‘Yes, yes,’ Gotrek told him dismissively, ‘just go. You don’t need me to tell you when to go for a piss, Grimbok, neither do you for this. Away.’
Bowing profusely, crafting a dagger stare at Snorri who was finding it hard to maintain his composure, he left the pavilion to get cleaned up.
‘Bit of an ufdi, that one,’ Gotrek said behind his hand to Snorri once the reckoner was gone. ‘But he’s good with words and the hardest bastard reckoner in the Karaz Ankor. Grimbok has settled more debts than any other for this hold.’
Snorri wasn’t really listening. His attention was on the healing tents.
‘Do not look for her,’ said the High King. Though his tone was stern, it was also paternal. ‘She isn’t there, son.’
Turning away ostensibly to watch the tournament, Snorri feigned ignorance. ‘I look for no one, father. My eye merely wandered for a moment.’
‘See it does not wander back then.’
Snorri didn’t answer but his face was flushed.
‘Don’t take me for a fool, lad. I know for whom you hold a torch. It is as glaring as Grungni’s heart-fire. A pity that Helda was not more to your liking,’ he mused briefly, ‘a marital union between Karaz-a-Karak and Karak Kadrin would have been very useful about now. Though I trust him to be an ally, Grundin is a thorny hruk at the best of times. If we could have bonded his daughter and his clan to ours…’
‘Father,’ Snorri implored, ‘she was–’
Gotrek waved away his protest. ‘The size of an alehouse and with a face like an urk licking dung off its own boots. Yes, I know, lad. But the rinn you want is not for you. She is sworn to Valaya and as such is off limits, even to the son of the High King.’ He gestured in the direction of another tent put up nearby. ‘Besides, her brother would not look on it favourably either.’
Snorri opened his mouth to protest, but Gotrek silenced him.
‘Off limits, lad,’ he told him again, but for all that the mood between them was improving. ‘Now, let’s watch this son of Norgil and see if he’s as good as he claims… for a skarren, anyway.’
Father and son smiled together, and Snorri found he was glad of the rare moment of bonding. There had been precious few of them recently.
In the arena, the cage was lowered into a thin trench through some mechanism fashioned by the engineers’ guild and the goblins were finally released. Twin war cries in Elvish and Khazalid curdled the air.
Before it was over, there would be much blood.
A foul mood was upon Forek Grimbok as he entered the healing tent.
Several dwarf warriors taking part in the various games had laughed at him as he strode across the field and the memory of it still simmered. His breeches were wet from the spilled tankard, and it looked as if he’d pissed himself. Their derision only worsened when they realised it was beer that Forek had wasted. One even offered to sup it from his sodden garments, until the fearsome reckoner had glowered at him. At that the half-drunken clanner had sobered up and left quietly with his friend.
Grimbok might enjoy the finer things that life had to offer, he might enjoy the silks the elves brought from far-off lands and keep his beard trimmed, maintain neat and pristine attire, but he knew how to crack skulls too and had done so often during his tenure as reckoner.
It was warm inside the healing tent, and light from suspended lanterns cast a lambent glow over cots and baths. In the centre stood Valaya, a small stone effigy of the ancestor goddess removed with respect from one of the lesser temples and brought here to watch over the wounded. Her rune-emblazoned banners hung from the leather walls.
During the course of the games so far, there had been mercifully few serious injuries to trouble the priestesses. Therefore he was surprised to see his sister Elmendrin tending to the wounded. She was carrying an armful of fresh linen bandages to a wooden trunk.
‘Were you planning on wringing that out into your tankard later, brother?’ she teased, gesturing to his soiled tunic.
‘An unfortunate accident,’ Forek replied formally, cheeks reddening. ‘I thought you were performing rites in the temple?’ he asked, looking around for something to swab his tunic with.
Elmendrin proffered a clay bowl and a sponge she picked from the trunk, which Forek took and proceeded to dab his tunic with.
‘Scrub it,’ she chastised, showing him how until Forek got hold of the sponge again to save his expensive attire from ruination.
‘You are such an ufdi, Forek,’ she said, smiling.
A dwarf in a nearby cot sniggered. He had one foot up, exposing a missing toe.
‘Never was much of a dancer,’ he said.
Forek scowled back before returning his attention to his sister.
‘So why are you here, then?’
‘Another of the priestesses came down with kruti flu, so I took her place.’
The scowl turned into a disapproving frown.
‘He is here, but I daresay you’ve already noticed that.’
‘Who?’ asked Elmendrin as she started to wash a batch of soiled, ruddy bandages in a pewter tank.
‘Halfhand.’
She paused, failing to suppress a small smile. ‘Is that what they’re calling him?’
‘I don’t need to tell you–’
Elmendrin turned sharply, cutting off Forek in mid-stream.
‘No brother, you don’t need to tell me anything. I am here to perform my duty, not to fawn over the High King’s son,’ she snapped. ‘For good or ill, Valaya has sent me here.’
Forek sagged down onto an empty bench, holding his hand up apologetically.
‘Sorry, sister. I am drawn, that is all.’
Indignation became concern on Elmendrin’s face and she went to him and sat down.
‘You look very troubled,’ she said, resting her hand on Forek’s shoulder. ‘Tell me.’
‘I am tired, worn like metal overbeaten by the fuller,’ he confessed, using his knuckles to knead his eyes. ‘Failing to reckon the many misdeeds done to dawi by elgi has left
