The doom of dragonback, p.10
The Doom of Dragonback, page 10
Gabbik hoped he would not regret his father’s timely return and waited with arms folded. The next two speakers had clearly spent the time waiting to concoct a joint plea to ask the king to extend a low-interest line of credit to the clans with spare chambers willing to house refugees at a barely-above-cost rate. It was not uncommon for those of like mind to come together and those of disagreement to begin their own negotiations in the ale halls and on the benches. Factions could form, re-form and disband, merge, split and completely change policy, opinion and members before one of the dwarfs had a chance to speak. A dwarf could also pass his token to another, in essence adding his vote or opinion to that of the dwarf who would speak. The speaker was granted no additional time, but by the end of the council it would be likely that each dwarf that got up before the king would be voicing the carefully considered and meticulously drafted opinions of several dozen dwarfs, sometimes even hundreds, representing many clans and societies and guilds – thousands of dwarfs in the wider community.
This was all part and parcel of the council bustle and banter. The king’s advisors, and those opposed to his current policies as they understood them, would be drumming up support in the lobby, brew halls and banquet chambers, either adding their support with a nod and a wink or canvassing for the speaking allotments of others to add a literal weight to their argument. If a dwarf said he was a token representative, it meant another was speaking on his behalf.
Skraffi’s appointed moment came around in two turns of the timekeeper’s glass, and the veteran warrior and novice mead brewer took his place at the bottom of the steps, thumbs tucked into his belt, glaring up at the king.
‘By Grungni,’ whispered Vadlir, ‘he looks like he’s going to give the king a right rollicking.’
It was true. Skraffi had an expression of fierce defiance and his shoulders were set as though he was trying to stare down a mountain lion. Gabbik swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably, fearful of what was about to come. Others had noticed too and were starting to take more of an interest, adding to Gabbik’s unease.
‘Skraffi Angbok!’ the announcer announced. The syllables of the clan name seemed to echo around just long enough to make sure everybody could hear. Angbok. Anybody listening would associate whatever came next with the name of Angbok, and so it would be recorded in the Annals of the Ekrundfolk.
Or so Gabbik hoped. There was always a chance it would be taken down in the king’s Book of Grudges.
‘There was a time,’ Skraffi began, as the royal timekeeper turned his ironwork glass, ‘when a dwarf could walk from Karak Izril to Karak Ungor without nary seeing a greenskin. Times were good but back then our ancestors were nothing more than beardlings, fresh-faced in their mothers’ arms. When I grew up there was war. War with the elves. In that time if a dwarf asked for aid there was a hundred who would answer and then some. When the High King sounded the horn of war there was not a hold nor mine nor outpost that didn’t have its folk pick up their axes and hammers and don their mail.’
As he spoke, Skraffi kept turning his head, addressing his words as much to the other dwarfs around him as to the king. There were nods from many at this stage.
‘And we won. Them elves have slunk back over the sea without so much of a whimper to hear from them these days.’ This was greeted with rumbles of happiness and growled epithets. ‘We conquered the land together. We defend the land together. That’s how it is. The rockfall don’t come when the first pebble comes loose and it don’t happen all of a sudden. The first pebble is the start though, and then another piece of stone, and another gets loose. What do we do then?’
‘Shore it up, you daft beggar!’ someone called out. It was a quite inappropriate interjection for an obviously rhetorical question and the young dwarf who had answered was swiftly silenced by the glares of his elders and betters.
‘S’right, you shore that roof up as quick as you can ‘fore the whole lot comes down,’ Skraffi continued with a nod. ‘If you’re too late though, you might stop the ceiling falling in that day, and maybe the next, but the day after you need a new prop, and then another, and even then it’s all a bit shaky and you’re never certain of digging that seam or using that hall again.’
