Dwarves in dark robes and black leather armour began pouring out of the mine.
They spread across the snow like dark blood seeping into a white bandage. There were
at least twenty of them.
‘What do we do?’ Lug gasped.
The accursed dwarves began clambering up the gully with a chorus of warlike
shrieks.
‘Climb, you fools,’ Grog said, and with that, he turned and fled up the icy
mountainside.
- CHAPTER 16 -
Wyvern’s Way
It had been a week since the attack on Longdale. During that time, there’d been barely
a waking moment when Grog hadn’t been walking, climbing or fighting. He’d
definitely regained a fraction of his old fitness, and the muscles in his legs had
hardened and strengthened somewhat. But climbing frantically up a snow-covered
mountainside was enough to reduce even the fittest dwarf in all the realms to a broken
gasping mess – and Grog was still very far from the fittest dwarf in all the realms.
But he wasn’t the only one that was suffering. The effects of the sedating herb that
Notgrin had slipped into their drinks was still clearly weighing on Grog’s companions
like a heavy blanket. Krordous and Lug were both grunting like boars on heat as they
surged up Wyverns Way. Even Tarian was wheezing.
They would have to stop soon. Grog’s legs had already given out twice and sent
him crashing face first into the snow, and his burning chest felt like someone had
poured an entire barrel full of smoulder whisky into it – only without any of the
associated benefits.
The only positive was that the score of accursed dwarves who were pursuing them,
seemed to be struggling even worse than Grog was. They’d fallen further and further
behind since leaving Lug’s mine and were now a long way back down the gully … but
they were still advancing.
A shout of dismay from Lug caused Grog to stop and turn. The one-eyed dwarf had
fallen and slid back down the snowy slope a few paces. He was hauling himself to his
feet; his saturated clothes shining in the moonlight. A scattering of tiny snowballs was
tumbling back down the incline.
‘Stop,’ Grog said, putting his hands on his knees and panting. ‘Wait.’
Krordous and Tarian seemed only too glad to obey.
‘This isn’t working,’ Grog said, before pausing to take some gulps of frigid air.
‘We’re not gonna reach the Faithbound tonight – not even close.’ He pointed back
down the gully at the mass of shadowy shapes moving across the moonlit snow.
‘These bastards ain’t stopping … and I’m nearly done in.’
‘So, we fight,’ Tarian said through gritted teeth.
‘Maybe not.’ Grog took a few steps back down the slope and grabbed Lug by the
forearm. He helped him clamber out of the particularly slippery and crumbly patch of
snow. ‘Maybe we could wipe these oily swine off the face of the mountain with a few
tonnes of snow?
‘Like an avalanche? Sounds good,’ Lug said, patting clumps of snow from his
beard and chest, ‘but how?’
Grog looked around, squinting in the gloom. ‘We need some good boulders – nice
and big, but something we can move.’
They began to search, but with every second they stayed in the same spot, their
pursuers drew closer. Grog could hear their yells growing louder as he scoured the
rocky edges of the gully for ammunition.
‘Here!’ Krordous had climbed a short distance up the steep gully wall and was
brushing the snow off a rock. ‘Come and help.’
Grog and the others clambered up after him.
Once Grog was standing beside Krordous, he could see that the rock was more than
half as big as a dwarf. He gave Krordous a dubious look. ‘You think we can move
that?’
‘Of course we can,’ Tarian said as she rolled her shoulders and leaned forwards –
placing her hands against the stone.
All four of them found a purchase on the rock and began trying to push it down into
the gully. It budged a little, its base just barely pulling free of the dirt on one side.
Then it flopped back into place.
‘Hairy balls of the Ancient Ones, Krordous,’ Grog cursed. ‘Couldn’t we have found
something a little smaller?’
Whatever retort was set to follow the glowing scowl that Krordous gave Grog was
cut off by the sound of shouts coming from below.
The accursed dwarves had spotted them, and had quickened their climb. They were
now less than a minute away from being within throwing axe range.
‘Stop your bitching and push, Ironheart!’ Tarian said.
They all heaved again. Their boots slid in the snow and mud. They grunted and
roared, and the rock lifted a little higher.
Then, as their strength gave out, it crashed back down.
‘It’s too big,’ Lug said, sticking his scratched and frozen hands under his armpits.
‘Why don’t we just –’ he walked a few steps, picked up a rock the size of Grog’s head
and hurled it back towards their pursuers. It landed with a dull, unimpressive crunch in
the snow.
A familiar maniacal laugh came from down the gully. ‘Stop running you cowards!’
shrieked Notgrin, and Grog saw the crazed miner raise his pickaxe over his head.
Grog was about to shout to his companions that now probably was the time to give
up on the boulder and start running again, when a deep rumbling sound came from
Krordous.
It seemed at first to be just an escalating growl, but after a moment, Grog realised
that the amber-eyed ex-member of the Sovereign Shadows was repeating the same
words again and again, their volume increasing with each repetition.
‘We’re cowards? We’re cowards? We’re cowards!’
‘Time to go,’ Grog said, as the accursed dwarves drew close enough for Grog to
see skull-like face paint on their savage faces.
‘We’re cowards?’ Krordous thundered as he unclasped his heavy cloak and let it
fall to the ground. ‘You fucking traitor!’ He leaned into the rock, slamming his
shoulder against it as he began to strain.
Even through his clothing, Grog could see Krordous’ thick powerful muscles
bulging. The sinews in his neck flexed like sails caught in the strongest gale. His
bellows of effort echoed up and down the mountain pass.
Tarian threw herself against the rock as well and Grog was amazed to see it begin
to lift.
‘Traitor!’ Krordous roared again as he took a breath and redoubled his efforts.
Grog and Lug hit the rock together. It raised a little higher from the wet soil – its
base coming free, like the roots of an ancient tree tearing from the earth.
‘Fucking push!’ Krordous shouted as throwing axes began to clatter against the
gully wall and even against the other side of the boulder.
Despite the intense chaos, Grog had time to think that this was probably the first
time he’d ever heard Krordous swear. It was quite inspiring. Grog pushed. The rock
lifted, teetered on a perfectly balanced equilibrium for a fraction of a second, then,
with a final heave, it went crashing over the ledge and began tumbling down the
mountainside.
The boulder hurtled towards the suddenly panicked group of accursed dwarves at a
satisfyingly intimidating pace. It sent waves of snow spraying in all directions as it
bounced down the mountainside, but it didn’t start an avalanche – at least, not a
proper one.
We’ll have to keep running, Grog thought miserably.
Apparently Krordous was struck with a different thought; he pulled his hatchets
free from the holsters on his back, leapt down the slope into the gully and began
charging towards the scattering ranks of the enemy.
Tarian clearly thought this was an excellent idea and sprang after him with her
mace in her hand and a familiar gleam in her eyes.
‘Shit!’ Grog pulled his own pair of axes free from the clasps at his belt. ‘I guess
we’re doing this.’
Lug pulled out a shortsword and the two of them clambered down into the gully.
The boulder blasted past the accursed dwarves, showering them with clumps of
snow and mud as they dove out of its way. None of them were hit by the tumbling
rock or injured in any way, but many of them had dropped their weapons, and they
were temporarily dispersed – which was all the opportunity Krordous and Tarian
needed to fall upon them like wolves upon sheep.
Grog had seen Krordous throw his hatchets with deadly accuracy, but he’d never
seen him fight in close combat with another dwarf. He saw it now, and it was a sight
both impressive and terrifying.
Tarian fought like a dancer – all speed, dexterity and precision.
Krordous fought like an enraged bear. He roared with every swing of his hatchets –
overpowering his enemies one-by-one and splattering the pristine snow all around him
with gouts of blood.
Grog broke away to the left, where half of the fractured group of accursed dwarves
were regathering and beginning to surround Krordous.
