He did not want to defy his father but what choice did he have? Destiny, his destiny, was in the balance. Snorri would be king and this would cement his legacy. Gotrek had purged the greenskins, he would kill the elves.
Two kings with their ceremonial hearthguard awaited Snorri beyond the mist-shrouded shores of Black Water. Brynnoth of Barak Varr was bedecked in scaled armour of sea green. A teal leather cloak, emblazoned with images of mermen and other sea beasts, was cinched to his shoulders by a pair of kraken-headed pauldrons. His war helm bore a nose guard studded with emeralds and carried an effigy of a sea dragon as its crest. Snug in its belt loop was a broad-bladed axe with a toothed edge like the fangs of some leviathan.
Thagdor’s armour was less ostentatious. He favoured a simple bronze breastplate over gilded chainmail. His vambraces were leather and sewn with the images of hammers. An open helmet with a slide-down faceplate sat on the table beside him and his hammer was strapped to his back, the haft jutting out from behind a cloak of purple velvet.
From where he’d been stooping over the table, Brynnoth looked up. He scratched the hollow under his eyepatch as Snorri approached.
‘My prince,’ he said, sketching a short bow.
Thagdor did the same, but was less deferential to the young heir of Karaz-a-Karak.
‘So when are we getting bloody going then?’ he asked. ‘My boots are rough as a troll’s arse I’ve been standing around that chuffing long.’ Thagdor thumbed over his shoulder to where a large cohort of dwarfs was gathering. ‘I’ve got nigh on seven thousand beards mustered behind me, lad, and they want a bloody good scrap.’
The sun had risen higher in the last few minutes and was slowly burning away the morning mist, revealing the full glory of the dwarf throng.
Thagdor had brought the bulk of the army and a great many siege engines, but then they were practically on the doorstep of Zhufbar. It was mainly clan dwarfs and miners, but with a strong cohort of hearthguard. Sailed up from the Sea Hold across the Skull River were another five thousand dwarfs of King Brynnoth’s throng, many of which were longbeards roused to battle by the tragic death of Agrin Fireheart. The rest came from Luftvarr, two thousand Norse dwarfs who just wanted a decent fight, and the clans that were loyal to Snorri in Everpeak. Others had pledged their allegiance to his cause too. Hrekki Ironhandson of Karak Varn and dwarf throngs from Karak Hirn were to meet them at the edge of Black Fire Pass.
The route was inked out on the parchment map lying on the table. South across the fringe of the mountains, along the hills and rocky tors until reaching the mouth of the pass. From there, with some twenty thousand dwarfs in tow, north-west to the first elven city of Kor Vanaeth. Only by attacking a settlement of some significance would the dwarfs make clear the elves were no longer welcome in the Old World. Snorri meant to sack Kor Vanaeth, to raze it to the ground utterly. It was a long march, one that would take several weeks with mules and trappings, but the prince was patient. He had waited this long for his father to act and been content to watch as the High King did nothing. Now, he would show his mettle and seize the destiny that had been foretold to him by Ranuld Silverthumb.
‘We are ready,’ he said huskily. It was no small thing to defy his father, but Snorri kept telling himself the dishonour of it was outweighed by the indignity of standing by and letting elves kill dwarfs without retribution.
Brynnoth gripped the young prince’s hand. There were tears in the dwarf king’s eye. Salt stained his beard and a briny odour emanated off his clothes.
‘Thank you, lad,’ he whispered. There was fire in Brynnoth’s gaze too, fuelling his desire for vengeance at Agrin’s death.
Nodding, Snorri slipped free of the sea king’s hand and signalled the call to march.
Drums and horns echoed around the gorge, followed by the raucous clanking of armoured dwarfs moving into position.
To the outsider dwarfs might appear stunted and slow, but when properly motivated they are quick and direct. Such a fact had often caused their enemies to underestimate them, and believe them cumbersome creatures when the opposite was true.
‘Luftvarr of Kraka Drak,’ Snorri called, seeing the Norse dwarf king who looked up at the prince from brawling with his warriors. ‘Do you stand with me?’
Brandishing his axe into the sky, Luftvarr roared and his huscarls roared with him, a belligerent chorus that shook the earth from the surrounding mountains.
‘Khazuk!’ they cried as one, before the king silenced them to speak. ‘Luftvarr think this will be a mighty runk… Ha, ha!’ His warriors laughed with him and kept going until they were ranked up in the order of march.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing trusting to those savages,’ muttered Brynnoth.
‘I can heel them easily enough,’ said Snorri, eyeing the berserkers with a wary look. ‘Luftvarr just wants to kill elgi, we can all empathise with that.’ He tromped off to join the Everpeak dwarfs at the head of the army. Who he saw there when he reached them was unexpected.
Standing by Morgrim’s side, dressed in a travelling cloak and wearing a light suit of mail, was Elmendrin Grimbok.
‘Come to wish us on our way, priestess?’ Snorri uttered coldly, and tried to deny the heavy beating of his heart at the sight of the dwarf maiden. ‘War is no place for rinns,’ he said, ‘despite the warriors you have brought with you.’ A small band of ironbreakers, clad in gromril with their faceplates down, stood back from the maiden, together with two more priestesses from the temple. Snorri glared at Morgrim before she could answer. ‘I assume you are responsible for this?’
Elmendrin stepped