His hands moved to his hips and his belly thrust out further, the sure sign of any ageing dwarf assuming his ‘proclaiming’ pose. For a moment Gabbik was terrified that his father was going to sing. By nature the Ekrundfolk had good, if deep, singing voices, much suited to sombre choruses and earthy folk songs, and Skraffi was no exception on this count. He was, however, incapable of keeping still whilst singing, having to bob his head, bend his knees and tap his feet along to the rhythm even when the song did not call for it. However, Gabbik was spared such embarrassment as Skraffi launched into a well-turned dwarf saying.
‘For want of a prop the roof was lost. For want of a roof the tunnel was lost.’ As he carried on Skraffi started to bob and his head moved back and forth in admonishment. There was a slightly glazed expression on his face as he recited the words, repeating them by rote the same way he had learnt them – the same way Gabbik had learnt them. ‘For want of a tunnel the seam was lost. For want of a seam the mine was lost.’ Skraffi’s eyes snapped wide open and he stared with manic triumph at his audience, which by that time had become quite numerous, for word was spreading to the rear benches and crowds were coming forwards on the galleries above. ‘For want of a mine the gold was lost. For want of some gold the clan was lost. And all for the want of a timber prop.’
Skraffi turned dramatically and thrust a finger at dwarfs in the crowd, at random it seemed to Gabbik for he could not imagine Skraffi knew any of them.
‘Would you pinch the prop that was needed? Or you? What about you? And you there, with the wart and the… What is that? A ferret? Never mind.’ Skraffi appeared to deflate, his wild hair settling, beard slowing in its undulations as he turned to face the king once more. ‘I have a few lines to add, perhaps. For want of the clan, the army was lost. For want of an army, the hold was lost. For want of a hold… Let’s not dwell on that. I am told that such a disaster will never come to Ekrund. This is very likely true and I offer thanks to Grungni, Valaya and Grimnir that it might ever be the case, for if others in Karak Eight Peaks or perhaps Karak Drazh or even Karaz-a-Karak might be having the same conversation as us in the decades to come, might we hope that it is not too late to act.’
‘What do you suggest?’ The king’s question echoed down from above, causing a ripple of gasps to sound across the hall. It was almost unprecedented for the king to intervene in a petition in such a way, especially on such a large subject. A few of his closest advisors hurried up the steps towards Erstukar, who had stood up to look down at Skraffi. ‘What prop do you bring, Skraffi Angbok?’
Gabbik was horrified and elated in equal measure and alternating between the two quite quickly. On the one hand the scene was entirely cringe-inducing in its lack of propriety and adherence to customary council intercourse; on the other the king had just said ‘Angbok’! The name was amongst the king’s utterances now.
‘Summon the throng and retake Karak Varn.’ A bubble of silence expanded out from Skraffi as he spoke. ‘Call upon our cousins in Karak Eight Peaks and Zhufbar to aid us. Petition the High King to send the army of Karaz-a-Karak to Karak Ungor.’
It was such a reckless, thoughtless proposal, Gabbik could hardly bring himself to believe it had come from a right-thinking dwarf. Unfortunately it had come from his father, and that pretty much summed up Gabbik’s feeling on both the suggestion and his father’s ideas.
Skraffi’s reply brought laughter from some of the dwarfs around him, scowls from others. The king was not laughing. Nor was he scowling.
‘You would have me take Ekrund to war, Skraffi Angbok?’ There was the clan’s name again, but this time Gabbik was very much certain he would rather it had not been mentioned in the same breath as ‘war’. ‘To retake a hold lost by others?’
‘A flooded hold!’ someone called out.
‘Very far away!’ added another voice.
‘Not our problem, it’s too late now,’ said a third.
Skraffi looked at the royal timekeeper, who shrugged and held aloft his glass to show that there was still time remaining.
‘I’ve said my piece,’ Skraffi grumbled, and turned away. ‘Think on it what you will.’
The old dwarf shouldered his way through the crowd that had gathered. Soon the dwarfs were parting in front of him, some quizzical, others incredulous, a few shaking their heads. Gabbik heard insults being muttered. More were called down from the galleries above. Skraffi squared his shoulders and trudged out with his head straight.
‘Warmonger.’
‘Wazzock.’
‘Doomsayer.’
