The doom of dragonback, p.29
The Doom of Dragonback, page 29
‘She’s a good girl.’
‘Aye, one of the best.’
They were both too tired to clean the gore from their armour or comb their beards and it was in such ragged state that they were brought before the council, which was being held not far away in the hall of Thane Rozgard of Clan Brikbok. They were not the only ones whose appearance was in poor maintenance; the hall was filled with dwarfs sporting bandages and fresh wounds, as well as bloodied tunics and unpolished mail.
‘Not a hare-brained mission, I reckon,’ said Skraffi, seeing the assortment of thanes and guildmasters on display. ‘This is serious.’
The king was in his rune armour, clean, Skraffi noticed, though the two princes were in attendance too and they were less well-presented. Erstukar’s cheeks looked sunken and his eyes were red-rimmed from sleeplessness. Skraffi had heard that the king had been fighting for the West Gate. He did not know whether it boded well or ill that he had made the two-day journey back from there to hold this council.
Erstukar Rinkeldraz’s first words settled that matter.
‘The West Gate will fall,’ announced the king. A hubbub of dismay rose up, quickly silenced as the king held up his hand for quiet. ‘Not soon, but the outer towers have been taken, three days ago, and now they have giants and two rams at the gates. We are evacuating everybody from the West Halls and collapsing the bridges across the Frigidflow.’
This was grim news, and was received with more groans of disappointment.
‘That is not all. I will issue the order for the throng in the southern valley to pull back to the South Gate. We cannot hold Kundazad-a-Zorn. The defences are too exposed to withstand another assault, and we must always retreat in good order to ensure gates and doors are barred in our wake. The Lower Gate is almost overrun.’
‘Totally overrun!’ someone shouted in correction. ‘The engineers collapsed the third and fourth halls on the First Deep. Nobody is coming in or going out that way.’
Erstukar grimaced at this news and his shoulders hunched a little more.
‘The East Gate holds well, for the moment. The North Gate stands free of threat, also for the moment.’ The king took a shuddering breath. ‘A time is upon us to face a drastic decision – one that will remain with us for the rest of our lives.’ He looked at his two sons. Horthrad gave him an encouraging nod while Rodri looked as though he was chewing a live wasp. ‘This is too momentous a choice for me to take on my own, even with advice, and so it will be put to a vote. The simple question we must answer is whether we continue to fight for Ekrund, and risk being overrun entirely, or whether we use the time we have bought for ourselves to leave these halls in timely fashion and good order.’
The hall erupted in an uproar of raised voices and wagging beards and pointing fingers. There was no measured council, not even the back and forth of good-humoured debate, but forthright and emotional argument conducted at the loudest volume possible. Gabbik added his own words of condemnation being levelled at the king.
‘I already gave up my halls for this hold, I’ll not see that sacrifice wasted!’ Gabbik bellowed. ‘By my beard and my ancestors I will lay down my blood for Ekrund before I see a greenskin in these hallowed tunnels.’
‘Careful now,’ said Skraffi, pulling Gabbik back a little as he tried to forge his way through the crowd pressing in around the king. ‘Oaths are not sworn lightly, my lad.’
‘I mean it,’ said Gabbik. He was exhausted but his blood was up. ‘All my life I’ve strived to make Ekrund a better place for my daughter to live in, and for Clan Angbok to have better prospects than when I were a lad. I would rather have my beard shorn off and the memories of my ancestors defiled than give up all that hard work because of a bunch of green-skinned savages. I’ll kill every last one of them myself if I have to.’
‘Hear that?’ someone else called. ‘That’s Gabbik Angbok. If he swears to defend the hold to his death, I’ll be damned if the Norstroggums will be found wanting.’
‘If the Angboks stay, we stay!’
‘Nonsense,’ Skraffi shouted back. ‘You’ve all got blood-fever, I swear. This ain’t glory or death time, it’s time to wear our beards straight and make the right choice.’
