The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER EIGHT

Arrows and Blades

A bead of sweat creeping down his back, a half-glimpsed shadow at the periphery of his vision, a waft of noxious odour, the scent of perfume gone before it was fully resolved. Furgil recalled the sensations he had experienced when they’d found the nobles on the Old Dwarf Road.

He knew these mountains, knew the hills and even the forests though he loathed their shaded arbours and sinister groves. In the wilderness, the lands beyond the hold halls of the mountains or the fortresses of the hills, there was much to be wary of. Danger lurked in every crag and narrow pass, in each wooded glade and weathered hollow. Creatures made their lairs in such places, hungry primitive things that preyed on the isolated and the lost.

Never venture into the wild on your own.

Save for the rangers, it was a rule many followed. But death was a patient hunter and all it took was a moment of recklessness, a wrong turn on the wrong trail, and all the guards and precautions would not matter.

Even during times of peace, these were untamed lands. The Old World would never know true peace. Its citadels and bastions of civilisation, whether they were above or below ground, ruled by elf or dwarf, were merely lanterns in a dark and turbulent sea. Some were even less than that, merely candles guttering in the storm. Furgil had known of many outposts, isolated hamlets and villages where a stake wall, a watchtower and a warning bell were poor defence against being consumed by the darkness.

Beasts and greenskins, giants, trolls and even dragons had descended upon such tenuous places and wiped them from existence.

Knelt with his hand upon the earth, a fistful of dirt clenched to his palm, the thought of unending peril did not bother Furgil. It was the way of nature. It was balance and order, albeit a brutal one. He understood it and that made it tolerable to the dwarf.

But something else lurked in the shadows, something that was not part of this order. It was a foreign object, a thing that had made the ranger’s skin crawl and his beard bristle. Ever since he was a beardling, Furgil did not like to be watched.

Out on the Old Dwarf Road, he had sensed the presence of several watchers, of eyes regarding them with harmful intent. If asked, he could not explain how or why he knew this. It was a survival instinct he had cultivated whilst ranging the wild lands beyond the dwarf kingdoms, and it had saved his life on more than one occasion.

Almost without thinking, he touched the scar that ran from his neck all the way down to his chest. Invisible to a casual observer, Furgil felt the evidence of the wound with every breath. The beast responsible was dead. Its gutted carcass was a trophy in his private chambers, a reminder of always listening to instincts, especially when they screamed danger.

Furgil felt that sensation anew now and got to his feet. The earth had a strange aroma, the scent of narcotic root and dank metal. There was another smell too, old and ashen. Throwing the fistful of earth away, he dusted off his hands and descended the slope beyond the ridgeline into the heavy forest below.

A fourth smell intruded on the others. It clung to the breeze like a plague, filthy and rank. It was piss and dung, mould and the stink of wet canine fur. Once off the road, their spoor was not hard to find. It wasn’t as if they were trying to conceal their tracks.

A talisman hung around Furgil’s neck. It carried the rune of Valaya and he beseeched for her protection as he entered the wooded glade. The deep forest triggered a sense of disquiet in the ranger. East of Karak Norn was the Whispering Wood, the Fey Forest. He had never entered that place, nor would he unless his life or that of an ally depended on it, but he had seen what was bred within its arboreal borders. Such a beast now adorned Furgil’s wall, a many-antlered creature with too many eyes and reeking of musk, fever sweat clinging to its hide like a second skin…

It was no fell beast the ranger now tracked, though. The snuffling of canine muzzles and the shrieking, clipped speech of greenskins were proof of that. Nor were these the watchers he had felt earlier, for they were much subtler creatures.

The rest of his rangers had disbanded across the hills, searching for the watchers too. Furgil was alone.

He sneered, ‘Grobi…’ when he saw what was waiting for him in the wood.

Three greenskins and their mounts, mangy malnourished wolves, had dragged something off the road and were now worrying at it with tooth and claw.

Silently, Furgil unslung his crossbow and released the studs that looped his hand axes to his belt.

He didn’t kill the creatures straight away, but waited to ensure there were no scouts or any lagging behind. Only when he was certain he had all of his prey in his sight, did he bring the crossbow up to his eye and shoot.