Lug charged towards the right-hand group where the whirlwind of carnage that was
Tarian had already ended the lives of three skull-faced dwarves as they were picking
themselves up out of the snow.
One of the dwarves that was trying to flank Krordous was sent flying back down
the icy gully as Grog hit him with a fantastically solid shoulder charge. With his
momentum spent, Grog twisted his boots into the snow for balance as a pair of hooded
dwarves turned away from Krordous and started towards him.
Before they could attack from two sides, Grog leapt forwards, swinging one of his
axes in an upwards arc from his knees to above his head. The dwarf jumped sideways
… right into the space where Grog’s other axe was already chopping sideways at neck
height.
This opening move had been a favourite of Grog’s back in his army days; it worked
about half the time.
It worked now.
The dwarf dropped his mace, reached for the horrendous wound across his neck
and gave a little gurgle as he fell into the snow.
Grog didn’t have time to feel bad for the poor fellow. The other skull face was
pointing the glowing end of a twisted amethyst staff at him and muttering some kind
of incantation. Grog didn’t know what was going to come shooting out of the end of
the staff, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to be a stream of fresh ale. He flung
himself forwards into the snow – sliding towards the magic user as a jet of purple
energy crackled over him.
Grog’s intention was to explode upwards out of his slide with axes swinging. Two
years ago he could have, and the mage’s head would have been rolling away down the
gully while Grog moved on to his next opponent. On this particular night, however,
the extra weight and size Grog had acquired since leaving the army prevented any
kind of nimble explosion. In fact, they prevented Grog from regaining his feet at all.
Instead, he just slid at high velocity right into the shins of the mage.
This collision had the wonderful dual effect of slowing Grog’s descent and
knocking the skull-faced mage on his arse. They both scrambled to gain their feet. The
mage stood first, but then made the mortal mistake of leaning over to retrieve his staff.
Grog’s axe descended – cutting through his enemies’ spine. The second axe found
the mage’s neck.
There was no time to feel dishonourable about attacking a dwarf with his back
turned. Krordous was roaring with something other than rage. Grog knew a cry of pain
when he heard one and moved towards his friend with his blood-slicked axes raised.
Krordous was backing away towards the side of the gully. Five skull-faced dwarves
in canvas cloaks and leather armour were advancing on him in a menacing semi-
circle. Krordous had lost his golden helm somehow and there was a nasty gash across
the left side of his face, just below his eye. He was also limping badly. He’d clearly
given worse than he’d got, however – four accursed dwarves lay dead the snow and
the treacherous miner, Notgrin, was lying next to their bodies, clutching at his
shoulder and grimacing in pain.
Grog charged in from the side, just as the skull-faced dwarves rushed Krordous.
Fury and strength surged through him like fire as he saw Krordous manage to duck
under a brutal spiked mace and knock away a spear thrust, only to be blasted full in
the chest with a lance of purple light emitted from the staff of another evil mage.
The amber-eyed warrior staggered backwards, but ran out of room to retreat as his
back thudded against the sheer rock wall of the gully.
But then Grog was there, his magnificently-forged axes cutting into his foes with
wild swings. A robed dwarf went down, and another. A dwarf in leather armour
screamed and dropped his mace as Grog’s axe bit through the armour at his chest. The
dwarf reached up and grabbed Grog’s arm with both hands. Without a second’s
hesitation, Grog lunged forward and head-butted the dwarf on the bridge of his large,
mustard-painted nose. The crack of breaking bone was as sickening as it was
satisfying. The dwarf spluttered a scream through the fountaining blood.
Grog watched the dwarf topple into the snow, then whipped his head up to survey
his remaining opponents.
The mage who’d blasted Krordous was standing only a few paces away. His
glowing staff was pointed right at Grog’s face.
Grog had a fraction of a second to think the word purple, before one of Krordous’
hatchets flew through the air, crashed into the side of the mage’s head and killed him
stone dead.
This left one last enemy standing in front of Krordous. This one had a jagged steel
crown encircling his bald, mustard-painted head, his eyes were a demonic red colour
and he held a long, obsidian-tipped spear … which seemed to be dripping blood.
‘Help Tarian!’ Krordous bellowed, as Grog took a step towards the demonic dwarf.
Grog gave Krordous an uncertain look. The amber-eyed, warrior’s face was
distorted with pain and smeared with blood. He was holding his chest with one hand
and heavily favouring his right leg.
‘Go!’ Krordous pointed his hatchet towards Tarian and Lug without taking his eyes
off the demonic dwarf. ‘This one’s mine.’
Grog turned and bolted across the gully. As he ran through the churned and slushy
snow, he noticed that Notgrin was crawling back down the slope, leaving a trail of
blood behind him. Grog let him go and focused on the other battle that was taking
place ahead of him.
Unsurprisingly, Tarian had decimated this half of the accursed force. There were
only three skull-faced dwarves left standing, and, even though three is a larger number
than one, they were clumped together and moving fearfully away from the kvinna of
war, holding their spears out in front of themselves – trying to keep Tarian at a
distance.
Tarian was advancing towards them with her mace circling hypnotically by her
side, like a swaying jungle cobra, ready to strike.
Lug was lying in the snow.
Claws of fear gripped Grog as the thought hit him that Lug was dead, but then the
swarthy northerner’s one working eye opened and looked over at Grog. ‘Sorry,’ he
grunted.
Grog wasn’t sure what Lug was sorry for exactly, but he thought he’d better help
Tarian kill the last of their accursed pursuers before stopping to find out.
Prior to the disaster of Algan’s Pass, Grog had considered himself pretty good with
tactics in conflicts big and small. He saw now that all Tarian needed was an opening.
He wasn’t going to provide that by standing alongside her with his short axes – in fact,
he’d probably just get in her way. Instead, he threw his axes, one after the other, at the
trio of spear-wielding dwarves. The fact that both of his weapons actually hit the evil
dwarves was both a bonus, and a surprise for Grog.
Tarian did the rest.
Grog even turned away before she’d finished with her third victim.
He looked over at Krordous. He’d dispatched the demon dwarf, but was now on his
knees, pressing handfuls of snow against his chest and looking decidedly unexcited by
their victory. He seemed in no immediate danger of succumbing to his injuries though,
so Grog hurried back to check on Lug and see what it was he’d wanted to apologise
for.
He never did find out though, because although Lug’s one visible eye was still
open, it was glassy and unblinking – raised towards a sky full of stars that he couldn’t
see.
And would never see again.
- CHAPTER 17 -
The Darkest Night
Lug was dead, and if they didn’t reach a skilled healer soon, Krordous was going to
die too.
There was no going back – not to Kärstal Town, or any of the other small villages
on the plains, and certainly not back to Wolfgaärd. Grog had even talked Tarian out of
returning to Notgrin’s mine for their packs and supplies, since he feared that any
number of evil dwarves could come spilling out of those tunnels at any moment.
Their only option was onwards … and upwards.
Tarian hadn’t seen which club-wielding dwarf had landed the blow – or blows –
which had caved-in Lug’s chest and crushed his heart. It didn’t matter. Vengeance
was done. As Grog, Tarian and Krordous had resumed their ascent, they’d left Lug
buried under the snow, and the bodies of nineteen dead enemies scattered on top of it.
Every step was now an act of willpower. Exhaustion, grief and a sense of
hopelessness filled Grog’s body with a leaden weight. If it wasn’t for Krordous, Grog
may well have just curled up in a ball somewhere and given up.
But Krordous was dying. The purple energy from the accursed mage’s staff had
blasted a horrendous burn into his chest. The injury was roughly circular in shape and
bigger than a dinner plate. All the skin had been melted away, leaving a mass of
bleeding blackened flesh.