‘The Varnfolk held on too long,’ said Prince Horthrad, ‘and now they are almost wiped out. We came from Karak Eight Peaks two thousand years ago, we can go back. But only if we live!’
‘You’re half the dwarf your brother is,’ another thane shouted. ‘What’s the opinion of Rodri?’
There was a clamour of calls to hear Rodri’s desired course of action. The prince held up his glittering rune axe.
‘This blade does not leave my hand until every greenskin has been slain!’ he roared, and half the dwarfs in the hall chorused their approval.
‘You’ll die holding it, that’s for sure.’ These words silenced the crowd, coming from the lips of Nordok Stormhammer.
The ancient runelord was clad in armour plate etched with dozens of runes, surrounded by a silver aura of magical energy. In one hand he held a hammer that glowed with a golden hue, in the other a staff of iron tipped with a figurative lightning bolt, bound with bands of precious metals and studded with gems carved with more runic shapes. A few of the gems looked blackened and burned, their magic expended combating the sorceries of the orc and goblin shamans.
‘You will leave, Nordok?’ a thane asked.
‘I go or stay as my king commands,’ said Nordok. He looked at Erstukar and raised his hammer in salute. ‘But if you ask for my advice, I say that being a good runesmith is about timing. When to heat the rune a little more, when to quench it in troll blood, when to strike upon the anvil and when to leave it be. If the orcs break into the main hold it will be too late for us. We cannot fight and retreat at the same time. Those that stay in these halls may well be defending their tombs.’
‘If we don’t fight,’ said Gabbik, ‘the orcs will take Ekrund for sure.’
‘They will,’ said the runelord, and offered no further comment.
‘The time is upon us to cast our votes,’ said King Erstukar.
‘No, no vote!’ someone shouted. ‘We must all stand to defend the hold, by your command.’
‘I’m not trusting the future of my clan to the axe-arms of a bunch of Nurthilguls,’ came the retort. ‘We’re not staying here to die, you can stuff your vote up your jerkin.’
Once more the hall descended into accusations and shouting at cross-purposes. A flare of white light stilled them all. Nordok lowered his runestaff and glowered at them.
‘Our kin even now die at the walls, and this is how you behave?’ he growled. ‘Your ancestors would recoil in shame at your lack of respect.’
This was one of the gravest chastisements the runelord could heap upon them, and the thanes and masters mumbled apologies, not looking each other in the eye.
‘There can be no vote,’ the king said, looking forlorn. ‘This is not a time for the many to command the few. Each clan, each family, must choose for itself the right path. I will stand, for Ekrund is my hold and I swore oaths to defend these halls, come what may. I place no bond upon any other to fight with me, and I do so in the knowledge that our doom might already be inevitable. Clan Rinkeldraz will hold the tide back as long as we can, so that others might yet know future generations. Go forth from here and speak with your own people, and decide for yourselves whether you stay or go. There is no shame in either option.’
‘So this is our doom, is it?’ said Skraffi. ‘Exile or extinction.’
Chapter Twenty-one
‘The mines of the Dragonbacks, both upper and lower, steadily grew, and although Ankor-Drakk never quite fulfilled its early promise, the upper slopes became the centre of a growing city. As well as the Angbok forges there were breweries aplenty, and tanneries and mills and dancing halls and all kinds of places.
All of this was above ground, mind, not like most dwarf holds. The mines was still being worked, you see, and that meant no living in them. Towers and halls with roofs of wooden tiles and slate were erected to house the growing Drakkanfolk, who were now united again under one king.’
The days and nights dragged on.
Some were spent at the rampart, fighting a seemingly endless tide of foes. Others were spent within the guard rooms and tower chambers, listening to the crack of stone on stone as rocks and boulders turned walls and turrets to rubble around them.
Sometimes the wyverns came, roaring and shrieking, driving companies of dwarfs back into the hold until crossbows and mangonels could be mustered to drive off the winged brutes. Giants split open fortifications with tossed boulders and bare hands. Trolls let loose wicked claws and acidic vomit upon the defenders, while ogres gorged themselves on the dead of both sides and sang their cooking songs around massive campfires.