A bolt through the head killed the goblin instantly. It collapsed off the back of its wolf, much to the amusement of its fellows who thought it was drunk. When they realised it was dead, they looked up from their feast and began to chatter nervously, drawing crude blades and cudgels. By then, Furgil had loaded another bolt and sent a second rider to meet the first. This time the bolt tore out the goblin’s throat and it died slowly but in agony.

A third bolt — and by now Furgil had given away his hiding place — killed a wolf. Its death howl sent a shrill of fear through its brethren, who reacted by snarling at the dwarf.

A flung hand axe killed a second wolf, as it sprang at the ranger without its rider.

The last died when his second thrown axe caved in its flank and sent spears of shattered ribcage into its soft organs.

Rider and mount parted in a fury of curses and flailing weapons. More or less unscathed, the goblin got to its feet, jabbing at the dwarf belligerently with its sword. When it realised its cousins were dead and so too their wolves, it shrieked and fled.

Furgil didn’t run after it. Calmly, he slipped a bolt into his crossbow and drew a bead on the goblin’s back. Obscured through thick woodland, scampering erratically and at pace. He counted the yards in his head. Nigh on two hundred by the time he had the stock to his cheek and sighted down the end of the bolt.

A difficult shot for most dwarfs.

Not for Furgil. Even the Eagle Watch was in awe of the ranger’s skill with a crossbow.

The goblin pitched forwards moments later, the barbed tip of a quarrel sticking out of its eye.

With all the prey dead, Furgil recovered his weapons and went over to see what they’d been gnawing on. He left the quarrel he used to kill the last goblin, resigned to picking it up later in favour of examining whatever carrion had nourished the wolf pack.

The meat was badly mauled, but he caught scraps of tunic, a piece of bent-out-of-shape mail and even a broken helm. Judging by the chewed-up boots, the amount of ragged limbs, he estimated three bodies. Snagged between the wolves’ jaws was some ruddy and blood-soaked hair. In the slack mouth of another, tough and leathern flesh.

Kneeling by one of the corpses, a scowl crawled across the ranger’s face. His fist clenched of its own volition.

They were once dwarfs.

Furgil was picking through the bodies, searching for talismans, rings or other icons that would identify the dead, when the crack of kindling behind him made his heart quicken. Cursing himself for a fool, his hand got as far as the crossbow’s stock when he felt the press of cold steel at his neck.

‘Twitch and this dirk will fill your flesh up to the hilt,’ uttered a deep voice in the ranger’s ear.

A smile creased Furgil’s lips as he recognised the speaker.

‘You’ve spent too long in the mountain, brother,’ said the voice again, as the blade was lifted from Furgil’s neck. ‘It’s made you rusty.’

‘Has it?’ Furgil turned around and looked down at the throwing axe in his other hand, poised at the ambusher’s crotch.

Rundin smiled broadly, revealing two rows of thick teeth like a rank of locked shields.

‘But I have more friends than you do,’ he said, sheathing his dirk as four hill dwarfs emerged out of the forest.

Furgil lowered his axe. ‘Never did like the deep wood,’ he said, and made Rundin laugh.

‘That is true enough. Up you get,’ he said, clasping the ranger’s forearm in the warrior’s grip and heaving him to his feet.

The two embraced at once, clapping one another on the back and shoulder like the old friends they were.

Rundin was a slab of a dwarf, broad and muscular like a bear but also lean enough that he had a light, almost lupine, gait. Tanned skin spoke of days spent beneath the sun, roaming the wilds, and a mousy beard unadorned with ingots or rings suggested a down to earth temperament.

‘Been too long, son of Torban,’ said Rundin, adjusting the thick belt around his waist. Scabbards for several dirks, daggers and long knives were fastened to it, and another belt that sat across his barrel chest had a sheath for the great axe on his back.

With a look, Rundin dismissed the other hill dwarfs who melted away silently. ‘Unwise to leave our backs unwatched,’ he said.

Furgil nodded, his mood suddenly serious. ‘The truth of that sits before us, brother.’

He gestured to the carrion feast, bidding Rundin to kneel down beside him as he continued his investigation of the corpses.