Grog knew wounds. He knew burns, and he knew that if the pain and shock didn’t
kill Krordous, then infection soon would. The amber-eyed warrior had also been
caught full on the thigh by a spiked mace, and the cut under his left eye hadn’t stopped
bleeding. All-round, Krordous was in a spectacularly bad way, and Grog was amazed
that he was able to move at all.
But move he did. Step after limping step. His top teeth biting down on his bottom
lip, a growl of pain rumbling from within his burned barrel chest with every footfall.
And if he could keep climbing, then so could Grog.
So, they climbed. And Grog fought his inner battle, as he was sure the others were
doing, and the moon traversed the starry sky, and the air grew colder.
For hours they climbed, ever more slowly, towards the top of Wyvern’s Way.
Occasionally Krordous would stop, double over, clench his fists and grunt in primal
agony. Grog and Tarian didn’t ask him whether he was alright – he most definitely
wasn’t – they just waited to see whether their friend had anything left of his
indomitable spirit or whether this was the moment he would crumble. So far, he
hadn’t crumbled, but as their progress grew slower, and the night grew colder and
Krordous’ groans of anguish grew more pronounced, Grog began to feel that the end
was coming.
‘I’m sorry I got mad at you about that nesin weed,’ Krordous said from behind
Grog as they neared the top of the canyon. None of them had spoken in so long, and
Krordous’ words were so unexpected, that Grog nearly fell over with fright.
‘What are you … oh, don’t worry about it,’ Grog said.
‘You were in pain, and it was doing you good,’ Krordous said. ‘I wish we had a
pipeful of it now.’
‘Aye, me too, pal, but in fairness, I don’t think I was enduring quite as much as
you.’ Grog tried to keep pity from his face, he knew Krordous was one dwarf who
wouldn’t appreciate pity.
‘I’ve had some … experience with pain,’ Krordous said. ‘Probably more than most
dwarves. Definitely more than I’d like.’
Images of Krordous’ scar-covered body flashed into Grog’s mind.
‘We should have gone back to the cave,’ Tarian said, a nasty edge to her voice that
Grog didn’t like. ‘We could have got that weed for Krordous!’
‘For all we know, twenty more of those underground bastards could have come
charging out at us,’ Grog said, hot waves of anger mixing with his guilt and weariness.
‘And I would have killed all of them!’ Tarian snarled.
‘Please don’t fight,’ Krordous said through gritted teeth. ‘If you’re angry at anyone,
it should be me. I’m the one who got the bloodlust, I’m the one who charged off down
the mountainside like a fool, I’m the one who … Lug’s dead because of me.’
‘Krordous, don’t you dare think that!’ Grog said. ‘Lug’s dead because of some evil
bastard underground dwarf, not because of you. In fact, if you hadn’t gone charging
off down the mountainside, we might all be dead. We might never have had such a
good chance to hit those bastards.’
‘Lug is dead because of me,’ Krordous repeated. ‘I’ll continue on with the mission
until it is completed, or until I die. After either one of those outcomes, it will be time
to face what I did.’
‘Well you’re not dead yet,’ Tarian said tersely, ‘and your guilt’s not gonna bring
Lug back, nor help the thirteen realms, so – can you keep going?’
‘Yes,’ Krordous nodded, his eyes downcast, ‘I think so.’
So Grog turned, exhaled a steaming breath of resignation into the icy air and
continued on.
When they reached the top of Wyvern’s Way and there was still no sign of further
pursuit, and Krordous hadn’t died, Grog felt the first spark of hope that they might
actually make it to the faithbound settlement after all.
But then, as they began walking north-west along the spine of the rocky ridge
which led to the upmost section of Mount Vaelkain, clouds to drift in front of the
moon, plunging them into near-total darkness. Shortly after that, it began to snow.
The snow was light at first, almost calming, but as they edged their way with
interminable slowness along the ridge, the flakes came thicker and heavier. They
settled in Grog’s wild black hair and in his beard; they flurried into his face and were
soon falling so prodigiously that it became impossible to see.
When the wind began picking up, Grog knew that it was time to find whatever
shelter they could.
‘We have to stop!’ he yelled to the others as they caught up to him.
‘Agreed!’ Tarian said, wiping snow from her eyes and spitting. ‘But where?’
Grog squinted back the way they’d come. ‘There was a big rock just back there.
That’s about as good as we’re going to get.’
‘A rock?’ Tarian spat snow again. ‘You think we’re going to survive this squatting
down next to a fucking rock?’
‘Probably not, Tarian, but if you’ve got a better idea, I’d love to hear it!’
Grog knew he risked a swift death by fighting with Tarian in her current state, but a
sudden blow to the head with her horrible chain mace seemed preferable to freezing to
death anyway.
‘Use me…’
The words came from Krordous. They didn’t make any sense to Grog, but at least
they distracted Tarian and stopped her from caving Grog’s head in … for the time
being.
‘What are talking about?’ Tarian yelled over the rising wind.
‘Use my body,’ Krordous looked up at Grog. ‘Isn’t that something you
mountaineers do sometimes?’ A spasm of agony ripped through Krordous. He
clutched at his chest and stifled a guttural cry. ‘You … cut dead dwarves open, for
their heat.’
‘No,’ Grog said emphatically, ‘we don’t, and we sure as piss won’t be cutting your
body open tonight! Come on,’ he grabbed Krordous by the arm and began half-
guiding, half-dragging him back towards the large rock they’d recently passed.
Tarian got on the other side of Krordous and grabbed his other arm as the injured
warrior began to dip in and out of consciousness.
‘He’s going,’ she said to Grog.
Grog didn’t reply. Tarian was right, but Grog didn’t want to agree … didn’t want to
speak the words out loud and make them real – Krordous is going to die.
They reached the rock. It was rectangular in shape, as tall as a dwarf and about five
strides long. Tarian and Grog hauled Krordous to the southern side of the rock which
was as out of the wind as they could get, then Grog began digging with his glove-
covered hands.
‘What you doing?’ Tarian asked as she settled Krordous back against the rock.
‘Best not to sit on snow,’ Grog said, using every ounce of his remaining strength to
burrow like a hound into the snow that was banked against the rock.
Without a word, Tarian joined him, and before long, they’d carved out a space next
to the rock where the three of them could huddle together away from the worst of the
biting wind.
Krordous sat in the middle. His eyes were closed and his groans and whimpers of
pain were now unceasing now.
Grog removed his fox fur cloak and used it like a blanket to cover them all. Apart
from that, there was nothing Grog could give Krordous, apart from a fat shoulder to
lean against, and nothing more to share with him, apart from his body heat. So these
were the gifts he gave, and on the other side of Krordous, Tarian did the same – only
with a significantly less padded and comfortable shoulder.
Despite the howling wind and swirling snow, despite the stabbing cold and
desperate feelings of helplessness and despair, Grog’s exhaustion was overwhelming,
and he still found himself drifting off to sleep. His last thought as he sunk into the
welcoming embrace of unconsciousness was that he really, really should have gone
back to Notgrin’s mine to fetch the whisky.
***
When Grog did wake up, he instantly wished that he hadn’t. Every part of his body
began shouting at his lethargic brain, demanding consideration. His toes insisted that
their frigidity required his immediate attention, his legs screamed their pain at him, his
neck screamed louder. In the end, however, it was his face – and in-particular his
snow-crusted eyelids that Grog decided to care for first.
His left arm was jammed against Krordous, so he reached up with his right, and
began scraping the frost from his face with his goat leather glove, allowing the pale
light of dawn to reach his stinging eyeballs.
Krordous!
Memories tumbled in, one after the other.
Krordous! Is he alive?
With a monumental effort of will, Grog twisted his aching frozen body and reached
for Krordous, searching for a heartbeat, a breath, any sign of life.
