That earned a look of reproach from his father. ‘I would rather it be a dawi, be that of the mountain or hill.’
‘You should have let me fight,’ said Snorri, his sudden petulance betraying the better mood that had been growing between him and his father. ‘Then the victor would not be in any doubt.’
Gotrek showed his teeth. They were clenched but did not bite. Instead, he fixed his attention on the end of the bout.
Around the arena, the mood was tense but raucous. In tents draped in mammoth hide, Luftvarr hooted and roared with every goblin slain. On the opposite side, Varnuf was more considered and watched keenly over the top of his steepled fingers. Grundin and Aflegard mainly glared at each other, their attention returning to the fight only when prompted by the reaction of the crowd to something particularly noteworthy. Brynnoth, ever the gregarious king, vigorously supped ale with his thanes as they exchanged commentary. The closer it became, the more he drank. It was fortunate that the king of the Sea Hold had an iron constitution from imbibing vast quantities of wheat-rum.
Rundin had pulled one back, but Salendor was quick to riposte, unleashing the last of his arrows to pin a goblin through the heart.
It left four greenskins with the elf still one up. Rundin took two at once, earning a loud bellow of approval from King Luftvarr. Even Grundin clenched a fist. The hill dwarf tackled them before Salendor could run them through with his sword. In using the bow, the elf lord had put too much distance between his quarry and was now paying the price for that.
Swift as a lightning strike, the elf thrust his blade through a greenskin that rushed him in desperation, making it even. One goblin remained, flanked by the two bloodstained champions who looked ready to rush it from opposite ends of the arena.
‘The elgi is quick,’ hissed Gotrek, glancing up as Grimbok returned to the fold.
‘Aye, but the son of Torbad has an eagle-eye when he throws that axe,’ the reckoner replied.
Snorri folded his arms and said nothing.
Both warriors advanced on the lonely greenskin, who looked back and forth, scurrying one way and then the other before it realised there was no escape.
‘Kill it!’ bellowed Brynnoth, banging down his tankard and swilling out some of the dregs.
The goblin shrieked once, clutching its emaciated chest, and slumped down dead, its heart given out.
Silence descended like a veil, settling over the dumbstruck crowd.
Eyes wide, wondering if he had ended the creature with his voice alone, Brynnoth looked down at his tankard and belched.
Some of the elves looked around at him, disgusted and incredulous at the same time.
Both combatants met one another’s gaze. The loremasters scoring the bout paused, unsure what to do next. They looked to the High King.
Snorri laughed out loud, his mirth echoing around the arena crowd who were still stunned into bemused silence.
‘The grobi kills itself,’ he declared. ‘Expired by its own fear!’
He laughed again, raucously and derisive. ‘Incredibly, both elgi and skarren found a way to lose.’
‘That’s enough,’ snapped the High King. ‘You dishonour yourself and the hold.’
‘I am merely stating facts, father.’ He gestured to the stone placards, the same Klinkerhun inscribed on each now the loremasters realised they had no choice but to score one kill apiece. ‘A tie is a win for neither.’
Grimbok began to clap, slow and loudly. When he got to his feet, some of the elder council took up the applause. When the thanes of Everpeak joined in it grew to a clamour. Brynnoth roared with drunken laughter, the king and thanes of Barak Varr hammering their tankards with aplomb. Setting aside their grievance for now, Grundin and Aflegard urged their respective quarters to clap and holler.
Much to Grimbok’s relief, elves were celebrating too, not only the ambassadors but those retainers who had accompanied the nobles of their houses. There was a rare mood of camaraderie and community fostered as both races seemed pleased with the result.
From the Norse dwarfs, Luftvarr shouted, ‘Runk!’ and his boisterous warriors took up the call.
‘Runk, runk, runk!’
The chant spread to other quarters, dwarfs from the other holds echoing their northern cousins eagerly.
‘Runk?’ one of the elf ambassadors queried to Grimbok.
‘It means a thrashing, noble lord,’ he explained. ‘Such as that given to the grobi by our champions.’
The elf didn’t look as if he really understood.
Snorri leaned in, enjoying the swell of aggression manifesting around the arena.
‘It also means brawl, ufdi,’ he grinned.
The elf ambassador lifted his eyebrows to ask an unspoken question.
‘Ahh…’ Grimbok began but then cringed as the first punch was thrown.
King Luftvarr decked one of his thanes, a heavy blow that knocked the other dwarf out cold. Seconds later, the entire Norse quarter were fighting.
Drunk, still feeling the vicarious belligerence of watching the brutal combat, dwarfs from other holds started brawling too. Unlike the Norse, it was less brutal, more wrestling than boxing as such.
‘Runk, runk, runk!’ they bellowed as one, a deafening refrain that set the elves on edge.
Tankards were spilled over, tables upended as most of the onlooking dwarfs revelled in a good, honest scrap. Musicians began piping, drummers beating out a tune to accompany the brawling.
Grundin was slapping his thighs, supping on his pipe and blowing out smoke rings. The King of Karak Kadrin looked as if he were enjoying this spectacle much more than the bout itself.
Sloshing ale hither and thither, Brynnoth seized a boar-skin drum from one of his musicians and joined the chorus.
Even Varnuf was laughing, though whether in genuine merriment or at the elves’ obvious discomfort was difficult to ascertain.
Unsure at the sudden development, Lord Salendor merely bowed to his kin and stalked from the arena. Rundin clapped with the drummers’ beat, dancing a little jig much to the roared acclaim of his fellow hill dwarfs and the other mountain clans too.
Throughout it all, Gotrek remained pensive. Like his chief reckoner, he recognised the unease of the elves and