‘Dawi?’ The leather hauberk he wore creaked as Rundin crept down beside Furgil. He lifted his leather helm — there was an iron raven icon on the band around the forehead — to wipe away a lather of sweat.

‘I’d say merchants by what remains of their garments and trappings.’

‘Agreed. Though this one wears heavy armour and there are calluses from haft work on the hand.’

‘Dreng tromm…’ Furgil breathed, and shook his head. He looked up. ‘They did not meet their end here.’

‘Aye, did you see it too?’

‘That I did, brother.’

Easily missed amongst the carnage, the broken shaft of an arrow protruded from one of the dead dwarfs. It was buried deep into his back. The other half was snagged to his mail jerkin, partly concealed under the dwarf’s body. It had swan feathers and the shaft itself was fashioned from white pine.

‘Elgi,’ said Rundin, face darkening.

‘Aye. We need to find that ambush site.’

A bird call echoed from beyond the forest borders.

‘One of your men?’ asked Furgil, rising.

Rundin nodded.

It seemed they had already found where the dwarfs had died.

Three more dwarfs grew cold on the road.

They were face down in the dirt, surrounding a sturdy wagon with two dead mules. Some still clutched weapons in their hands. Drag marks in the earth, scattered stones at the edge of the road revealed where the three the goblins had taken had come from. Unlike their clansmen in the deep wood, the others were more or less intact. Decay had yet to set in, so the deaths were recent. Judging by dwarfs’ cold skin, the stiffness of their limbs and fingers, Furgil reckoned they had been dead a few hours.

Arrows stuck from their backs, same white pine shafts, same swan-feathered flights. No goblin could loose with such a bow. Definitely elves.

The thought brought a concerned expression to Furgil’s face.

‘Elgi slaying dawi?’ He released a long breath through his nostrils, trying to imagine the rationale for what he was seeing. ‘Hard to countenance, brother.’

Rundin and Furgil were not brothers, though their bond of friendship was as strong, if not stronger than some siblings. They had shared the same clan once, several years ago. Both were Ravenhelms, though Furgil had been stripped of that honour by King Skarnag Grum and thrown out of the lands of the hill dwarfs upon pain of death.

Unbaraki, the king had denounced him. It meant ‘oathbreaker’ and there was no greater insult that could be levelled at a dwarf.

Furgil had spoken out against Skarnag, for his greed and his isolation of the hill dwarfs. A seat on the high council had given the thane of the pathfinders a voice. With it he had condemned himself to banishment and shame by a bitter, petty king.

Fortunately for Furgil, the High King of the Worlds Edge Mountains agreed with the pathfinder and so he returned to the mountain from whence his clan had departed many centuries before.

Worst of all was that Rundin knew it and had said nothing in his friend’s defence. Furgil had warned him not to, for then there would be no one to ensure the prosperity of the hill dwarfs. Loyalty to a corrupt ruler was the price Rundin paid, but devotion would only go so far.

In the solitude of their own thoughts, both dwarfs remembered this thorn between them. It had long since been removed but the memory of it was still bleak.

Furgil paced around the wagon.

‘Five heavily armoured guards and a merchant guilder at the reins.’

Sweeping quickly across the scene, crouching and darting as he gathered further signs and markers, Furgil described what had happened.

‘No fight occurred here, no battle. The dawi were killed quickly, without mercy. See how the crossbow is loaded but this satchel is full of quarrels. And here… The warrior’s axe is still looped to his belt.’ He gestured to the wagon itself. ‘Unused shields still clasped to the sides.’

Rundin was crouched down, both hands resting on his thighs.

‘An empty wagon this close to the hold means they were returning home. Why attack a caravan without wares to steal?’

‘I don’t think they were merely thieves,’ said Furgil, though he had also noticed the little white bands around the dead dwarfs’ fingers from stolen rings, the red-raw marks on their wrists where gilded bracelets had been forcibly removed.

Looking up from examining one of the dead guards, Rundin asked, ‘What then?’

Furgil touched the swan-feathered shaft of an arrow. It had punched right through the dwarf’s platemail as if it were parchment.

‘This was cold murder, but I know of no elgi that would ever do such a thing.’

