Looking over to the only two empty seats on the high council, below and in front of the Throne of Power, Gotrek sagged. One was for his queen, beautiful Rinnana, who had died some sixty-three years ago whilst giving birth. Perhaps that was why the weight fell so heavily upon his shoulders? Shared, it would be halved. As it was, it was an anvil big enough to forge a sword for a giant.
‘My love…’ he murmured, and prayed to Valaya to bring him fortitude.
The other empty place brought a scowl to the High King’s face. His errant son was wayward yet again.
As if summoned by the thought, a creaking sound invaded the penumbral gloom of the Great Hall as the massive bronze doors yawned open. A quartet of figures entered, striding quickly, armour clanking, down the mosaicked walkway that led all the way to the ancestor runes and the Throne of Power.
There was a shallow enough gap in the semi-circle of nobles for the late entrants to pass through. None spoke, not even to grumble, during the many minutes it took for the dwarfs to cross the hall. All looked, though, sucking on their pipes thoughtfully, glaring through exhaled smoke.
Thurbad led the small throng, his face as grim as a thundercloud. He stopped when he reached the ancestor runes and took a knee. Slamming a fist against his armoured chest, he waited for the High King to bid him rise and then announced who he had escorted into the chamber.
‘Tromm, High King,’ he said, bowing his head before meeting the king’s gaze again to add, ‘Prince Snorri Lunngrin of Thunderhorn.’
‘Tromm, Thurbad.’ Gotrek nodded his respect to the captain of his hearthguard. ‘You may take your place.’
Snorri stepped forwards from between a pair of silent warriors, crafting a shallow bow that smacked more of rote than respect.
When he continued forwards, the High King raised his hand.
‘Not you, my son,’ he said, fierce and cold as winter storm. ‘You have not earned the right to be by my side.’ He nodded to the back of the semi-circle where room had been left for Skarnag Grum. ‘That’s your place, back there.’
Snorri looked over his shoulder, and frowned.
No one spoke. Even the Ancient’s snoring had dulled to a low susurrus of heavy breathing.
‘In the seat of the skarrenawi? Thagging hill dwellers?’
The frown became a scowl.
Gotrek mirrored it, only his was born of centuries of grudges. He had perfected it, forged it into a weapon to make all but the staunchest vassal lords quail.
‘Sit down,’ he said, snarling the words through his teeth. ‘Now, and disrespect me no further.’
Snorri glared, every inch his father’s son, about-faced and planted himself down in the seat reserved for Skarnag Grum. It took a few minutes to reach the back of the throng, and silence was with the prince during every step. He didn’t speak to the lesser nobles around him when he sat down, he didn’t even look at them. His eyes were on his father, arms folded and brow jutting to display his displeasure.
Like any good father who is trying to teach a lesson to his son, Gotrek ignored him and turned to his Loremaster instead.
‘Missives?’ he asked, requesting any letters or messages from the more distant holds unable to attend the rinkkaz.
Clearing his throat, the Loremaster’s stentorian voice boomed without need of a speaking horn.
‘From Krag Bryn, King Drong does send word of elves setting up a colony on the borders of his lands.’
This brought renewed consternation from certain vassal kings, especially Bagrik of Karak Ungor, which Gotrek silenced by slamming his fist upon the arm of his throne.
Turning to a fresh page, the Loremaster continued, ‘At Silver Pinnacle, King Borri Silverfoot of Karaz Bryn makes a detailed record.’ The Loremaster waited for permission to relay it, which Gotrek gave him with a nod.
‘“More of the grey men were sighted in the southern reaches today, wandering lonely upon the hills and fens that border our hearth and hold. As their numbers grow, so too does my concern at their presence. A dark cloud lingers over the barrows and cairns beyond our walls, where a party of rangers went missing several weeks past. I have instructed the gates to be shut and sealed, the guard doubled at night. No more dawi shall leave my halls come the fall of darkness. Fell winds blow across my lands that reek of death, even in the deep earth we can smell them and are reminded of our own mortality. I pray to Valaya they will soon abate.”’
The Loremaster looked up from his reading.
‘There is nothing further, High King.’
A perturbed look creased Gotrek’s brow. Beyond sending a message of support, there was little else he could do for the Lord of the Silver Pinnacle.
‘Carry on,’ he breathed, still deep in thought.
‘Karak Zorn makes mention of riches in the far south where the sun is hot enough to cook a dawi in his armour. Several have fallen to exhaustion and wells have dried up across the hold. Forays into the deeper jungle have encountered “saurian beasts”. A gathering of these creatures is mentioned and an attack upon the hold itself.’
The crease on Gotrek’s brow deepened. It seemed the dwarfs were assailed by enemies familiar and unknown. At least Karaz-a-Karak and the Worlds Edge were mercifully spared from fighting.
Shutting his great leatherbound tome, the Loremaster looked up. ‘That concludes all of the missives, High King.’
‘Tromm, Loremaster.’ Gotrek switched his attention to the assembled lords, regarding his son with a reproachful glance.
Some of the kings and thanes had caught the waft of cooked meat, the malty flavour of hops from freshly uncasked ale. Several licked
