Khazuk! was the cry that pealed across the Black Water, in the shadow of Zhufbar where fifteen thousand warriors had assembled. Several hours later with the sun just reaching up over the peaks, the echo of their belligerence had still to fade.
War was coming to the elves, and the dwarfs would bring it to them.
They merely awaited the order of their general to march.
Snorri paced the edge of the lake, fancying he could discern the shadow of bestial creatures moving languidly in its fathomless depths. He was arrayed in his full war panoply, a winged helm fastened to his belt by its chinstrap, and chuntered loudly.
Most of the other dwarfs couldn’t hear him. They were too busy making preparations themselves, sharpening axes, tightening the bindings on hammers, fastening armour plates and tying off vambraces. Colours were unfurled, icons presented to the sky, horns and drums beat in a warm-up staccato. The clan warriors jostled and joked; but the brotherhoods, the longbeards and ironbreakers, the hearthguard and runesmiths, wore grim faces, for they all knew what they were about to undertake.
So did Snorri, and it was this thought as well as respect for his father that warred within him.
‘They gave us no choice,’ said a voice from behind him.
Snorri started. He had thought he was alone.
‘Drogor…’ he said, as if just speaking the dwarf’s name made him weary.
‘But,’ said Drogor, coming closer, ‘if you were to halt the march, no one would brand you a coward. You were merely fulfilling the wishes of your father and High King.’
‘I am not my father’s vassal lord, for him to command,’ Snorri snapped. ‘I have a destiny too.’
‘A great one,’ Drogor conceded, bowing his head in a gesture of contrition. ‘I meant no offence, my prince, only that you should not feel forced into action.’
‘We will march, by Grimnir,’ Snorri scowled. ‘This has gone on long enough. If my father lacks the courage to do something then I, as heir of Karaz-a-Karak, will.’
‘Justly spoken, my prince.’
Snorri frowned. ‘Drogor, please. To you I am Snorri, not “my prince”.’
Drogor bowed again as if at court. ‘As you wish, Snorri.’ He smiled. ‘Shall I see to the preparations of the warriors?’
Snorri nodded. ‘Yes, do it. Begin the muster and send runners to Thagdor and Brynnoth, even Luftvarr. I want to speak with all three before we leave Black Water.’
‘As you wish.’
Drogor departed just as another dwarf was coming into view, emerging through the lake fog which was thick as pitch.
Morgrim gestured to Snorri’s winged war helm. ‘Didn’t think you needed one.’
‘I like the wings. Makes me look important,’ Snorri replied, grinning. ‘Or perhaps my head has grown soft, cousin.’
‘Perhaps it has,’ said Morgrim, glaring after the Karak Zorn dwarf. He seemed to blend with the mist, becoming spectral until he was lost from sight completely. ‘I hope he is not giving you more bad counsel.’
‘He is a dutiful thane and valuable advisor,’ Snorri replied with a little bite to his tone.
‘Thane is it now?’
It had been several weeks since the High King’s pronouncement that all trade would be suspended with elves. Armies were mustering too, and the weapon shops of all the holds toiled day and night churning out armour and war engines for what Gotrek hoped would be a stockpile of materiel he would never need to call upon. Short of declaring outright war, it was as far as the High King could go to assert his authority as well as present a clear warning to the elves. His edict had been welcome news, but for many did not go nearly far enough. Snorri counted himself amongst that number and in Drogor found an ally more willing to listen to his concerns than his peace-favouring cousin. Nonetheless, he had wanted Morgrim by his side in this and so here they were, together, if at odds with one another.
‘Aye, thane. He has no hold, no clan. I will make him a clan lord of Karaz-a-Karak in recognition for his deeds and loyalty. It is only honourable and right.’
‘Then why do you look so troubled, cousin?’
‘Because I am about to go to war against the wishes of the High King and am painfully lacking in warriors.’
‘You have over fifteen thousand axes, if the loremaster’s tallying is accurate.’
‘Aye, but none from Eight Peaks and no word from King Varnuf.’
‘He was at the council of kings with your father.’
‘And, no doubt, my father has convinced him it was not in his best interests to support me. Musters take time, all dawi know that, but three weeks is enough to send a missive or a war party.’
‘Perhaps he saw sense as you should do.’
Snorri roared, ‘What, to sit on my arse as elgi kill kith and kin with impunity?’ Some of the dwarfs nearby looked up as the shout resonated around the gorge, and the prince lowered his voice. ‘I can be idle no longer. I said if my father did not declare war then I would. Once it’s begun, he will see I was right and have no choice but to call the clans to battle. I know it.’
‘I hope you are right.’
‘If you do not believe in this then why are you here, Morg?’
Morgrim was already turning his back, disgusted by what he saw as warmongering for its own sake. Snorri wanted to prove his worth and the only way he could see of doing that was to wilfully go against his father and pick a fight with the elves.
Snorri called after his cousin. ‘Well? If you don’t want a fight then why come here bearing az un klad, eh? Why are you here, Morg?’
‘To stop you from getting yourself killed, you ufdi.’
He walked away and Snorri, though he wanted to apologise, to take back his words, could only watch.
With one last look at the stygian depths of the Black Water and the endless darkness within, he went