Rundin frowned, remembering something. ‘From the watchtowers of Kazad Mingol there have been reports of black-cloaked strangers abroad on the hills. None have yet managed to get close enough to challenge them. When I read the missives that arrived at Kazad Kro, I assumed it was just because of the increased trade with the elgi.’

‘Feels different,’ said Furgil, suddenly glad that a ring of four hill rangers surrounded them. ‘On the Old Dwarf Road, I felt… something.’

‘Like being watched.’

Furgil met Rundin’s gaze. The recognition in the warrior’s eyes sent a chill down the ranger’s spine.

‘Just so.’

The earlier storm had almost passed, but the sun beaming down through the winter sky was neither warming nor comforting. Furgil stood up, deep in thought, his face creased with concern.

‘Can you return the bodies to Karaz-a-Karak, Rundin?’ he asked.

‘Of course, brother. Are you not going back, then?’

‘Not yet. I have to find out who these watchers are and what, if any, role they played in this slaughter. Dead dawi on the Old Dwarf Road this close to Everpeak is brazen, but I must go back to the High King with more than just questions and suspicions.’

Rundin got to his feet. ‘Need some company?’

Furgil eyed the deep wood, his gaze sweeping across the ridgeline, the low hills, rivers and the crags. They could be anywhere, travelling under any guise. Killing a dwarf on the threshold of his own domain took skill; killing six who were armed and looking for danger took something much, more dangerous than that.

The ranger was about to break one of his own rules. He plucked an arrow from one of the bodies, placed it carefully in his satchel for when he’d need it later.

‘No. I’ll travel faster on my own.’

The raider ship was several miles behind them, sunken to the bottom of the river bed, its crew likewise. Weighed down by their armour, over a dozen exsanguinated bodies would putrefy and succumb to the slow rot of the dead.

Drutheira and her coven had been swift about the murder of the vaulkhar and his warriors. Gorged but not yet slaked, the witches’ power swelled with the stolen blood. The way north would be long and not without peril, but there was much to do beforehand. Not least of which was finding Sevekai and his warriors.

Its presence burned into Drutheira’s mind as if by a brand, a settlement was visible on the next rise. Fortified with an outer wall, tower and gate, it was a permanent outpost. Elf and dwarf banners hung from its crude battlements, fluttering on a low breeze blowing in off the distant gulf.

Malchior had not walked far when he began to moan. ‘I am not a pack mule, Drutheira.’ He adjusted the rough satchel on his back and it clanked with the swords and spears within. ‘Could we not have stolen some horses? What merchant travels on foot anyway?’

Malchior no longer had the pale skin of a druchii, nor did he wear the arcane trappings of a sorcerer. A white skullcap enclosed his head, and a skirt of light lamellar mail clad his body. There were vambraces, shin greaves, calfskin boots and a travelling cloak that attached to small pauldrons on his shoulders. Healthy sun-kissed skin described a rough but noble face.

He still wore a viper’s smile, no enchantment could conceal that, but his appearance was already different from the one that had sailed into the Black Gulf from Naggaroth.

‘And why must I be the beast of burden when she carries nothing?’

Ashniel had undergone a similar transformation, but wore a circlet instead of a skullcap with a diadem at its centre. Her distaste at the pearl-white robes beneath her breastplate was obvious in the sneer on her face. She grinned darkly at Malchior’s displeasure, though.

Drutheira flashed a deadly glare at Malchior. ‘Because I need her abroad in the settlement, doing the dark lord’s work. You are welcome to explain to him why you disagree with that.’

Malchior fell silent, but Ashniel was unafraid to show her disgust.

‘My skin crawls with this pretence.’ She too carried nothing save for the jewelled athame at her waist and the small flask concealed beneath the belt of her robes.

‘Silence,’ hissed Drutheira. Her own disguise was akin to that of her coven, albeit more impressive and ostentatious. She had no skullcap or circlet, but wore a gilded cuirass and a velvet cloak with ermine trim. She’d kept her raven hair, masquerading as a noblewoman with two servants. Her eyes were on the outpost and the guards occupying its tower and in front of its gate. Dwarfs and elves; it was a strange sight to behold such apparent harmony. Each of them carried either a bow or crossbow.

