The Great Betrayal

CHAPTER THIRTY

A Hurled Spear

By the time the armies of Barak Varr and Zhufbar had reached the fortress at Black Fire Pass, it took thirteen days for Snorri Halfhand’s throng to meet the elves in pitched battle.

It took less than three hours to defeat them and send the survivors fleeing back to their city.

Now, Kor Vanaeth was surrounded by almost forty thousand dwarfs. Like an ingot of iron clenched in the tongs, they would hammer the elves against the anvil until they broke.

On a dark heath strewn with battered shields and snapped spear hafts, a conclave of dwarf lords had gathered to decide upon their siege tactics. Frost crisped the ground underfoot, showing up spilt blood that glistened like rubies in the light snowfall. It made the earth hard and the grass crunch like shattered bone.

‘We could just wait them out,’ suggested King Valarik of Karak Hirn. ‘Set up our pickets and let the elgi starve.’ Two great eagle wings sprouted from his war helm and a suit of fine ringmail clad his slight frame. A short cape of ermine flapped in the wind, revealing the haft of his mattock slung beneath it on his back.

A susurrus of disproval emanated from the gathered lords. Valarik was youthful, his hold barely founded. It was only natural the older, venerable kings would take exception to his idea.

‘They already look beaten.’ There was a glint in King Hrekki Ironhandson’s eye. It sparkled like the tips of his bolt throwers in the low winter sun.

A gust of cold air ghosted from Snorri’s mouth as he exhaled.

‘Because they are.’ Like many dwarf kings, a vein of greed as thick and beguiling as any motherlode ran through Ironhandson. He licked his lips as he imagined the plunder inside the elf city that would swell his coffers.

Snorri didn’t feel it. He only wanted to show his father he was wrong and that the elves were a threat in need of ousting from their lands.

Thagdor certainly thought so.

He regarded the lines of battered but defiant spearmen, the rows of dishevelled elven archers upon the wall with disdain.

Their horse guard were all dead, the silver-helmed riders smashed against a bulwark of dwarf shields. The King of Zhufbar had revelled in this, for they were his shields.

‘Aye, as bloody weak and feeble as I thought. We should’ve done this years ago.’

Why then, thought Snorri, do I not feel it?

He expected satisfaction, a sense of righteous vengeance, but all that filled him was a terrible emptiness, which he could fill with neither gold or violence.

He had gathered the kings together, standing behind the serried shield walls of almost forty thousand dwarfs, to plan the assault. It only occurred to him now that the battle required little in way of strategy. The dwarfs possessed an overwhelming advantage in terms of their numbers. They could simply march on Kor Vanaeth and not stop until it was rubble under their stomping boots.

The left flank contained the bulk of Karak Varn’s war engines. Ironhandson was particularly proud of them, a battery of fifty stone throwers and half that again in ballistae. Untouched in the pitched battle, his engineers and journeymen made ready to unleash them now.

Brynnoth said nothing. He had come to the council as requested, but cared not for tactics. Like most of the clans of Barak Varr, he just wanted revenge. Dwarfs are patient creatures, but eight years had begun to seem a long time coming for Agrin Fireheart’s retribution.

Snorri recognised the merchant Nadri Copperfist amongst the king’s retinue. Doubtless, his place there was because he had found the runelord and desired vengeance of his own. A merchant no longer, he had left the name Gildtongue behind and become a warrior. Before it was over, Snorri suspected many more would have to do the same. Rope makers, lantern-bearers, barrel-wrights, muleskinners, gold-shapers, rock-cutters, brew-hands, all the dwarfs of the clans would set down the tools of their various trades and take up their axes in this cause.

His father had seen that. After eight years, Snorri was only just beginning to see.

‘We should let the elgi surrender,’ said Morgrim. His mail hauberk was chipped in places, some of the rings split and dented from elven lances. A worn shield hung over his back and a hammer, stained dark crimson, was looped in his belt. Pleading eyes regarded Snorri from beneath the mantle of his horned helmet as his cousin sought to end the fight.

Snorri held his gaze for a moment before casting it over the city. Every one of the elves had retreated behind its walls. His rangers had estimated somewhere in the region of eight thousand warriors still lived and were able to fight. Mainly spearmen and archers; the cavalry were either dead or would be no use during a siege. There were bound to be sorcerers too, but the prince was unconcerned. Both Brynnoth and Thagdor had brought their runesmiths.

‘They won’t surrender, cousin,’ said Snorri. His burnished breastplate shone dully in the sun as if lacking some of its former lustre. It came with a winged helm that the prince kept in the crook of his arm, and had a shirt of mail beneath it. His axe was unsullied and sat upon his back in its sheath. His iron gauntlet flexed. ‘And nor would we let them. We must send a message. Elgi are not wanted in these lands. They are trespassers and interlopers, and won’t be tolerated any more.’