The sound of Krordous grunting with annoyance as Grog pawed at him was one of
the most wonderful sounds Grog had ever heard.
‘Ancient Ones! You’re not dead!’ Grog croaked, his throat raw and ragged.
‘No,’ Krordous confirmed, his voice equally raspy, ‘not yet. But I’ll be with them
soon I think.’
‘Who, the Ancient Ones?’
Krordous was looking down at the lesser peaks below them – wreathed in clouds
glowing golden in the morning light. His dark skin was flushed and blotchy from the
cold. He breathed out a steady sigh and paused a long moment before he began to
speak. ‘I want to tell you something, Grog. As it seems you’ve guessed, I was once a
member of the Sovereign Shadows; the secret servants of the kings. My role for many
years was to operate deep undercover. I infiltrated some of the most powerful and
insidious gangs and organisations in all the thirteen realms – assassin’s guilds,
smuggling rings, mercenary bands, you name it. But, four years ago, I was tasked with
the assassination of High King Oahn himself. The assignment came from someone
very high up; the amount of gold offered to the mercenary band I’d infiltrated was
incredible.’
‘Who?’ Grog interrupted. ‘Who wanted Oahn dead?’
‘Shut up, Grog,’ Tarian’s voice came from the other side of Krordous. Despite its
sharpness, Grog was glad to hear that the kvinna of war had also made it through the
night. ‘Go on, Krordous,’ she said, her voice suddenly far gentler.
‘I don’t know who exactly gave the order,’ Krordous said, ‘but I’m sure that it was
one of the other kings.’
Grog wanted to blurt something, but held his tongue.
‘Obviously I didn’t carry out the assignment, which raised suspicions and cost the
mercenaries a sizable fortune. They investigated me. They discovered I was a
sovereign shadow – information which could only have come from one of the kings –
and then…’ Krordous shut his eyes, and was quiet for so long that Grog thought he’d
drifted off to sleep again. He would’ve thought he’d died, except his chest was slowly
rising and falling.
‘I had a family once,’ Krordous said eventually. ‘A beautiful wife, two beautiful
children. Two days after I’d failed to assassinate Oahn, I walked into a trap at the
mercenaries’ underground hideout.’
A strange quivering murmur rumbled in Krordous’ chest as he raised a hand to
cover his shimmering amber eyes.
Grog found that he was finding it very hard to swallow, or even breathe.
‘My family was dead. They showed me the bodies … then they set to work on me.
They tried to extract information, but the pain of all those cuts and bruises and burns
was like nothing to me. I was already in as much torment as a dwarf can possibly be.
After many hours, I think they’d given up on me. The mercenary leader and most of
the band left. Only four savage bastards remained to cut the symbol of the sovereign
shadows into my chest. After that, they were going to dump my dead naked body onto
the steps of Oahn’s fortress as a warning to all kings and all shadows not to mess with
the affairs of the mercenary guilds.’
Again, Krordous paused and seemed to drift off to sleep.
‘Krordous?’ Grog nudged him gently. ‘Don’t you go dying yet. You’ve got to tell
us the end of the story. How did you escape?’
‘I didn’t, I was rescued. Brotun came – him and another full moon servant of the
high king. They made very short work of those mercs. They carried me out of there.
Honestly, I didn’t want to be rescued, I wanted to die. I wanted to join my wife and
my son and … and my little baby girl.’
Another deep murmur came from deep within Krordous’ broad chest as he stifled
and choked on his grief.
‘But Brotun wouldn’t let me die, wouldn’t let me give up. He said the best way to
honour the memories of my family was to help him bring down the insidious
mercenary clans that were growing in power and influence at that time. So I did, and
that was my mission until the fog came, and then … well, everything changed didn’t
it?’
‘Aye,’ Grog nodded, ‘everything changed.’
‘I’m sorry, Krordous,’ Tarian said. ‘I’m sorry about your family. If we ever get off
this fucking mountain, it would be an honour to help you track down and kill every
single bastard in any way responsible.’
‘A kind offer, but I’m not getting off this mountain, Tarian,’ Krordous said, looking
out once more over the magnificent golden clouds and snowcapped peaks. ‘In fact, I
don’t think I can even move. The fever has me now. Every part of me is on fire.’
Grog looked more carefully at Krordous. Maybe the flushing and discolouration
wasn’t from the cold, maybe it was because of an internal furnace that was burning
inside his injured friend. As impossible as it seemed, there were beads of sweat
glistening on Krordous’ face.
‘No,’ Grog said resolutely. ‘Don’t you dare give up, Krordous. We’re getting you
up to the Faithbound, and they’re going to fix you. I’ve heard they’re the best healers
in the world.’
‘Are you going to carry me up the mountain, Grog?’ Krordous asked, his eyelids
drooping.
‘Not by himself,’ Tarian said, beginning to disentangle herself from Grog’s fox fur
cloak.
‘Tarian stop,’ Krordous said, as his head sagged forward – his beard pressing
against his chest. ‘Do you think I would have told you my story if I thought there was
any chance I was going to survive? I didn’t want Brotun being the only one who knew
about … my family. But now there’s three of you who know … three dwarvkin who
know … three,’ his voice was a whisper now. ‘Three … in all the world.’
‘I’m afraid you are mistaken, friend,’ came a calm breathy voice from behind them.
Grog threw off the snow-covered blanket and leapt to his feet as fast as his cramped
and frozen body was able – which meant he attained a standing position a full five
seconds after Tarian.
Sitting cross-legged on top of the rock they’d sheltered behind were three dwarves
dressed in the robes and cowls of Faithbound monks. All three of them had elaborate
gold markings painted on their faces. All three of them were smiling benignly.
‘What the fuck?’ Grog exclaimed, still shaking with shock. ‘How long have you
been there?’
‘We arrived with the sun,’ said the centre monk. He had a wine-coloured cowl
covering his head and a dazzling fluorite gemstone sewn onto the breast of his robe.
‘But that is not important. What’s important is that we tend to your friend. Come
brothers,’ the monk stood and the others followed his lead, ‘let us save the life of this
poor lost soul.’
- CHAPTER 18 -
The Faithbound
It wasn’t until Grog began climbing the masterfully-built stone staircase that led up to
the towering abbeys and fortresses of the Faithbound settlement, that he truly believed
Krordous might actually survive.
The monks who’d found them had given Krordous some foul-smelling herbal tonic
to drink. They’d explained that it would sedate him and help to fight the infection, but
that he could only truly be healed by the physicians atop Mount Vaelkain.
Luckily, the three monks had soon been joined by a dozen more of their brethren. It
turned out that the huge rectangular rock Grog and his companions had sheltered
behind was actually some kind of carved shrine, where Sun Prophet monks sometimes
came greet to the sun and pray to the Ancient Ones.
These monks had hoisted the barely-conscious Krordous onto their shoulders and
begun carrying him across the ridge and towards the mountain’s peak.
Grog wouldn’t have objected to being carried himself, but even though he was
desperately fatigued and had just spent the night sitting beneath a snowstorm, no such
offer was made.
It had taken hours to traverse the ridge, and hours more to climb the narrow zig-zag
path which led to the first of the perfectly-clean and well-maintained steps which
Grog was now climbing.
The only thing keeping Grog’s burning legs moving was Krordous. The monks
carrying his friend were far ahead of him now. They’d almost reached the top of the
steps and the cluster of imposing stone buildings that lay beyond. Grog had tried to
keep up with them, but the Faithbound dwarves were obviously far more used to
climbing ridiculously long staircases and mountains than Grog; they seemed
positively sprightly, despite the fact that they were carrying the heavily-muscled body
of Krordous.
Tarian had – of course – kept up with that group of monks. She walked just behind
them and had given Grog no indication that Krordous’ condition had worsened.