The quieter the dwarfs became, the louder the greenskin cacophony. For the most part the walls were silent, and within the hold the corridors and halls echoed emptily. The clash of metal and the hoarse war cries of the clans were a relief at times, a break from the unending silence of cold forges and untapped mines.
Every day was a drawn-out agony, of waiting for the next assault or bombardment. Nobody spoke, except for the barest essentials of food and hygiene. There was talk of rationing the beer further, for the vats were almost empty and the grain being ground for stonebread. This almost caused a revolt by the South Gate, but the king himself came down and spent a few days fighting and talking, easing the minds of those at the sharpest end of the attack.
Sometimes Haldora fancied that the orcs were tiring of the siege. The autumn equinox came and there was no assault, no attack by the war engines. A whole day and night passed without a single arrow being loosed or a single blade being unsheathed. It was eerie and it grated on her nerves more than the persistent horn blasts calling her back to the wall when she was sleeping, or the stench of death and sweat that permeated everything she wore and every part of the towers and walls. The grey stones were stained black with dried blood, from dwarf and orc alike. The clouds were often thicker than the smoke that came from the pyres built to burn the dwarfish dead to stop disease and the fires of the enemy.
Sometimes the Ekrundfolk retreated during the night, on those irregular occasions when they were not being attacked directly. Always better to pull back when calm and patient. There was never any question of a rout – those defences that had been taken by force had fallen drenched in dwarf blood, for not a warrior would turn his back on a foe at hand.
They would sneak away from the walls, leaving lamps burning and a few volunteers from amongst the badly wounded to keep the defences looking occupied. It burned pride like a spark from the furnace on the skin to slip away into the tunnels, bringing down pillars and props and archways to stop the orcs moving any further beneath the mountain, but there was no alternative.
And day by day the gaps grew, from those killed by the foe and those families that finally took the decision to quit Ekrund. They left without fanfare, taking what provisions they had been able to muster. Watch rotas were changed, new orders circulated to cover for those gone. Every day it felt as though the whole hold was weakening. Even as dwarfs left, intent on survival, it swayed the balance against the favour of those who stayed behind.
Ekrund was being bled dry.
Six days after the equinox lull – six days filled with near-constant catapult attack and several forays by the orc shaman on his wyvern – the Angboks and the other East Deeps families found themselves together off-watch. Their billet was a former grain store with a few benches dragged in from a nearby ale hall. Blankets were piled neatly in one corner, while some of the younger clan members worked a grinding wheel to the axes and daggers of the warriors.
The food was hard, cave-matured cheese and stonebread. There was no place for a fire to be lit without filling the halls with smoke, and so they ate cold repast in silence, each dwarf chewing at length to soften the stonebread, breaking the monotony with sips of water – at least the springs beneath the halls were still clean. There was no spare fuel – every piece of coal, every drop of oil and every faggot of wood was reserved for the lanterns at the walls. The larger halls and corridors were lit by rune lamps, but for the most part Ekrund suffered in darkness, broken by candelight and the glow of rune weapons.
The bread had been baked at least thirty days before, when the royal ovens had still been alight. It would be good at least until spring, though even to the palate of a dwarf the taste left a lot to be desired.
‘I can’t take it!’ snapped Haldora, tossing her stonebread aside. It left a crack in the plastered wall. ‘Can we not all sit around like we’re already in our tombs?’
‘What do you want us to say?’ said Nakka, sitting next to her. He put his plate aside and laid an arm across her shoulders. ‘I’m grateful for a break today? My highest tally for an attack so far is eighteen goblins and twelve orcs?’
‘We need to talk about what we’re going to do.’ She looked at Skraffi. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘I do?’ He looked far from convinced by this notion.
‘The king has given all the clans leave to quit Ekrund if they desire. Almost half have left already. I hear a group from the Lower Western Levels are going to be heading out tomorrow. The longer we leave it, the harder it’ll be.’
‘I swore an oath,’ muttered Gabbik, as though that was all the explanation that was needed.
