The doom of dragonback, p.9
The Doom of Dragonback, page 9
The front benches were almost full now too – there were a few spaces right at the head of the audience where the most favoured thanes, runelords and retainers would be called to sit.
A thunderous knock resounded across the hall and as the echo faded so did all other noise. Not a dwarf moved. A second gigantic thud followed, and a third, and then utter silence fell.
A trapdoor opened at the foot of the steps leading up to the throne and from this entrance emerged a column of dwarfs. They were dressed in robes and armour, some with fur-lined cloaks, others with shining gold mail and plate, all with helms sporting crests in the shapes of boars, anvils, hammers, wings, lightning bolts and various other insignia. Their beards were long and fulsome, some trailing on the polished tiles, others neatly bound and wrapped with gold thread and silver bands.
The procession parted, forming two lines up the stairs to the throne and when they were in position, fifty dwarfs to the left and fifty dwarfs to the right, the king finally made his entrance.
He wore the ancient battle armour of Ekrund, rune-etched and chased with precious metals, studded with gems and filigreed with knotwork and geometric designs. Little could be seen of the king himself save for a long, grey-streaked beard of dark red, eyebrows of the same jutting from his helm and the glint of old, wise eyes. From his back hung a cloak of deepest red, edged with the fur of a black bear, its claws still attached. In his right hand he carried a sceptre whose head was made of a diamond the size of Gabbik’s fist, the haft gold and onyx and amber carefully entwined. His other hand held a small tinker’s hammer of plain iron.
Gabbik felt himself twitching with excitement. To be so close to the king. To not only be in his presence, but so near he could hear the footfalls of his armoured boots as he ascended the fifty steps to the throne.
Erstukar Rinkeldraz stopped before the throne and two attendants came out of the shadows to remove his cloak. Others took the hammer and sceptre. The king turned and sat. At that moment, somewhere distant in the deeps a horn sounded, heard even in the great hall, picked up and passed on from chamber to chamber so that, in a short while, the horns of the Angboks and the Troggklads and many others would announce the commencement in the furthest reaches.
The council was in session.
Thord Ironfriend, head of the Norbad clan and acclaimed veteran took his position to the king’s right. He held up a torq-clad arm and beringed fist scarred by war and smithying.
‘Hail the king!’
Gabbik’s fist shot up as he repeated the phrase, his voice just one amongst many thousands shouting that one line of greeting.
‘A grave business it is that brings us together on this day,’ Erstukar began. His one hundred companions turned and made their way down the steps to their benches while the king stood up from his throne and started to pace. The lantern above the platform glowed into life and the king’s presence seemed to diminish, rendering him mortal once more. More clearly able to see now, Gabbik remembered the king was barely a hundred years older than he was, and was still full of vitality. With the ceremony and pomp concluded, Erstukar moved and spoke with animation.
‘You have no doubt heard many dire rumours and stories from the old mountains, from the mouths of traders and rangers and, in latter days, from the mouths of those who until recently called Karak Varn their home. I share with you the shock and deepest grief of what has befallen our distant cousins of late, and it is with such sour tidings that I set in motion the great debate that must be held.’ The king bowed his head, brow glowing in the fires. ‘Though for many such news has been wrought fresh in the mind, it has troubled of late the counsels of your king and his closest advisors. Certainty we sought, but in such times certainty is rarer than elf honesty. From the clamour of devastation we might filter words of sense and through the fog of disaster we shall see more clearly with time.’
The king moved from one side of the dais to the other, looking up at the galleries and then down to the floor, hands clasped behind his back, becoming sombre.
‘I fear that the world has not yet finished changing. The threat of the elves may have passed, the ground may not have split beneath our feet, but Ekrund cannot be immune to what happens in the old mountains any more than the estuary is free from pollution upstream. The first and greatest consideration we must therefore face is what is to be done for those unfortunate survivors of this recent cataclysm that arrive upon our step and seek shelter? I do not for a moment consider Ekrundfolk inhospitable or deaf to the pleas of the needy, but nor can I fondly imagine that our hearths can burn forever and our mines are bottomless. We will give succour and sanctuary. That is not the question we must ask. In this I am already decided. The vaults of the king’s treasury shall be opened to ensure that those seeking food, ale and blankets shall not be wanting.
‘It is the longer term that vexes discussion, from the Third Eastern Deeps to the pinnacle of Spireridge. Shelter we can give, but can we give the refugees homes?’ The king strode back to his throne and sat down. With a hand glinting with gold rings he gestured for the wardens to go about their work.
