‘You may not be able to stop it,’ answered Varnuf dangerously.
Gotrek swung his gaze onto the King of Eight Peaks. ‘Speak your mind plainly, Varnuf,’ he told him, his voice level and laden with threat. His knuckles cracked as he seized the arms of his throne.
‘Forces already muster north of Karaz-a-Karak.’ His eyes widened and a slight smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, barely visible beneath his long beard. ‘And they are making ready to march.’
‘Aye,’ said Aflegard, ignorant of what was happening between the other two kings, ‘and I’ve heard talk of elgi laying siege to the skarrens too.’
‘Ach, that’s a lot of shite,’ said Grundin, scowling at the effete dwarf. ‘You would jump at your own shadow, ufdi.’
Aflegard was puffing up his chest, about to reply, when the High King bellowed.
‘Silence! Both of you.’ He glared, then returned his gaze to Varnuf. ‘Any vassal lord of mine who marches on the elgi will be answerable to me, whether these so-called druchii exist or not. Is that plain enough?’
The mood around the Great Hall was fractious. The kings did not look keen to submit easily. Varnuf had read it well and chose then as his moment to act.
‘Dawi lie dead and you ask us to do nothing,’ he said. ‘What will stopping trade achieve? How will shutting our borders and roads stop the killing? It will not. It will send a message to the elgi that we are soft, that they can kill our kith and kin, and that we will let them.’ He stood up to address the gathering. ‘I won’t stand by and allow murder and destruction to continue in my lands, our lands, without response. Our lands,’ he reaffirmed, nodding to all, ‘not theirs, not the elgi’s.’ He looked at Gotrek, who glowered, and pointed a beringed finger at the High King. ‘When you vanquished the urk and grobi–’ Varnuf bared his teeth, revelling in the bloody memories, ‘–rendered them so low that they would never threaten our kingdoms again, I would have followed you into the frozen north itself. A king of kings sat upon the Throne of Power then. He did not fear war. He was stone and steel with the wisdom of Valaya upon his brow, Grimnir’s strength in his arm and Grungni’s dauntless courage.’
There was regret in Varnuf’s eyes and hurt too, as if from a sense of betrayal. ‘Now, all I see before me is a scared dawi who no longer has the stomach for a fight. What value has peace, if it is bought and paid for with our deaths?’
A shocked murmur ran around the chamber like a flame as each of the kings shuffled back. Alone of all them, Varnuf stepped forwards. He had unhitched the hammer from his belt.
Gotrek was already on his feet and had done the same. He knew what was coming and couldn’t help but think back to what his son had said to him all those nights ago in this very hall.
‘Speak the words then. Do it now or by Grungni I shall descend from this throne and crack open your skull, Varnuf of the Eight Peaks.’
Varnuf did not just speak the words, he snarled them. ‘Let it be known that on this day, Varnuf of Eight Peaks did pronounce grudgement on Gotrek of Karaz-a-Karak.’
Aflegard stifled a gasp, but only so Grundin wouldn’t clout him for it.
The others looked on solemnly, waiting for the High King’s answer.
‘So be it.’ Gotrek unclasped the cinctures and torcs binding his beard, unfurling it like a belt of cloth as he stepped from the dais of his throne and onto the chamber floor.
Vanruf had done the same. Like Gotrek he had also removed his crown.
Both dwarfs wore no armour beyond that which was ceremonial and had no war helms either. Their hammers were not runic, but they were well fashioned from hewn stone and could crack bone easily enough.
Thurbad was not present, so Gotrek turned to another ally to officiate.
‘Grundin, come forth,’ he said, gripping the full thickness of his beard in one meaty hand and proffering it to the northern king. ‘Bind us,’ he said, staring into Varnuf’s eyes as he too gave Grundin his beard.
‘You two are proper wazzocks…’ muttered the King of Karak Kadrin.
‘Tie it tight,’ said Gotrek, the leather grip of his hammer creaking in his clenched fist.
Grudgement was a solemn oath pledged by kings and lords. It was a trial by combat and could also end in death, though no dwarf would ever condone the slaying of his own. This was a matter of honour and for such things a dwarf would shed blood, even kill if necessary. By the binding of beards did both combatants commit to the fight. There could be no flight, though some had tried only to end up with their brains dashed upon rock or their necks severed by a heavy-bladed axe. Only death or the cutting of the beard bond, the trombaraki, could end such a duel.
‘Hammers then,’ muttered Varnuf, swinging a few half circles to loosen up his shoulder.
‘Aye, hope you have a harder head than you look.’
‘Hope yours is not as soft as your stomach,’ Varnuf bit back.
Once grudgement was declared and accepted rank and station counted for naught. Two dwarfs entered this deadly compact and only one would be standing at the end of it. Alive or dead was at the victor’s discretion.
Tired of talking, Gotrek nodded to Grundin. The northern king backed away and so grudgement could begin. All the kings had done the same, leaving a small arena for the two dwarfs to fight in.
‘It’s not too late, Gotrek. Relinquish your throne and I will take us into this war.’
‘You’re a damn arrogant fool, Varnuf. And there can be no backing out, not once grudgement is pronounced. But you can do me one favour…’
‘Name it, your tongue may be incapable of speech after I’m done with you.’
‘Stop talking and swing. I have a kingdom to protect.’
Varnuf roared, yanking on