Morgrim lowered his voice. ‘You think it will end here? You’ve made your point, cousin. Let them go.’

He half glanced at Drogor who was standing stock still beside his cousin, eyes front.

Snorri shook his head.

‘Can’t do that, Morg. The elgi have enjoyed our mercy long enough. Agrin Fireheart lies eight years dead and that must be accounted for. There are entire chapters of grudges devoted to the acts of murder and sabotage perpetrated by these thagging pointy-ears. Have you forgotten Zakbar Varf?’

‘That was a trading settlement, this is a city!’ Morgrim bit his tongue, struggling to rein in his exasperation. He urged, ‘Please don’t do this.’

Snorri paused, betraying the slightest chink in his resolve.

Drogor’s grip tightened on his axe haft, and the prince hardened again.

‘It’s already done,’ he said, thinking about the elven corpses littering the battlefield behind them. He signalled to King Ironhandson. ‘Bring it down,’ he told him. ‘By Grimnir, bring it all down.’

Greed lighting his eyes like a bonfire, the King of Karak Varn raised his fist.

Horns blared, drums beat, warriors clattered their shields.

‘Khazuk!’

Hurled stones and flung bolts thickened the air, whistling in a murderous clamour.

The inevitable war had finally begun.

Fighting outside the gate to Kor Vanaeth was fierce.

Nadri hacked his blade into the elven wood, finding it much more unyielding than he would have first believed.

In their eagerness to kill elves, and their greed, the dwarf army had not bothered to hew down the trees for battering rams. Instead they would use their axes to cut the city gate down, for surely an elven gate would be easy to breach?

The last hour had proven the falsehood of that, but even as the arrow storm raining down on them from above claimed yet more of Grungni’s sons, the gate was slowly beginning to buckle.

Wrenching his axe loose, Nadri saw and heard a crack split its length all the way to the keystone above.

‘It yields!’ roared King Brynnoth, shielded by his doughty hearthguard.

Within a few paces of his liege-lord, Nadri struck again, urging his clan to greater efforts. He had killed many elves in the earlier pitched battle, and saw their faces with every blow against the gate. Bloodied grimaces, terror-etched or dead-eyed, they rattled him to the core. Then he remembered Krondi, gutted like a fish, and his grip hardened to chiselled stone.

Hammer-armed dwarfs from the Sootbrow clan thumped the cracks, widening the breach with each successive blow. Miners by trade, the Sootbrows worked with steady momentum like they were at the rock face hewing ore.

‘Ho, hai, ho, hai…’

Their labouring song was mesmeric. Even when one of their number was felled by an arrow and gargled his last, they did not pause or falter.

The war machines were silent. King Ironhandson had ordered an end to the barrage as soon as Prince Snorri had blown the signal to march. Nadri had been glad of it, muttering an oath to Krondi as they advanced on the city. How far away his life as a merchant seemed now. He spared a brief thought for Heg before the arrows started flying, hoping his brother was still safe in the Sea Hold.

With a sickening splintering of wood, the gate broke apart. A forest of spears glittered on the other side. Behind them, a host of angry and defiant elven faces.

Shields up, the dwarfs barged forwards. Some spears found a way through, skewering mail or splitting plate. With their shields facing elven aggression in front of them, the dwarfs were vulnerable to arrows from above. Even when over a hundred dead littered the gateway, the sons of Grungni did not relent.

Unable to hold back such a determined tide, the elf spear line buckled and the dwarfs poured in.

An elven lordling wearing shining silver scale, a feather of amethyst purple poking from the tip of his helmet, and riding a white horse, raised his sword to urge the garrison of Kor Vanaeth on. Archers mounted on the steps loosed the last of their remaining shafts into the courtyard that was clogging quickly with elven dead.

Nadri took an arrow in his shoulder before he raised his shield to block three others. Head down, seeing mainly booted feet and the skirts of elven scale mail, he swung like a blind man in a bar fight. The hard thwack of his axe blade hitting flesh then bone was the only sign he was still in the fight. A spear tip glanced off his helmet, setting a ringing in his ears and a dense throb in his skull. Blood pulsing, heart thundering, he lashed out and was rewarded with a half-strangled scream.

Sweat filled his nostrils, some his own, some his warrior brothers’. He heard their grunting, the muttered curses.

‘Thagging elgi!’

‘Dreng elgi!’

‘Uzkul, uzkul!’

No way out of the melee, surrounded by the din of battle and dying, Nadri roared his own war cry.

‘Krondi! Dammaz a Krondi!’

