Gotrek nodded. ‘It is very likely. Furgil has increased the rangers’ patrols and all roads around the karak are watched day and night, but no one has seen these bandits. No one.’
Nadri spoke up. He was shaking his head. ‘They were not bandits, High King. What I saw in that gorge was no skirmish. Agrin Fireheart was a master of the rhun. He could wield the elements through his craft.’ The merchant clenched a fist as if reliving the final moments of the runelord. ‘He brought lightning and thunder to the gorge. Though there were no bodies of elgi, I saw the black marks they had left where Agrin had scorched their skin. No mere bandit could match such a power. Only one thing I know could do that.’
‘Sorcery,’ uttered Aflegard, the word bitter in his mouth. He chewed the end of his pipe, leaving an indentation in the clay from his clenched teeth.
‘Aye, magic of the darkest kind was unleashed against Agrin,’ said Nadri, weeping again, ‘and he was undone by it.’
And there the merchant’s story ended.
Brynnoth patted him on the back, saying, ‘Well done, lad. Well done,’ in a soothing tone.
Silence fell upon the hall, leavened only by the dulcet crackle of braziers.
Each of the kings looked at one another, their eyes revealing more of their inner thoughts than their tongues ever would.
Luftvarr’s were red-rimmed. The King of Kraka Drak was almost apoplectic. Others maintained a more guarded countenance, though it was fairly obvious that Varnuf was waiting for Gotrek to do or say something. His expectant gaze bordered on disparaging before the High King had even spoken.
‘Thurbad…’ Gotrek intoned to break the quietude.
Like a stone sentinel, the captain of the hearthguard emerged from penumbral shadow.
Gotrek addressed Nadri. ‘You’ll be escorted safely from the karak back to the Sea Hold. Thurbad will see to it.’
Brynnoth nodded again to his High King, knowing that he would need to remain behind for further talks. To make a decision in haste now would be foolish, but something would have to be done.
Gently taking Nadri by the arm, Thurbad led the merchant out of the hall and left the kings to ruminate.
‘Snorri,’ said the High King as Thurbad was leaving. Gotrek did not deign to look at his son. ‘You may go too.’
About to protest, Snorri clamped shut his mouth and marched from the Great Hall in barely veiled disgust.
‘He’s a fiery wee bastard, yer son,’ Grundin remarked when the prince was still in earshot.
Gotrek lowered his voice, only looking at Snorri with his back turned and walking away.
‘He is a headstrong fool with much to learn.’
‘And even more to prove, it would appear,’ added Varnuf.
‘Not so different from his father during his early reign,’ said Brynnoth, to which Aflegard nodded.
‘I care not!’ Luftvarr had spat out his beard. It spewed out with a spray of sputum. Gobbets still clung to it like dirty little pearls but the Norse king seemed not to notice. ‘My warriors stand ready to fight. Elgi have slain dawi in cold blood, and this time a lord of the rhun. No answer to that could ever end in peace, so tell me this, king of the high mountain – when do we make war?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Legacies
The surface of the dokbar faded from pearlescent silver to ash grey, its activation robbing it of its lustre and plunging Ranuld into shadow. Like the massive runic shield, his surroundings were a dark mirror to his thoughts. Through the gate between holds he had warned the others. He hoped it would be enough to spare them a similar fate. The magic in the runes inscribed around the dokbar’s edge were fading. Soon it would speak no more and his voice would no longer be heard across the leagues.
Much as he had feared, old magic was leaving the world. As the secrets of the old lore diminished, so too did what the dwarfs used to be. Ruin was changing them, as slowly and inexorably as the tide erodes the face of a cliff and exposes its inner core to further decay.
Ranks of gronti-duraz surrounded the runelord but were not good company, no salve to his grief. Still dormant as they were, he alone did not possess the craft to reanimate the stone giants and breathe magical life back into their runes. He needed others to achieve that feat. It was one made harder by what had happened at the borders of Everpeak.
Since leaving the Great Hall after the rinkkaz, Ranuld had remained in the forge but he had felt the passing of Agrin Fireheart like a physical blow. Scattered coals, a fuller lying strewn and uncared for, still littered the floor above. Intent on his work in another chamber of the forge hall, Morek had not heard them fall.
Another light had faded, snuffed out by a great doom that would douse all the lamps should it be allowed to run unchallenged. Ranuld knew not what he could do to stop it, only that he must.
Hope lay in those younger than he and the ancients he had summoned to his conclave. Age and wisdom were giving way to youth and passion. All he could do was help temper this young steel into a blade that would cut through the encroaching shadow.
Weary, Ranuld left the vault and went back to the forge itself, drawn by the sound of hammering.
Morek was toiling at the anvil. Sweat lathered his muscled frame and he wiped a gloved hand against his
