‘I have seen them too,’ said Thane Brokk Stonefist of Karak Azul. He was no king, not even a high thane, but had been trusted to come in his liege-lord’s stead. As militaristic as his king, Brokk’s attire was functional and war-ready. His armour was thick plate. He carried a pickaxe and wore a miner’s soot-stained features. ‘Heard them even,’ he added. ‘Rats that walk like you or I, noble kings. Rats that can–’
‘Bollocks, laddie!’ A raucous bellow broke through the fog. King Grundin of Karak Kadrin was on his feet and swearing readily. ‘We should be more concerned about the return of the urk and grobi. Ach, there are fekking hundreds of the wee little bastards roaming beneath my halls. What’s to be done aboot them, might I ask?’
Grundin’s loyalty to Karaz-a-Karak was beyond doubt, but a little needle still persisted between him and Gotrek on account of the High King’s son’s refusal of his daughter Helda.
‘Perhaps you should look to your own ironbreakers to clear your underhalls of the vermin, as we all have,’ countered Aflegard.
‘Ye dirty little scutter!’ Four of the High King’s hearthguard had to hold Grundin back from crossing the hall and lamping one on Aflegard’s bulbous nose.
‘Enough!’
One word, not shouted, but with raised voice, silenced the room.
A grumbling hubbub persisted, but it was impossible to stop a dwarf king from muttering his displeasure.
Gotrek looked down on his vassals and scowled.
‘You are kings of the Karaz Ankor, not bickering grobi chieftains. I invite you into my halls, let you eat my meat, drink my beer to discuss important matters of state, not settle old scores.’
Grundin shrugged off the guards with a curse or two then bowed a quick apology. Chuntering, he sat back down.
An impressive feast had been arrayed for the kings, who sat in a semi-circle before their liege-lord, a host of retainers behind them. Adjacent to the Great Hall, through two low archways chiselled with runes and gems, were a pair of large feast halls. Racks of stout wooden tables with short-legged stools and benches sat within. Soon they would be brimming with food and ale.
The vassal lords had been fed already – some still carried their tankards – but the second course was being readied. Roast boar, elk, thick slabs of beef and even fowl were being prepared and cooked for the edification of the High King’s guests. The look on Gotrek’s face at that moment suggested he wanted to spit on their food and throw them out of his house.
‘But what of the elgi problem, my liege-lord?’ asked another voice, one that was more cultured and refined than the rest. He had seated himself away from the crowds, at the edge of the semi-circle, so that Gotrek had to crane his neck to speak to him or risk looking as if he was showing disrespect.
Sinking two heavily ringed thumbs into his gilded belt, King Varnuf of Karak Eight Peaks asked, ‘Well, my High King?’
Regarding the ostentatiously attired dwarf with his gems and his indecently large crown, Gotrek answered through clenched teeth.
‘There are elgi who are guests of this hold, I’d remind you,’ he said. ‘Not a thousand paces from this very hall in fact. And once the rinkkaz is done with, I’m expecting you all to eat with them too.’ He glared at Varnuf before he could interrupt. ‘I’ll tell you why we tolerate the elgi, why they are allowed to roam in our lands and trade with our merchants. It’s very simple. Peace.
‘For thousands of years we dawi have fought. We’ve dug our holds, we’ve honoured our ancestors, killed urk and grobi and drakk by the score. But now we have peace. For once, our hearths are safe and our wars a distant memory. I could no more expel the elgi than I could oust you all from your own halls.’
That spurred a sudden bout of vociferous complaint, amidst threat of grudgement and invocation of the reckoners.
‘Don’t be soft in the head,’ Gotrek snapped, silencing the ire of some of the more belligerent kings. ‘I mean the elgi are staying. They are our allies, and they’ve given me no reason to believe otherwise.’
‘Their ways are not our ways,’ Thagdor protested. ‘I want ’em off my hills and out of my chuffing sight.’
‘You’re welcome to move them yourself, Thagdor,’ said Gotrek, ‘but know that I won’t raise a finger to help you and I’ll make damn sure none of your fellow kings do either. I won’t jeopardise peace.’ He shook his head. ‘I won’t.’
Further grumblings greeted this remark but the High King would not be swayed.
His gaze alighted on Varnuf who said nothing, but merely sank back into his seat. His face was lost in smoke and shadow until the tip of his pipe flared and threw a glow upon a stern and envious countenance.
Ever had the Vala-Azrilungol, the ‘Queen of the Silver Depths’, been a rival to the majesty and splendour of Karaz-a-Karak. Its halls were vast and impressive, its wealth immense. Varnuf considered Eight Peaks as a rival to Karaz-a-Karak, and himself a worthy replacement for the current High King. He would not do so through dishonourable means, for this was not the dwarf way, but he would also not shirk from the Dragon Crown should it be offered to him.
Gotrek had neither the will nor the strength to continue the argument. It was draining, and he slumped back in his throne.
‘The elgi stay. This is my final word.’ He surveyed the room with his gimlet gaze, ‘And any who gainsay it had best take up their axe and be ready to fight their king.’
CHAPTER TEN
The Hammer of Old
After leaving Snorri to the tender ministrations of a certain priestess, Morgrim didn’t