A brief cessation to the killing allowed him to look up. The elves were retreating further into the city, but their numbers and formation were scattered. Most of the archers had emptied their quivers so abandoned their bows in favour of knives.

Nadri saw a spearman brought to his knees by one of the hearthguard. Another smacked the elf around the face, his neck snapping wildly to the left before he slumped down and was still.

A second clutched the air, his spear wrenched from his grip before the hammers were upon him, silencing his screams.

Spurring his mount the lordling rode at King Brynnoth, who had demanded to lead the attack personally, uttering a battle cry to his elven gods.

The king of the Sea Hold shoulder barged the steed, thudding his armoured bulk into the beast’s chest and stealing away its breath. With a shriek, its ribcage cracked; heart failing, the horse collapsed and bore its rider with it.

Brynnoth showed no mercy as he cut off the lordling’s screaming head.

That was an almost an end to it.

Seeing their commander slain was enough to break the elves. Those who could, ran; those who couldn’t, surrendered. Several of the pleading elves died before Prince Snorri entered the fray to call a stop to it.

Nadri stood in the middle of the carnage, breathing hard, an ache in his back and shoulder where the arrow remained.

‘Get the healers to look at that,’ said a voice behind him. He half turned and saw the Prince of Karaz-a-Karak. He was about to kneel when the prince stopped him.

‘You’ve fought and bled, by Grimnir,’ he said.

For Agrin Fireheart, the dwarfs of Barak Varr had been given the honour of breaking the gate, and it didn’t take forty thousand to sack a city of eight. Some of the walls had collapsed, weakened by stone throwers, brought down by grapnels, but the incursions of the other dwarfs had been mild compared to the effort of the Sea Hold clans.

Prince Snorri met Nadri’s gaze. There was steel there, and stone.

‘No son of Grungni who has fought this day kneels to me. Go find a healer, lad. The deed here is done.’

He walked on, several of his thanes in tow.

Nadri had expected to feel satisfaction, a sense of closure, even relief. He felt none of these things. Looking around at the corpses, the greedy looting that followed, he found he felt nothing at all.

A warrior of the hearthguard hurried over, his heavy armour clanking. He’d run a good distance, heaving and gasping in his suit of plate and mail, lifting his visored helm to speak.

‘My prince.’

Snorri took the proffered spyglass, nodding thanks, before aiming the device at the sky. The lens was grimy, smeared by dirt and smoke. Snorri had to rub it with his thumb to clear it, and tried not to rush.

‘What do you see?’ asked Drogor, sidling up beside him.

The pair of them were beyond the borders of the city, which was still burning. Once the brief siege was over, Snorri had returned to the heath where he could plot his next move. He’d had a map in his hand, his eye on the road to Tor Alessi, when the hearthguard had interrupted.

‘It’s large, moving quickly and against the wind,’ he told Drogor. He peered for longer, squinting for a sharper look. Then he put down the spyglass and yelled to one of the Karak Varn engineers. ‘Bolt throwers!’

The dwarfs followed the prince’s pointing finger, the master surveying the sky with a spyglass of his own. ‘Drakk!’ he bellowed to his kinsmen, prompting frantic scurrying as spear-tipped shafts were loaded into cradles, windlass cranks turned and sighters levelled.

‘Did he say “drakk”?’ asked Morgrim, joining them. Behind him, the dwarfs of Karak Varn had begun loading carts and wagons to ferry their plunder back to the hold. King Ironhandson’s booming laughter overwhelmed the crackle of the inferno gutting the city as he saw his treasure hoard swelling.

Brynnoth and his warriors had come together, apart from the rest of the army. Heads bowed, listening to the sonorous tones of their king, they were holding a vigil for Agrin Fireheart.

‘None other,’ uttered Snorri, his voice full of loathing. ‘I hate drakkal.’

Morgrim squinted but couldn’t make out the beast or its rider clearly enough. It was a dark shape, sweeping between clouds of smoke.

‘It could be Prince Imladrik.’

Snorri turned on him. ‘Your pet elgi?’

‘He is a friend to the dawi, and to me.’

‘All elgi became enemies as soon as we crushed that army.’ Drogor thumbed over his shoulder where the shattered horse guard still lay bleeding and broken. Most were probably dead by now. ‘Do you think he’ll still clasp your hand in a warrior’s grip when he sees this?’

Morgrim ignored him, looking to his cousin.

‘We cannot loose.’

Snorri clenched his teeth, considering Morgrim’s request, but in the end had to shake his head.

‘Can’t risk it. That drakk will burn our camp to cinders, cousin.’

‘We are at war now,’ Drogor reminded them. ‘Our stone was cast and more will be needed.’