‘Not far now, friend,’ said the monk with the wine-coloured cowl and the fluorite
gemstone who was climbing the stairs just behind Grog. ‘I know you’re suffering, but
soon you will be in our care, and all will be well.’
‘Good,’ Grog said, too out of breath for conversation.
The monk, who’d introduced himself as Keagan Firehammer, quickened his pace
until he was alongside Grog. ‘Krordous will live,’ he said.
Grog grunted in a way that he hoped conveyed his appreciation of this sentiment,
but also his annoyance at being bothered while he was busily trying not to collapse in
a heap.
‘You are fortunate that the Prime Archon is currently staying in the northern
priory,’ Keagan said reverently, raising his eyes to the sky. ‘He has only recently
returned from his winter pilgrimage to visit our brothers and sisters atop Mount Intos.’
Another grunt.
‘Although, as I told you, I do not think he will agree to your king’s request for aid.’
‘We’ll see, pal,’ Grog said as he turned a corner on the great staircase and began his
ascent of the final flight.
***
During his time in the mountain battalion, the closest Grog had ever come to the
Faithbound settlement at the top of Mount Vaelkain was the base of their stone
staircase. Normally, permission was never granted for outsiders to climb these stairs,
let alone lay eyes on what had been built at their summit, but Grog was laying eyes on
it now, and it was causing a definite slackness in his sagging jaw.
He was standing at the very top of the staircase. Stretching out before him was a
vast open square, seamlessly covered with perfectly flat granite paving. On three sides
of the square were enormous buildings – their bases seeming to grow organically from
the rocky mountainside, their upper levels constructed from more granite – also hewn
with masterful precision into enormous blocks. As he was led across the square by
Keagan, he was able to look through the gap between the northern and eastern
buildings and see the mountain sloping away to the north. It had been cut and shaped
into dozens of flattened tiers, with more buildings and large swathes of pasture,
covered with goats.
Faithbound dwarves and kvinna were everywhere. They were working the fields on
the northern tiers, training for combat with long wooden staffs outside the western
structure, and kneeling in prayer outside the massive northern abbey which Keagan
was guiding him towards. One dwarf he didn’t see, however, was Krordous.
‘Keagan,’ Grog ceased his gawking and hurried to catch up with the monk, ‘where
would they have taken Krordous?’
‘The infirmary is on the second level of the barracks,’ Keagan said, pointing to the
building on the western side of the square, ‘but you must come with me. We must
explain your presence to Archon Oathenforge. Perhaps you may even be granted an
audience with the Prime Archon himself!’
Grog stopped. ‘That’s great and everything, but I really would like to check on
Krordous.’
Keagan turned and smiled at Grog. ‘Of course you would, but no one is permitted
into the infirmary save the infirm and those that care for them.’
‘Well … where’s Tarian then?’
Keagan looked around the square. His smile fell. ‘Ah, she appears to have been
even more insistent than you about checking on your friend.’ He pointed again
towards the western side of the square, where six heavily-armoured paladins were
escorting the furious Tarian out of the front doors.
‘Oh shit,’ Grog set off towards Tarian at a jog.
‘Get your hands off me you bastards!’ Tarian was saying as Grog huffed and puffed
his way through the crowd of training monks and paladins towards her.
‘Tarian,’ he called out. ‘Calm down! They’re looking after Krordous. We have to
trust them.’
Tarian wrenched her arms away from the burly paladins on either side of her and
strode towards Grog.
‘We’re here to make a good impression,’ Grog hissed at her as she came close.
‘You’ll get our arses kicked down the mountainside if you’re not careful.’
Tarian glared at him. ‘They said I couldn’t take my mace in there, so I gave it to
them, then they jumped me and threw me out!’
‘We’ll get your damn mace back, but for now just…’ Grog cast sideways glances at
the Faithbound that were standing all around them, ‘just try and be nice.’
‘Who are you?’ A kvinna monk asked. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s alright,’ Grog said, holding up his hands in a show of peace. ‘We were brought
here by some of your … brothers.’
‘We saw that,’ the kvinna said, leaning on her staff. ‘Or else you wouldn’t still be
alive, but why are you here?’
Tarian stepped towards the kvinna, her hands not raised peacefully, but clenched in
fists by her sides. ‘Why don’t you mind your own business before I shove that pretty
stick up your –’
‘Tarian!’ Grog roared.
‘Come now, friends,’ Keagan said, pushing his way through the crowd. ‘These are
emissaries of the High King.’
‘These?’ the kvinna with the staff pulled a pointedly skeptical face as she looked
Grog up and down. ‘Are you sure, Keagan?’ She pointed the tip of her staff at Tarian.
‘This one looks like she’s part of some travelling entertainment troupe.’
The paint on Tarian’s face had indeed become exceedingly smeared and runny
during the trip up the mountain. Grog had to admit that she did look quite comical, but
because he knew what she was capable of, he found her appearance equally terrifying.
Grog winced as the monks and paladin around them chuckled.
Tarian took another slow step towards the laughing kvinna. ‘Do you mind if I train
with you, sister?’ she asked in a sweet husky voice. ‘I’ve never used one of these
before,’ she gestured towards the staff. ‘I’d be very appreciative if you could show me
what to do?’
‘Oh, I’d be happy to,’ said the kvinna, with equal sweetness. ‘Someone give our
new friend a bo staff.’
‘Enough of this!’ Keagan said, trying to intervene. ‘I must take the emissaries to the
archon.’
‘It won’t take a moment,’ said the kvinna monk, twirling her staff elaborately as
another kvinna handed a staff to Tarian.
The crowd stepped back, forming a clear circle around the two kvinna.
As soon as the weapon was in Tarian’s hands, the kvinna leapt forwards.
Tarian stayed completely still.
Grog almost felt sorry for the kvinna monk as she faked a swing at Tarian’s left
side and then reversed her staff and thrust it forcefully towards Tarian’s stomach.
At the last possible instant, Tarian’s staff whipped through the air – once to smash
aside the incoming attack, again in a low and lunging reverse scoop which took the
legs out from under the kvinna and a third time to drive the copper-engraved head of
the weapon down towards the face of the prone monk.
The blow never landed. Tarian stopped the end of the solid timber staff a hair’s
breadth from the end of the kvinna’s nose.
The stunned silence that followed was shattered by the sound of a slow,
unmistakably mocking clap.
Grog turned to see the crowd parting respectfully before a remarkable-looking
kvinna monk walking towards them. Her hands were raised and still slowly clapping,
her blue and grey cowl was scant – leaving much of her skin exposed and showing an
elaborate collection of eel tattoos. She had a silver ring through her septum and a lapis
gem gleaming on the chest of her robe. But what really raised Grog’s eyebrows were
the strange spidery scars which covered her forehead and traversed her left cheek like
a streak of lightning.
‘Harfrid is a good fighter,’ the monk said, pointing at the kvinna on the ground, but
never taking her twitchy eyes off Tarian, ‘but you’re…’ she paused and licked her
lips, ‘you’re much better.’
‘Sine, that really is enough,’ Keagan said, stepping in front of the scar-faced
kvinna. ‘I’m taking our guests to meet the archon right now, and any of you who delay
me further will have him to answer to.’
The kvinna called Sine nodded, but then pointed at Tarian’s face. ‘Your markings –
what are you?’
‘A kvinna of war,’ Tarian said, jutting out her chin.
‘I thought so,’ Sine said, with a hungry look. ‘I am what they call a Thunderstruck,
and I’ve waited a long time to test myself against a worthy opponent.’ She ran a
fingertip down the scar on her cheek. ‘I invoke Brol-Alagash.’
‘Sine, no!’ Keagan shouted. ‘These are guests. You should not be provoking them
to combat! Rescind your challenge.’