‘We can be seen from this distance. Do not fail me here,’ she warned them both, her voice changing mid-sentence. Gone were the barbed tones of the druchii and in their place the more lyrical, lilting cadence of the asur.

‘Besides,’ she said, allowing the slightest dagger of a smile. ‘What need have I of horses when the two of you carry all of my wares and do my bidding?’

Malchior hid his sneer behind a bow, though Ashniel was more brazen and showed her displeasure openly. Drutheira could not have cared less.

‘Remember your roles,’ she said, hiding her contempt for the nearest guard behind a warm smile. She purposefully kept her eyes off the archers in the tower, as not to do so would arouse potential suspicion. ‘We are weaponsmiths, servants of Vaul from across the sea and the rugged hills of Cothique.’

‘Must we play as rural peasants, Drutheira?’ whined Malchior. ‘Why not vaunted nobles of Saphery or Lothern?’

‘Because nobles of Ulthuan would not be caught dead in a hole like this,’ she said through her teeth. ‘And they would certainly possess horses. Of course, if you want to be flayed then by all means please continue complaining.’

Malchior spoke no further, but gave a deathly glance to Ashniel who didn’t bother to hide her amusement.

As she approached the gate Drutheira tried to ignore the nocked bows, the ready swords and axes loose in their scabbards. She made the rune of sariour with her empty hands, adding a shallow incline of the head in mellow greeting.

Sariour symbolised the moon, its aspect that of a crescent. Especially to merchants and traders, it meant ‘fortune’ and would be taken as a positive sign by the guards. But like most elven runes, it had a darker interpretation too. For sariour also signified ‘evil deeds’ and ‘destruction’. The obvious duplicity, the plain threat it embodied amused Drutheira greatly as they passed through the gate and into the settlement without incident.

It was as much a backwater as its exterior suggested but large, with at least a hundred elves and dwarfs trading with one another from wagons, stalls and pitched tents. A few less ephemeral structures could be found farther from the gate. One, an ale house, was wrought from stone. A blacksmith’s was little more than a stone hut, but its anvil and furnace were in constant use. There were also barrack houses and inns, little more than huts themselves but a roof and four walls for weary travellers who needed a night’s rest in a bed and not on the hard ground of the road.

An impromptu market had grown up around a bell house that Drutheira assumed was the domain of some kind of alderman or outpost captain. There were several other structures too, fashioned from wood and at the periphery. Some of these were of elven design and bore such devices as rampant Ellyrian stallions and the rising phoenix of Asuryan.

Above the archway framing the gate a sign swung in the wind on two lengths of chain. Zakbar Varf was written in chiselled runescript. It meant ‘Wolf Hut’ or ‘Wolf Wall’. Drutheira decided that ‘hut’ was a more accurate description of the place.

A dwarf trader with a cadre of guards and wagons in tow and not long arrived himself aroused her attention.

‘This way,’ she muttered. As she was walking towards the dwarfs who were unhitching their wagons and stretching the stiffness from their backs, she gripped Ashniel’s arm. Drutheira’s eyes held the fiery intensity of flaming coals.

She hissed, ‘You know what needs to be done?’

Ashniel nodded slowly.

‘You have everything you need?’

Again, she nodded.

Drutheira held the young witch’s gaze a moment longer, saw the hatred and ambition in her almond-shaped eyes.

She released her, taking a mote of pleasure in the grimace of pain Ashniel failed to conceal.

‘Good,’ said Drutheira.

Like a shadow retreats from the approach of the sun, Ashniel crept away from the others and blended into the crowd.

Silently, Drutheira conveyed a final order to Malchior and the two druchii closed to speak to the dwarfs.

‘Greetings, traveller,’ she said to the dwarf merchant, smiling politely.

He had a grizzled face, more at home on a battlefield than a trading post, and his fair hair showed up the grease and dirt. He grunted a reply of sorts.

Drutheira tried not to sneer. Fortunately for her, the dwarf was busy with his wagons and paid little attention.

‘Are you here to trade, ah…?’ She invited.

‘Krondi,’ said the dwarf, handing a barrel of something to one of his fellow traders. There were runes scorched into the hard wood that Drutheira didn’t understand. ‘Krondi Stoutback.’ He turned and firmly shook her hand.