Morgrim bit his tongue. He hoped it wasn’t Imladrik. Not since the brodunk had he seen the elf prince, and despite the discord between their peoples, he still regarded him as a friend. He warranted that friendship would be tested if Imladrik saw what had transpired at Kor Vanaeth.

The low rumble of cracking stone presaged the collapse of the gatehouse, leaving the entire city razed and brought to rubble. A cheer rose up from the dwarfs of Zhufbar who were presiding over the demolition. Morgrim tried hard not to despise them for it.

Bolt throwers cranked to the highest possible elevation, the master of engineers looked over expectantly at the prince.

‘The drakk!’ bellowed one of the engineers, his crew trembling with fear at the sight of the monster.

A bestial shriek, chasm deep and full of hatred, echoed across the sky. It was a challenge. If the dragon rider was Imladrik, he had seen the carnage by now and had chosen to attack. Morgrim unslung his hammer, the runes flaring bright across its head.

Snorri ran out into the open ground, snarling to match the beast.

‘Hold fast, let it come!’ He swung up his axe, brandishing it at the sky and the winged shadow rapidly closing. ‘Face me!’ he roared. ‘I am the dreng drakk. Taste this steel, for it will cleave you unto death!’

Morgrim ran after him, grabbing Snorri’s arm. ‘What are you doing?’

‘You wanted me to hold off the bolt throwers, that is what I am doing.’

‘Don’t be an idiot.’

Snorri glanced at Morgrim over his shoulder. ‘Still want to shake hands with the elgi?’

He looked back at Drogor, but the Karak Zorn dwarf hadn’t moved and was watching the sky. Morgrim scowled before standing at his cousin’s side.

‘Get back,’ Snorri warned. ‘I don’t need your arm in this fight.’

Morgrim was resolute. ‘I am your cousin, blood is blood. Here I will stand.’

‘Move! It comes for me.’ His gaze flicked between his cousin and the growing shadow in the sky. The beat of heavy wings resolved above the wind.

‘Then give the order to loose,’ said Morgrim. ‘That beast will burn us where we stand, unless you plan on slaying it with a single throw of your axe.’

Snorri looked like he was considering it.

‘Don’t be a stubborn fool. I don’t want to die here.’

Something redolent of ash and sulphur tainted the breeze.

‘Dragon’s breath.’ Morgrim readied his shield, knowing it was too late to retreat now.

So too did Snorri, but the prince had long embraced his fate.

‘Let it come!’ he shouted, hefting his battle axe. ‘I’ll kill it!’

The dragon dived, scales shimmering like fire in the sun. Like a red blade ripping through a bank of snow-shawled cloud, it angled towards the prince.

Shouts were coming from other parts of the field as more and more dwarfs heard and saw the beast.

A roar like a discordant bell pealed out of the heavens as dragon and rider cried in unison.

King Ironhandson was being barrelled away from danger by his warriors when he jabbed a finger towards the sky.

‘Loose!’ he cried. ‘Bring the monster down!’

Some dwarfs hid behind their shields, others scurried behind carts and wagons. A few drew their weapons and rushed to the prince’s side.

Fumbling their war machines, the engineers of Karak Varn unleashed a volley but by then the dragon had pulled out of its dive and climbed for higher skies. Every shaft went wide of the target.

Snorri raged.

‘No! Come back,’ he roared. ‘Come back and face me, beast!’

‘It’s gone, cousin,’ said Morgrim, pulling Snorri back.

‘I could have killed it,’ he spat, ‘and fulfilled my destiny.’

‘You will,’ said Drogor, his eyes on the sky following the departing figure of the dragon. His voice was calming, and the two cousins climbed down from their heightened emotions at once. Both regarded the Karak Zorn dwarf as he turned his gaze on them.

‘Not yet, but soon my prince. Now, we must march.’

Snorri shook his head as if coming out of a daze.

‘Yes…’ he murmured, blinking twice in close succession. ‘Gather the kalans, sound the horn. We march for Tor Alessi.’

Tears streamed down Liandra’s face, and Vranesh wailed in empathic anguish.

Kor Vanaeth was gone, sundered to ruins, and Fendaril was surely dead. She had failed her people, obsessing over vengeance and a desire to punish all druchii for what they had done. Her father knew she was volatile. Only now did she realise why Lord Athinol had sent her to the Old World. Soaring into the high skies, she welcomed the loneliness and the chill in her bones. It numbed her from feeling.

She had seen an army outside her city. Others would come, compelled by greed. Though her desire to return and take out her anger on the dwarfs was strong, she resisted. The other cities would need to be warned.

Tor Alessi was the greatest of them, so she would go there first.

Urging Vranesh, she tried to push the images of Kor Vanaeth from her mind but they burned, just as the city had burned, and would not fade.