‘Troublemaker.’
‘Wagglebeard.’
Soon Skraffi was out of earshot and the grumbling and whispering died away. The next petitioner was called out. He stood at the bottom of the steps and looked around at his fellows, discombobulated by the events that had preceded his arrival.
With a shrug the dwarf announced himself as a representative of the South Towers Masons’ and Fortifiers’ Assembly and launched into a speech about how if the king were to fund such a venture, they were willing to put aside current projects and commissions to divert their time and energy to the construction of semi-permanent residential towers on the east and south-east sides of the mountain. He had a wooden model and scale drawings.
The other dwarfs drifted away, leaving Gabbik with Vadlir. Neither of them was going to be called up any time soon and they allowed the flow of dwarfs around them to gently propel them from the foot of the steps towards the rear benches. When the crowd had thinned they deposited themselves in a suitable place and waited for their turns.
Many of the dwarfs to speak after Skraffi came with the prepared speeches and promises, but a few took up the subject raised by Gabbik’s father. A few, young firebrands by the look of them, echoed the call to arms voiced by Skraffi but most who spoke were dead set against the idea. The cost, they reminded the king, would be considerable, in gold and lives. Such a venture would bring uncertain reward. To reconquer Karak Varn would leave Ekrund vulnerable – although the dwarfs who argued thus were also quite keen to point out that there was no possible threat to Ekrund itself from these events.
As these perfectly sensible arguments were put forth, Gabbik started to consider his own position on the matter. He was, he decided, utterly unconvinced that the loss of the two holds in the old mountains set any kind of precedent. Both greenskin attacks had been calamitous but freakish occurrences, brought about by the quakes and volcanoes – and the flood in the case of Karak Varn – that were unlikely to be duplicated elsewhere.
There were also a handful of dwarfs who passionately spoke about events in the old mountains. They did not outright support Skraffi’s proposal but they did not object. These were the thanes of Karak Varn, and when they were called a fair number of Ekrundfolk came back into the hall and crammed into the upper galleries to hear what they had to say.
‘The Ungdrin Ankor is shattered,’ one white-bearded petitioner told the assembly, referring to the subterranean network that linked the holds of the old mountains to each other. ‘Grobi infest it, and the ratmen build their nests in the cracks between tunnels. There was a time a runner could go from Karak Vlag to Kazak Izril, but no more shall it be so. The underway is gone and from its depths the evil things come forth in great numbers.’
‘I’m no longbeard,’ claimed another of the Varnfolk when his time to speak came, ‘but to me it seemed as though a sea of goblinfolk and orcs came into the mountains in a great tide, from the north and from the east. It was as though the Dark Lands had vomited forth every foul goblin, orc, troll and other savage it had, and each was intent upon a dwarf hall for its lair and dwarf gold for its hoard.’
‘Dragons have come, bringing fire and terror,’ said a third a little while later, drawing a hush across the great hall, broken by derisive shouts and scoffs. ‘The elves brought them back, and when the elves retreated the scaled beasts would not go with them, it is said. They found caves and wild places to slumber, but now the volcanoes belch forth their fire and the ground trembles and the dragons have been woken from the sleep they desired. Gems and gold they seek for their beds, and roasted dwarf for their suppers. And they remember, being the kin of those that we slew defending our homes, and they want their revenge upon our people though we only protected ourselves in good faith.’
Proceedings were brought to a close on the evening of the first day before Gabbik had to speak. He was loathe to pay for lodgings overnight, for his number was close and he would be heard early the next day. However, wardens came into the great hall and cajoled, and sometimes carried, the dwarfs out into the lobby, and the great gates were barred behind them. Gabbik sought Thundred, thinking perhaps that previous hospitality might be repeated, but the old captain was suddenly and mysteriously indisposed to the Angboks.
There were no few dwarfs putting down bedrolls and setting camp in the tunnels and chambers around the king’s halls. The local clansdwarfs took exception to this and made their displeasure known through hard glares and much tutting. Gabbik counted himself amongst those able to withstand such criticism and spent the night on the floor not far from the lobby.