‘Astari.’

Such physical greetings were not common amongst elves and Drutheira was unable to hide her surprise and discomfort.

‘Apologies for the muck,’ said the dwarf, misunderstanding. Belatedly, he wiped the palms of his hands on his tunic. ‘Been a long way from Barak Varr. On the road like on campaign, grime tends to get ingrained. Easy to forget it’s there.’

Drutheira smiled again and fed some sorcery into the gesture.

‘That’s perfectly all right. Barak Varr?’ she asked, struggling a little with the pronunciation.

‘The Sea Hold,’ Krondi explained, pointing roughly south with a leathery finger. Under the nail was black with dirt and Drutheira fought to hide her disdain.

She also remembered the bastion the dwarf spoke of, and its defences. She masked her interest with another question.

‘You were a soldier then? A warrior for the king, perhaps?’

‘Aye, milady,’ said Krondi, warming to the elf as his companions unloaded the wagon. Drutheira noticed one dwarf, far off at the head of the wagons, remained seated. He was also hooded and kept to himself, more than most dwarfs usually did. Not a merchant, nor a guard. This was something else. She tasted power and resolved to keep her distance.

‘I fought for the High King,’ Krondi went on proudly, ‘and my own king, Brynnoth of the Sea Hold.’

Gently putting her arm around him, hiding the urge to gag, Drutheira led the dwarf to where Malchior was waiting. She briefly searched the bustling crowds for Ashniel but the witchling was nowhere to be seen. Allowing a half-smile she said, ‘Here, then you’ll know the value of a good blade.’

Krondi began to detach himself, waving Drutheira off.

‘Not here to buy,’ he said, shaking his head as if trying to dispel an itch, ‘but to rest and pick up provisions, possibly sell, before heading on.’

She made a hurt expression, her eyes mildly pleading. Again, she used a little sorcery to enhance her charms. ‘At least look at what I’m offering before you dismiss me, Lord Stoutback.’

Krondi laughed. ‘I’m no lord, but I’ll take a gander at what yer peddling.’ He nodded to Malchior who simply bowed and then unrolled his satchel. Unbeknownst to the dwarf, he was incanting silently beneath his breath.

As the leather satchel was unfurled, a rack of stunning ithilmar weapons was revealed. Jewelled daggers, short swords and spear tips were arrayed in rows. There were shimmering axes, both for felling and throwing, and a few smaller pieces of armour.

One in particular caught Krondi’s eye.

‘Is that…?’ He breathed and looked again, closer. ‘Gromril?’ There was a glint in Krondi’s eye as he met Drutheira’s, but also something else. Anger?

‘How did you come by this?’ It was less of a question and more of an accusation.

‘A gift,’ said Drutheira, drawing closer. Her eyes shone with power. ‘I take it you’re interested then?’

Krondi went back to the gromril blade. It was a sword, an uncommon weapon amongst dwarfs, who preferred hammers and axes. There were no runes, but the star-metal it was forged from was unmistakable.

‘How much?’ he asked, his gaze fixed on the blade.

‘Only a fair price. Does anything else catch your eye?’

‘I’ll take everything. All of it,’ he said gruffly.

Drutheira smiled thinly, and bade Malchior to wrap up the leather satchel.

‘You have made a considerably wise decision.’

She met Ashniel on the outskirts of the settlement, away from prying eyes and ears.

‘Were you successful?’

‘Of course.’ Ashniel presented the athame dagger. Its blade was fire-blackened and the pearlescent gemstones had dulled to the lustre of bare rock. She then showed her mistress the flask, empty of its contents.

‘You used all of it, on the ale and wine?’

An evil smile curled Ashniel’s lips. ‘Even the water.’

‘Then there’s nothing further for us here.’ Drutheira looked to the distant horizon and the storm rolling across it. She could almost hear the thunder of hooves.

Several miles from Zakbar Varf, a host of riders dismounted from a barge. They were hooded and twenty-five strong. Three more such bands were alighting from their own ship nearby. In a hidden grove, a few miles from the trading settlement, they would gather. Sharpening their blades and spear tips, they would wait for nightfall and then ride out.