‘It’s alright, Keagan,’ Tarian said, her narrowed mismatched eyes locked with
Sine’s green ones. ‘Brol-Alagash must be honoured.’
‘But not now!’ Keagan said. ‘You will come with me to meet the archon first. Later
there will be plenty of time for you kvinna to test your skills.’
‘Aye, let’s go and meet the archon,’ Grog said. ‘That’s why we’re here, after all,
isn’t it, Tarian? To try and save the thirteen realms … remember?’
As though wakening from a trance, Tarian looked away from Sine and lowered her
eyes. ‘Yes, let’s go.’
They began walking across the square towards the enormous abbey.
‘I’ll be seeing you later then sister,’ Sine called after them.
‘Leave it!’ Grog barked, as Tarian made to turn around. ‘Why are we here? Why
did we lose Lug and Orifam and Hammerbuckle? Why is Krordous lying in there with
half his chest burned off?’
Tarian opened her mouth, but all of Grog’s exhaustion, emotion and pain were
spilling out and he rolled over her. ‘We’re here to ask for help, Tarian, not to pick
fights.’
‘I wasn’t the one –’
‘We’ve travelled all the way here to seek an audience with the archon, so let’s do
that and do it properly, with as much diplomacy and humility as we can.’
‘Since when were you a fucking diplomat?’ Tarian asked.
‘I’m no diplomat,’ Grog said, staring up at the imposing abbey and the monk in
green robes who was scurrying down its steps towards them, ‘but I’m all that’s left.’
‘Keagan!’ the green-robed monk called out as he approached. ‘Keagan! Your Sun
Prophet brothers brought the news of our visitors to Archon Oathenforge, and now
Prime Archon Malinjor himself is coming down from the high tower to meet with the
lowlanders.’
Keagan and the green-robed monk looked at Tarian and Grog as though they were
made out of diamonds or ale or something.
‘Well,’ Grog adjusted his fox fur cloak and made an utterly ineffective attempt to
smooth his wild unkempt hair and beard, ‘here we go.’
- CHAPTER 19 -
Prime Archon Malinjor
The Faithbound’s abbey was like no church or temple Grog had ever been to.
Although grand in scale, it’s interior was sparsely furnished, with none of the statues,
decorations or beautiful murals normally found inside dwarven places of worship. The
floor was made from polished grey granite, the stone walls were bare, apart from
flaming torches seated in steel brackets. Directly ahead of Grog, a set of wide stone
steps led up to an altar.
Standing in front of the altar were three extremely impressive-looking dwarves.
Two of them had white paint covering their faces – just like Brotun’s full moon,
except unlike Brotun, these armoured warriors also had streaks of blood-red smeared
from between their eyebrows back towards the crowns of their bald heads.
In between them was a dwarf who emanated power. He was clad in heavy steel
armour. A lapis gem was attached to his chest and more of the precious stones
glittered in his masterfully-forged steel crown. Matching the hue of these gems were
his pale blue eyes which were looking enquiringly down at Grog and Tarian.
‘Esteemed Archon Oathenforge,’ Keagan said, bowing low, ‘may I present
Mowgrog Ironheart and Tarian Slatechisel, emissaries of the one that the lowlanders
call the High King.’
Grog bowed awkwardly and tried to communicate to Tarian that she should do the
same by loudly clearing his throat. She either didn’t get the message or chose to
ignore it, because she stayed as upright as a marble pillar, her eyes locked on the great
axes the two white-faced bodyguards had resting on their shoulders.
‘What do you want?’ the archon asked, his voice as cold and dispassionate as his
piercing eyes.
‘Well…’ Grog scratched his beard, caught off-guard by the archon’s deadpan
directness. ‘It’s quite a long story, your grace,’ Grog said. ‘Perhaps we could sit down
somewhere and I’ll fill you in?’
‘No, we will remain here,’ the archon said. ‘Now, tell me what you want.’
Hot anger roiled inside Grog’s belly. He had no doubt that the archon could see
how weary and travel-worn he and Tarian were. Grog had been hoping for the offer of
a hot bath, a good meal and at least an entire bottle of some holy wine. The least the
bastard could do would be to offer them a seat, but oh no – they were being forced to
stand in a vast cold hall with their necks craned upwards and their bellies empty.
‘What we want,’ Grog said, swallowing down his anger, ‘is to give you this.’ He
reached inside his fox fur cloak and pulled out the scroll that King Gelgrum
Brewblade had given him. It was horribly crumpled and slightly ripped, but probably
still legible. ‘This is a letter from High King Ruenthor. I haven’t read it, but I can tell
you that it’s going to be a request for aid.’
The archon’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
‘I don’t know how much you all know up here about what’s happening in the rest
of the world, but there’s sort of a war happening and we really need your help.’
The archon tilted his head very slightly to one side as he considered Grog. ‘Sort of
a war? What do you mean sort of a war?’
‘Well, it’s not so much a war as just a…’ Grog’s hands made little circles in the air
as he searched for the right words.
‘It’s an invasion!’ Tarian said. ‘Thousands of evil unholy dwarvkin have appeared
out of nowhere; it seems they’re rising up from underground. They’re butchering
everyone! Turning them into undead beasts!’
If the archon was shocked or surprised by this news, he didn’t show it. His face
remained as impassive as if Tarian was telling him about the weather. ‘And you
expect us to come to your aid?’ he asked. ‘Do you know the history of the
Faithbound?’
‘I know a little,’ Grog said, speaking quickly before Tarian could verbalize any of
the rage he felt radiating off her. ‘You came up to the mountaintops during the broken
years, after the great earthquake.’
‘We did,’ the archon said. ‘And why do you think that was? Why do you think we
chose to establish our settlements on the peaks of the four greatest mountains known
to dwarvenkind?’
‘Look, I’m just the messenger,’ Grog said, ‘maybe if you just read this letter, you
might –’
‘We came here to get away from the endless troubles of the lowlands,’ the archon
said. ‘We’re not interested in your chaos, your bickering or your wars.’
‘So you’re just going to stay up here while thousands die?’ Tarian took a step
forward.
The two bodyguards did the same.
‘Our people have families too,’ the archon said, seemingly unflustered by Tarian’s
outburst. ‘Are they worth less? Why would we descend from our holy places to
become entangled in the endless conflicts and quarrels of the dwarves?’
‘You’re fucking dwarves!’ Tarian shouted.
‘We are Faithbound,’ the archon replied calmly. ‘We have risen above such
pettiness.’
‘Your grace,’ Grog said, stepping in front of Tarian before she could go flying up
the stairs, ‘Tarian and I are very, very tired, and probably not the most eloquent
emissaries at the best of times. Please, if you could just read the letter, I’m sure it’ll do
a much better job of explaining things than we can.’
With a visibly trembling hand, Grog offered the crumpled letter to Keagan, who
looked up at the archon for approval. When the archon dipped his lapis-crowned head,
Keagan took the letter and began walking up the staircase.
‘Thank you, your grace,’ Grog said. ‘Good brave dwarves died to bring that here.’
The archon took the letter from Keagan without acknowledging Grog’s words. ‘It is
not for me to read this,’ the archon said, holding up the scroll. ‘The northern priory is
blessed at present, for Prime Archon Malinjor is here. He is currently completing his
morning communion with the Ancient Ones, but will be down from the high tower
soon.’
The archon bowed his head in some kind of soundless prayer and what Grog felt
was a terribly awkward silence filled the great hall.
Tarian shot a look at Grog. He combined a silencing finger on his lips with the
most pleading expression he could manage. She sighed and sat down on the floor.