Of Skraffi there was no sign, and Gabbik presumed his father had decided to head homewards on his own.
Gabbik woke early, breakfasted on cold ham and soft cheese washed down with a light ale, and then made his way back to the audience hall. The door wardens were reluctant to let in anybody at that time, but when Gabbik showed them the number on his token they conceded that he would soon be called up and it was best if he was close to the front of the benches to expedite the matter.
Stewards and maids in the king’s colours were sweeping the hall, clearing out the firepit and making ready for the day’s petitioning. Gabbik was surprised to see the king in attendance – Erstukar sat on his throne at the height of the dais with a score of his retainers around him. There was much head-shaking and beard-stroking but on what topic Gabbik had no idea.
He found himself a place near the central aisle at the front, relieved himself of his pack and sat down. It had been some time since he had relieved himself in another fashion but he was not too uncomfortable as he waited for the king to despatch his confidants back to the benches and officially recommence the council.
There were less than a dozen dwarfs to speak before Gabbik and he practised what he would say in his head over and over, barely paying attention to the other statements being made before him. He considered it a source of pride that he could make such an address without reference to a written speech or even notes and hoped that there would be a few sharp-eyed officials of the royal clans taking note of such dedication and adherence to tradition.
‘What are you going to do? About your old man?’ Vadlir asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That was a speech and a half. Are you going to back up Skraffi or not?’
Gabbik pulled his numbered token from his pocket and turned it over a few times, considering his options.
When there were only two more speakers before him, Gabbik levered himself off the bench and approached the front of the hall. From there he was able to overhear some of the conversation amongst the most high-ranking council members on the benches. He did not dare look left or right, but heard the name Angbok a few times, and not once in a complimentary tone.
Just as he was about to speak there was a commotion at the back of the hall. Gabbik ignored the raised voices and looked at the timekeeper, who gave him a nod and upended his glass.
‘I am Gabbik Angbok,’ he introduced himself, somewhat mumbling his surname in case it would be held against him. ‘I am Vice-Treasurer of the Ekrund Miners’ Welfare and Social Society and I come with a proposal…’
The noise was getting quite loud. There were shouts and a wave of astonished gasps and grunts spread across the assembled dwarfs. Gabbik looked up and the king was not looking back at him, but at something a short distance behind. The Angbok thane cleared his throat and raised his voice.
‘As I was saying, I am here on behalf of the Ekrund Miners’ Welfare and Social Society to propose one possible proposal to a solution that might solve the refugees issue, or somewhat mitigate the impact…’
He gave up again as the angry bellows and growls of annoyance increased further. Fists on hips, Gabbik turned around to see what was causing so much fuss.
The crowd was splitting, making way for a lone dwarf.
The new arrival was half-naked, his torso and arms heavily tanned, tattooed with blue designs of coiling dragons and angular runes. His hair was cropped almost to the scalp except for a tall crest that, like his beard, had been stiffened and held in place with numerous rune- and face-etched badges of gold, silver and bronze. Both hair and beard were dyed a dark orange and there was a ring of black stone through the dwarf’s nostrils, which in turn was connected by a golden chain to a piercing in his left ear.
A Slayer.
The oathsworn of Grimnir, the Slayers had forsaken all life and honour to account for some great shame, and in doing so had given their word to seek a noble and honourable death in battle. They sought out creatures of great ferocity and danger to kill, and as it was physically impossible for a dwarf to attempt something without trying his utter best, those that survived their early encounters swiftly became proficient monster hunters. This one had scars across his shoulders, belly and chest to attest to several decades of failing to meet a bloody doom.
Much of the commotion was due to the immense rune axe the Slayer carried in his right fist. It was almost as large as him and its edge glinted with a blue sheen. The runes wrought into the metal of the blade had a dark air to them – fell symbols of death and ruination. Hammer-bearing door wardens were in pursuit, but none of them looked too keen to actually tackle the determined Slayer and had resolved to follow at a close but safe distance instead.