‘I bloody didn’t,’ said Stofrik Grimsson. ‘The lass is right, we need to have a proper talk about this. It’s a no-win situation now. There’s not enough of us to drive off the orcs.’
‘We wait them out,’ said Fleinn. ‘That was always the plan. Come winter, it’ll be a different story.’
‘If we don’t make it to winter?’ This was from Norbrindor Troggklad. In the early days he had tried to keep up everyone’s spirits with solo renditions of the old songs from the rampart, but now even he had no heart left to sing. ‘I don’t reckon the inner portal to the Lower Gate is going to last forever. From there the greenskins will take the North Bridge. That only leaves the Forgeway to the North Gate. How long before the enemy get there?’
‘We wait until winter,’ Gabbik said defiantly, not looking up from his stonebread. He knocked it against the edge of the bench, breaking off splinters of wood. ‘The orcs have less supplies than us. They’ll be forced back to the wildlands.’
‘I hate to say it, but even if that does happen, what do we do?’ said Skraffi. ‘How do we survive over the winter? How do we keep fighting if the orcs come back next spring?’
‘I swore an oath.’
Haldora almost said, ‘There’s more to life than oaths,’ but she couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. She didn’t really believe it. If oaths and honour meant nothing, they were no better than the greenskins. It was the savages, the orcs and goblins, that stabbed each other in the back and fought for control. Dwarfs were better than that, and if a dwarf was not as good as his word he was no good as a dwarf. She wished her father had not sworn to stay, but he had and now they were all bound by that rash decision.
‘You can stay as long as you like, but we’re leaving,’ said Naldorin Burlithrom, the oldest surviving member of his family; not old at all at two hundred and four, but the greybeards had died one by one on the walls. Thorek, the old thane, had eventually gone mad, driven by the memory of his beard being shaven and the torture of the goblins. He had climbed down a ladder left after one of the enemy assault and single-handedly charged the orc camp. His family had watched horrified as he had been cut in half by an ogre’s scimitar, but they were thankful that at least he had not been captured again. ‘You don’t speak for us.’
‘Nor us,’ said Stofrik. He looked at Haldora and then the others. ‘Strength in numbers. We’ll head east, back to Karak Eight Peaks. Start over.’
Haldora got up and retrieved her stonebread from the floor.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said, and headed back towards the defences without a backward glance.
The halls she loved, the chambers that had been her home for so long, had become a prison. She would never have thought before that she would be uncomfortable underground, but when she was forced to stay it was unbearable. It was the company of the others that depressed her the most.
They had given up, even those that were determined to stay. Nobody would say it out loud, just as they would never admit they had been wrong or confess their affection for each other. Like everything else, the sense of defeat was something shared not spoken. A tacit understanding.
As she walked down the tunnel leading to one of the archways out onto the high rampart where the latest defence was being tested, she heard the clamour of battle ahead. There was a time not so long ago, maybe even a score of days, when she had felt her heart quicken at the thought of combat – excitement and a little fear. Now it left her numb. She did not even hurry, but walked calmly to the rampart and drew her axe from her belt.
The sun was lower these days, though warm enough still to bring sensation to her cheeks as she stepped out onto the wall. She paused to look down the valley. The orcs had taken the bend and everything on the north slope was now in their hands. Only five hundred paces away, through the narrowing gorge, was the South Gate. It was a testament to the guidance of the ancestors and the persistence of the defenders that it was not yet besieged. The West Gate was a ruin, and the East Gate under constant pressure. But the South Gate, that led almost directly into the heart of Ekrund… If that fell, it would, as near as mattered, spell the end of the hold.
A fresh attack was under way. Goblins, for the most part, driven onto the weapons of the defenders by the orcs behind them. Haldora was convinced there were just as many as on that first day, despite the thousands of goblin bodies that littered the line of the dwarfs’ retreat. She had no idea how they bred but perhaps they were like rabbits, able to spawn litter after litter in seemingly unstoppable fashion.