Grog clasped his hands behind his back and took some deep breaths as the silence
stretched out. His hands were shaking badly and he could feel sweat trickling down
the sides of his torso from his armpits. Equal parts nausea and hunger clawed at the
inside of his stomach. He needed some food, but even more than that – he really
needed something to drink. It was all he could do not to fall to his knees and beg for
some bread and booze, but he’d told Tarian that they were going to be diplomatic and
humble, so he kept his mouth shut and waited.
And waited.
After what felt like an hour – but what Grog knew was probably more like five
minutes – the sound of clanking armour began echoing from the large doorway behind
the archon.
The energy in the room shifted perceptibly.
The two white-faced bodyguards straightened their backs, Keagan stepped into the
shadows at the side of the alter and adjusted his wine-coloured cowl, even the archon
rolled his shoulders and brushed a speck of something off his armour.
‘Tarian,’ Grog hissed through gritted teeth, ‘get up.’
Tarian hauled herself to her feet with a yawn. She looked terrible. Her eyes were
bleary and red-rimmed, with dark circles beneath them that Grog could see even
through her smudged face paint. Her hair – which was normally arranged in a perfect
braid – was a wild frizzy mess.
Grog had no doubt that he looked at least twice as ragged, but there wasn’t a damn
thing he could do about it. He sucked in his churning gut a little, tried to settle a pious
look upon his face and waited, as the clanking of armour grew louder.
When Prime Archon Malinjor emerged through the arched doorway a few moments
later, Grog forgot about sucking in his gut, as he was too busy gawking at the supreme
leader of the Faithbound.
He looked like no dwarf Grog had ever seen. His nose was long and slightly
hooked, not big and broad like most dwarves. He had large ears and hugely bushy
grey eyebrows that sat above a pair of eyes as blue and penetrating as Archon
Oathenforge’s. The heavy armour that Grog had heard clanking on its way down the
stairs was made from pure burnished gold, which matched the gold and diamond
crown that sat upon the prime archon’s head.
Despite the immense fortune’s worth of gold and gems that the prime archon wore,
he didn’t come across like the many wealthy posturing lords and merchants Grog had
come across in his time. This dwarf was a warrior.
It wasn’t just the two spectacular broadswords that the prime archon had sheathed
at his back, it was the way he moved. Despite his wide shoulders and huge muscular
arms, there was a smooth, confident fluidity to his movements that was common to all
the best soldiers Grog had fought with or against.
‘Your holiness!’ Archon Oathenforge bowed his head, ‘these are the visitors that
the sun prophets found on the southeastern spur. They claim to be messengers from
the so-called high king of the lowland realms. They brought this.’
The prime archon held out a hand and accepted the scroll without taking his eyes
off Grog and Tarian.
Grog had the unpleasant sensation that Malinjor’s gaze was somehow penetrating
his skull and revealing just how desperately uncomfortable and unwell he felt. He
wasn’t quite sure what protocol or tradition dictated when meeting the prime archon,
so he just stood there, smiling respectfully with his trembling hands clasped behind
his back.
‘You come on Ruenthor’s behalf to beg for aid?’ Malinjor asked, his deep breathy
voice rolling dramatically around the empty hall.
‘We do, your grac– your holiness,’ Grog confirmed. ‘The thirteen realms are being
attacked by evil heartless hordes of underground dwarvkin and their undead servants.
We think it’s the same attackers that nearly wiped us out during the war of fog.’
Malinjor regarded the scroll in his hand as though it was a scrap of rubbish he
wished to dispose of, so Grog pressed on.
‘So, they’re back to finish the job it seems, and this time it looks like they just
might do it. During the war of fog these evil dwarves didn’t seem able to pass through
the Fingers of Deumas and enter the inner realms, but now they can. They come every
night to kill and burn and destroy our towns, and every time they do, they swell the
ranks of their undead army.’
‘And Ruenthor thinks it is the responsibility of the Faithbound to leave behind our
lives of purity and prayer, and descend into the chaos and the madness of the lowland
wars?’
‘Well, not the responsibility exactly,’ Grog said. ‘I guess he just thought you might
think it was the right thing to do – you know, you worship the Ancient Ones the same
as us and we’re all their children aren’t we and…’ Grog ran out of words. He was
making a mess of it; he could see it in the tightening of Malinjor’s jaw.
‘If these accursed underground bastards wipe us out,’ Tarian said, before Grog
could stop her, ‘what makes you think they won’t come for you next?’
‘My child,’ Malinjor said, his tone dripping with disdain. ‘The mountains –’
‘Won’t protect you!’ Tarian shouted. ‘They won’t! If we fall, every bloody one of
us will be turned into some kind of ghoul. How do you think you’re going to go
against tens of thousands of undead creatures who won’t even feel the cold of the
mountains?’
‘And there’s some kind of reward for helping us,’ Grog blurted, remembering King
Brewblade’s words back in the burgomaster’s manor. ‘I think if you read that letter,
you’ll find that Ruenthor is offering … something; I don’t know what, but,
something.’
Malinjor considered Grog and Tarian for a moment through narrowed eyes, then, a
most surprising thing happened – he smiled, and it was as though storm clouds had
parted to reveal the sun. ‘You are a good-hearted dwarf, Mowgrog Ironheart,’ he said,
beginning to walk down the stairs. ‘And you, Tarian Slatechisel, your courage and fire
is most admirable.’
Grog looked sideways at Tarian. She looked as wary and confused as he felt.
‘You’ve been through so much,’ Malinjor said, spreading his hands wide. ‘You
must be weary beyond words, and starving too I expect.’
‘And thirsty!’ Grog said before he could stop himself.
‘Of course you are.’ Malinjor reached the bottom of the staircase. ‘Come, let us
adjourn to an antechamber where we may sit together, read this letter and discuss
these matters over a hot meal.’
‘Well … great,’ Grog stammered, ‘that sounds great.’
Malinjor began walking towards a set of wooden doors set in the western wall of
the great abbey.
Grog and Tarian followed.
After a few steps, Grog looked back towards the alter to give Keagan a wave of
thanks. As he did so, he saw a smile quickly disappear from Archon Oathenforge’s
face. But this hadn’t been a smile like warming sunshine, it had been a sly smug
smile. If Grog hadn’t been feeling so simultaneously wretched and also excited at the
prospect of some food and drink, he may have taken the time to ponder that smile, but,
as it was, his thoughts turned immediately back to the prospect of some curative
alcohol. He sighed, rubbed his frostbitten hands together and followed Prime Archon
Malinjor through the doorway, and into the room beyond.
- CHAPTER 20 -
Negotiations
Things had gotten serious and Grog was beginning to panic. He and Tarian were
seated across from Prime Archon Malinjor at a wooden table in a small bare room.
Malinjor was saying something about trust or oaths or something. Grog wasn’t really
listening. He was still reeling from the words Malinjor had spoken a few moments
earlier…
The Faithbound do not indulge in alcohol, so I have none here to offer you.
Grog thought of the large bottle of smoulder whisky that he’d left in Notgrin’s
mine. It wouldn’t be that hard to just pop back and grab it, would it?
A door behind Malinjor opened and several monks entered. They placed mugs of
milk and bowls of steaming porridge down in front of all three of them.
‘Now,’ Malinjor picked his spoon up at pointed it at the mugful of milk in front of
Grog, ‘you drink that goat’s milk and tell me that it isn’t a far more delicious and
nourishing beverage than any ale you’ve ever had.’
Grog imagined picking up the mug of milk and flicking its contents into Malinjor’s
face. ‘It looks delicious,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘but I might start with this.’ He
scooped a spoonful of porridge into his mouth. It had no honey or sugar in it, nor any
of the beautiful fragrant spices that were traditionally mixed into any porridge served
anywhere across the thirteen realms. But it was hot and it was food, and it was all
Grog could do not to lift the bowl and pour its contents directly down his throat and
into his empty stomach.
