Blood streaming from his left nostril, Gotrek dropped to a crouch, bringing down with him Varnuf who hadn’t properly squared his feet. Rising, Gotrek uppercutted the King of Eight Peaks in the jaw, and Varnuf snapped back immediately because of the beard binding and took a sturdy elbow smash in the cheek. He kneed Gotrek in the stomach, forcing a pained shout, but the High King had fought in many grudgements before and thumped Varnuf hard and repeatedly in the kidneys.
Thrusting his shoulder, Varnuf barged Gotrek onto his heels.
Battered, both kings tried to retreat for a breather but their beards were well tethered and they lurched back into striking range.
Haft to haft they rained a score of heavy blows on one another, hitting so hard as to create a rain of splinters. Varnuf resorted to a punishing array of overheads, which Gotrek parried with both hands braced against his hammer. He grimaced as the last breathless blow fell and he managed to lock their weapons together.
‘Let me tell you something about when I purged the grobi and the urk,’ Gotrek growled when the two were inches apart and face to face. Sweat was pouring off both kings, sheeting their foreheads and darkening their tunics across the chest and armpits.
‘Go on,’ hissed Varnuf, straining against his opponent’s guard.
‘Well,’ said Gotrek, ‘I didn’t do it cleanly.’
The King of Eight Peaks’s face went suddenly blank.
‘Uh?’
Letting all of his resistance go, Gotrek quickly stepped aside as Varnuf’s momentum took him forwards. There was just enough beard length to get behind him and swing his hammer haft into the other king’s crotch.
For want of a better word, Varnuf yelped. It was so brief, so small a noise that it was missed by most of the spectators, but Gotrek heard it. Then he exhaled, a long, deep, agonised groan that echoed around the Great Hall and had every king present wincing.
‘Reet in the dongliz,’ whispered Grundin with a pained expression.
‘Bugger me,’ gasped Thagdor.
Most of the other kings crossed their legs.
Varnuf staggered. His eyes were watering and he tried to shuffle around to face Gotrek before collapsing. He half crouched, half slumped, held up by his bound beard.
Gotrek turned to Grundin, who was standing nearby with an axe.
‘Cut it,’ he said, and watched as Varnuf fell into a heap. ‘Eh,’ he added, giving the King of Eight Peaks a nudge so he looked up at him. ‘My balls are solid rock. That’s why I sit on that throne. That’s why I am High King.’
Varnuf nodded meekly, and whispered, ‘Tromm.’
Gotrek looked away.
‘Brynnoth,’ he said, singling out the lord of the Sea Hold. ‘You’ll have vengeance for Agrin Fireheart. I swear to Grimnir, he will be revenged, but not like this. We will find the truth of this first, if it was these druchii that the elgi prince spoke of.’ Then he shifted his attention to the others, regarding each king in turn as he uttered a final edict. ‘I am High King. Gotrek Lunngrin of the Thunderhorn clan, Starbreaker and slayer of urk. My deeds eclipse all of yours combined as does my will and power. Do not defy it. Here in these lands, my word is law. Obey it or suffer my wrath. Defend your borders and sovereign territory. Close your gates and hold halls to the elgi. No trade will pass between us. All dealings with them will cease. An elgi upon our roads will be considered trespass and you may reckon that to the very hilt of our laws, but we do not march.’ He shook his head slowly for emphasis. ‘We do not go to war. It will ruin us. Ruin the dawi and the elgi for generations.’ He let it sink in, let the silence amplify the resonance of his words before adding a final challenge.
‘Will anyone else gainsay me?’
None did.
Gotrek was alone again as he went down into the grongaz. Amidst the smoke and ash, he discerned the glow of fire and heard the clamour of a single anvil. So he followed the sound. Passing through a solid wall of heat, he found Ranuld Silverthumb watching his apprentice.
‘He works a master rhun,’ said the ancient dwarf without looking up from his vigil.
‘My son’s az un klad?’
Ranuld supped on his pipe, took a deep pull. ‘Aye,’ he said, expelling a long plume of smoke. ‘You have given your word on the elgi?’ he asked after a moment or two of watching Morek’s hammer fall. It was rhythmic, measured. It rang out a dulcet chorus resonant with power. The very air was charged with it. Gotrek’s beard bristled, and the torcs and cinctures he had entwined in it grew warm to the touch.
‘I have,’ he said. ‘Though it was not easy to do. My heart says fight, my head says not to. What would you do, old one?’
‘I think I am not High King, therefore my opinion is moot.’
‘But I value your counsel.’
‘Of course you do, I am the oldest runesmith in the Karaz Ankor. My wisdom is worth more than your entire treasure vault, but it still matters not what I think. I see greed amongst our kin, an obsession towards gold gathering and hoarding. It was not always so. Once dwarfs crafted and were not so driven by the acquisition of wealth. What good is a hoard of gold to a dead king, eh?’
‘Tromm, old one, but Agrin Fireheart was one of your guild. Would you not see him avenged?’
‘Aye, one of the oldest, and his name shall be remembered. I mourn him but do not want revenge against all elgi for his death.’ Now he met his king’s gaze, showing the hard diamonds of his eyes. ‘A great doom is coming,
