways fashion. He needn’t have been so surreptitious, for the dwarf nobles were not paying any attention.
The rinkkaz was a sacred oath that bound all kings. Barring recent death, war, plague or invasion, the council of kings was observed by all of the dwarf holds and occurred every decade. But it was also a chance to settle old scores or revive grudges that were never truly forgotten. For every rinkkaz, which often lasted several days, the incumbent High King would allow a period of grudgement for the other kings to vent some spleen. It made later discussion swifter and more amiable.
Gotrek was patient. He had to be. The Ancient never answered quickly and always considered every word. He would often say, at length, it was why he had lived for as many centuries as he had. In the end his breath came out of his wizened mouth like a pall of grave dust.
‘Better they bite at one another than sharpen their teeth on your hide.’
Leaning over, Gotrek whispered conspiratorially, ‘They would find it leathery and tough if they did, old one.’
The Ancient laughed at that, a grating, hacking cough of mirth that brought up clods of phlegm.
Gotrek slapped him on the back, loosening whatever was lodged in the old dwarf’s throat, and received a nod of thanks. He regarded the throng in front of him.
No fewer than seven dwarf kings, not including the High King himself, were in attendance. If a king could not be present at the rinkkaz then a delegate, an ambassador, lord or high thane, even a regent, was sent in his stead. Only the kings of the hill dwarfs were absent, a fact that was noticed by all.
‘Yet again, Skarnag makes his insolence plain to the realm…’ muttered Ranuld Silverthumb. The runelord was seated on the opposite side of the High King, wisdom and knowledge to his left and right. Only the captain of the hearthguard was closer, but the imposing figure of Thurbad was absent for the moment. ‘Wazzock.’
Since their expatriation from the Worlds Edge Mountains, Skarnag Grum and his fellow lords had not once attended the rinkkaz.
‘He might surprise us yet,’ muttered Gotrek, though without conviction. His gaze strayed to the distance, where he could just make out the bronze doors to the Great Hall, but he wasn’t about to hold his breath in expectation of them opening.
Bedecked in his finest runic panoply, a staff of wutroth and banded gromril clenched in his left fist, a helm of gilded griffon feathers upon his beetling brow, Ranuld cut as stern a figure as his liege-lord.
‘I’d suggest we march on Kazad Kro and bring the rinkkaz to his gates if it were not for my weary back and legs.’ Ranuld grimaced as he said it, and Gotrek smiled to himself. The runelord was much more hale and hearty than he let on. ‘Besides,’ he added, thumbing over his shoulder, ‘the Ancient would never make it.’
A snorting, nasal dirge was coming out of the old dwarf’s mouth. None in the hold could snore so loudly.
Ranuld frowned, waggled a finger in his ear. ‘Like a boar rutting with an elk.’
Gotrek stifled a laugh then asked, ‘Did you find what you were looking for in the old halls?’
The runelord shook