‘Your Holiness,’ Tarian said, when she had nearly finished her porridge, ‘may I
humbly ask that you send one of your people to go and check on our friend Krordous?
I know we have much to discuss, but I’m very worried about him.’
Malinjor swallowed a mouthful and nodded. ‘Of course, but please comfort
yourself with the fact that he is now being cared for by the finest physicians we have –
which means the finest physicians that exist anywhere.’
The Prime Archon stood and strode over to the door behind him. He pushed it open
and spoke a few hushed words to someone that Grog couldn’t see, then he returned to
his seat, his armour clanking as he settled himself down. ‘Not going to drink your
milk, General Ironheart?’ he asked, looking down at Grog’s full mug.
‘Oh … of course.’ Grog steeled himself and took a tentative sip. He expected the
milk to be sour, with the slightly goaty aftertaste he’d experienced the few other times
he’d been unfortunate enough to have to drink goat’s milk. But it wasn’t, it was sweet
and creamy and Grog tipped his head back and took a couple of hearty swallows.
‘The trick is to drink it absolutely fresh,’ Malinjor said, with a twinkle in his pale
blue eyes. ‘Now, shall we read this letter and see what Ruenthor has to say?’
Grog wiped milk from his moustache and nodded.
Tarian rested her arms on the table and intertwined her fingers.
Malinjor placed his empty bowl on the top of the parchment, unfurled the long
scroll, and began to read.
Dear Archon Oathenforge,
I know that you and your people have chosen to detach yourselves as completely as
possible from the affairs and troubles of the thirteen realms. I respect that decision, as
did my father, Oahn. However, a situation is currently unfolding that compels me to
reach out to you, and to ask for your help.
The thirteen realms are currently besieged by a vast army of evil dwarvkin who
seem to be emerging from under the ground. It is the belief of my intelligence network
that these savage merciless attackers are the remnants of the obsidian-corrupted
civilization that existed beneath the realms even before my father became High King.
It was these accursed dwarves that caused the cataclysmic earthquakes that shattered
our world. It was them that caused the broken years – the terrible period of our
history when your Prime Archon Malinjor chose to establish the first of the
Faithbound colonies.
Malinjor looked up from the letter. ‘I was but a simple preacher then,’ he said,
locking eyes first with Grog, and then with Tarian. ‘But the Ancient Ones spoke to me
and told me what to do.’ He looked down at the table, his eyes unfocussed, his
thoughts clearly wandering.
Grog waited patiently – staring at his mug of milk and wishing it was ale.
Malinjor cleared his throat and resumed his reading of the letter.
We’re also quite certain that the endless fog which ravaged our lands and choked
our people was somehow caused by these accursed underealmers. They appear to
possess strange and powerful magic, and are able to reanimate the dead to create vile
unholy creatures which fight and murder on their command.
These forsaken dwarvkin are our enemy. It is my sincere hope that you see that they
are your enemy also. They are the antitheses of everything the Faithbound stand for,
and believe in.
My request is that you come at once with every able-bodied dwarf and kvinna you
can muster, to help us in this war against evil.
I realise this is a bold request, but please consider the following three points when
making your decision:
1. Our military might was drastically depleted during the war of endless fog, and
I fear that if you do not aid us, we will be overrun. If that happens, these
accursed dwarves will most likely come for you and your people next. Only
together do we stand a chance at defeating them!
2. If you help us, we will be indebted to you. Let these written words serve as my
oath that – once we purge the world of this evil – the grateful realms shall
endeavor to repay this debt in any way you deem fair. We can provide you with
all the resources or crafted goods you may need or want for your mountaintop
communities. I authorize my representative, Major Brusdrul Hammerbuckle, to
negotiate terms with you that you find fair.
3. It is the right thing to do. Thousands of innocents are dying. These accursed
invaders have no code, no honour and no morals. They are killing families and
children; they are defiling the beautiful world that the Ancient Ones made for
us with their obscene magic. If you and your Faithbound truly are servants of
the gods, you will know that their will must surely be for you to come and help
us destroy these godless monsters.
For the sake of all the children of the Ancient Ones, please come to our aid. Please
bring your warriors with all possible speed to realm one, where we are massing our
remaining armies for a counter-offensive.
Yours in great need and with great hope,
Ruenthor Dwalmerender,
High King of the 13 Realms
Malinjor sat in silence for a while, reading back over the letter and stroking his
thick greying beard. ‘What happened to this Major Hammerbuckle?’ he asked
eventually.
‘Troll,’ Tarian said flatly.
‘I see, and why was it that he, and not you, General Mowgrog, was to conduct
negotiations?’
‘I’m not a general anymore. I just got sent along because I knew the way up here.’
‘You were in the mountain battalion, yes?’
‘I was, how … how did you know?’
Malinjor smiled. ‘We are not so detached that we know nothing about the wider
world. Surely you didn’t think that you could spend fifteen years trapsing about my
mountains without us hearing of you?’
‘I suppose not,’ was what Grog said. How the fuck did you know it was fifteen
years? Was what he thought.
‘So, Your Holiness,’ Tarian said, ‘what do you think about the letter? Will you
rally your subjects and come to the aid of the thirteen realms?’
Grog considered kicking Tarian under the table. Not only was this not the time to
be forcing an immediate decision, but the fake smile she had plastered across her
paint-smeared face was little more than a toothy grimace which made her look
threatening and slightly unhinged.
The briefest flash of annoyance narrowed Malinjor’s eyes, but it passed in an
instant and was replaced by a warm smile. ‘You care for your people, just as you care
for your friend. I admire that, but I cannot give you my answer, not yet.’
Tarian’s fake smile was replaced by a decidedly not fake scowl. ‘After what you
just read you can’t –’
‘We understand, Your Holiness,’ Grog cut in. ‘This is a very big decision, and it’s
certainly not one that we’d expect you to rush.’
‘Thank you, Mowgrog, and may I ask – since…’ Malinjor looked down at the
letter, ‘since Major Hammerbuckle isn’t here; who now is the High King’s
representative, and authorized to discuss terms with me? Would that be you?’
Grog glanced sideways at Tarian, the muscles in her jaw were twitching as she
glared at Malinjor.
‘Aye, Your Holiness, I suppose that it’s me.’ Grog winced slightly, waiting for a
retort from Tarian, but it never came.
‘Well then,’ Malinjor took a drink from his own mug of goat’s milk and continued
speaking with a light coating of milk on the underside of his moustache, ‘let’s get
straight down to it. Ruenthor offers me much as a reward for aiding in this conflict.
He mentions “resources” and “crafted goods”. I assume that he means food, lumber,
ore, gems, gold, weapons, clothing – things of this nature?’
‘I suppose so,’ Grog said. ‘It’s my first time seeing what’s in that letter too.’
‘I have over two thousand paladin knights under my command,’ Malinjor said, ‘and
nearly the same number of combat-ready monks. As the High King’s official
emissary, would you now be prepared to swear an oath and sign a collection of
documents guaranteeing that the thirteen realms will indeed deliver to the Faithbound
all of the above in large quantities if I commit my followers to this war?’
Grog looked at Tarian who gave him a what choice do we have sort-of a shrug.
‘Your Holiness, I’m not going to pretend that I’m some kind of expert crafty
negotiator, and it would be an insult to your intelligence pretending that we’re not
desperate, and willing to pay pretty-much any price for your aid. You name it, and I’m
sure it will be fine with Ruenthor.’
‘We could ask for resources in vast numbers, and you would sign documents in the
king’s name guaranteeing their delivery?’
‘Yes, I would.’
‘Well you don’t have to,’ Malinjor said with a smile, ‘because we would not ask for
a single item – not a grain of wheat or a single scrap of leather. It would be a sin to ask
for material compensation for doing what is right.’
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