In a gathering of such size it was impossible for every dwarf to be given an open floor for debate and counter-debate. Instead, to ensure even representation, the wardens passed along the rows of benches with sacks filled with numbered tokens – one for each dwarf on the floor. The dwarfs each took their lot and by this number would know when they would be allowed to speak. Each was allowed the turning of a glass, as adjudicated by the Royal Debate Timer Senior, Randar Rinkeldraz, in which to make whatever point he or she desired, whether in answer to previous comments or on a new topic.
It took some time for all three thousand and forty-six tokens to be allocated, and Gabbik was left in something of a quandary by drawing number one thousand seven hundred and ninety-four. His only intent was to offer the deal raised by the Ekrund Miners’ Welfare and Social Society and he had little desire to spend the best part of the next day sitting in the hall waiting his turn. Already dwarfs with later numbers were starting to leave – only the king was required to listen to all petitions, after all. Some of them were probably fortunate enough to live close enough to return home for the night. Others, now that space was clearing on the benches, were getting out sleeping rolls and pillows, while quite a few started talking amongst themselves. Gabbik had plenty of time to retire to a local hostelry and then return, but no doubt the local ale halls and bunk rooms would have raised their prices for such an occasion.
‘Stay and listen, you might learn something,’ said Skraffi, noticing his indecision. ‘I’m up at four hundred and thirty-eight, so at least stay awake that long, eh?’
Gabbik considered this. It did seem a shameful waste of the time, money and energy to come to the king’s halls simply to spend more time, money and energy at someone else’s ale hall. If he stayed in the hall he would be able to mingle with members of the more powerful clans, as well as other miners’ organisations, the engineers’ guilds, and if he dared to be so bold, he might even make a few inquiries regarding suitors for Haldora.
‘A good point,’ he told Skraffi, tucking the wooden plaque with his number into his pack. The first speakers were already assembling close to the foot of the steps, with the stewards directing dwarfs moving down and up the hall along opposite sides of the aisle to ensure there was not too much time-wasting and milling around.
With the benches in front now opened up to a general audience – with more wardens preventing the scrum for seats becoming a general melee – Gabbik headed forward to get closer to the action. Skraffi went with him, as did Vadlir (numbered one thousand four hundred and eleven) and a couple of the others from their group. The rest quietly slinked off to whatever bars and hostelries would take them.
The thanes were renowned across Ekrund as accomplished speakers, and could hold forth on a pet subject for great lengths of time. They were also, without question, quite capable of paying attention to each other for equally long periods when they desired to do so, or if they felt that a certain level of scrutiny or appreciation was required. It was also true that though they had tremendous patience, when it ran out they were not slow in protesting the fact. The rigid enforcement of the time allotment was therefore the best defence against not only long-winded sermonising but also potentially energetic and defamatory heckling from the less patient attendees.
Gabbik listened to the opening salvoes of the debate. A thane from the Second Western Deep was willing to put aside his wutruth import storage chambers for only two-thirds the lost revenue, to be settled by the king; a guildmaster from the Brewers’ Conservatory suggested they could happily employ seven or eight new brewing apprentices if the royal treasury would fund the placements. Contrary to the expectation of the diligence of the hold’s thanes, Gabbik quickly lost interest. Nobody was asking any big questions yet.
He was surprised when he felt a tap on his shoulder, and turned to see Thundred Norbrocker standing behind the bench.
‘Thought I recognised you,’ said the captain of the gate. ‘What number did you get?’ Gabbik showed him. ‘Not bad. Tell you what, rather than listen to this lot why don’t we, um, adjourn to my little guard hall just past the dais and you’ll not be too far away when the time comes. If anything exciting happens, we’ll get to know about it, don’t worry.’
‘That’d be very kind, Thundred,’ said Skraffi, who had suddenly appeared again out of the throng.
‘The beer’s on me,’ Thundred added quickly. ‘Got a keg just opened. North Star’s Troll-mangler.’
‘Good stuff,’ said Gabbik, standing up. He grabbed Vadlir’s arm and tugged him after as Thundred led them back to the aisle. ‘I hear that stuff would put a beard on a gobbo.’
With the hammer-bearing captain to lead the way, the crowd swiftly parted for the group. Thundred’s duty quarters were to the left of the great steps, through a small archway. There was a small fire burning, though it was summer and the king’s halls were heated all year round by a clever arrangement of pipes and steam from the furnaces. A steward sloshed out cups of ale for each of them and then at a look from Thundred made himself scarce. They settled on stools around the table, making pleasantries for a little while, picking at a nice ham and some cheese that was brought in and generally passing the time. Gabbik listened to the regular clanging of the timekeeper’s bell ordering the debate outside, until the noise faded into the background.
Gabbik dozed a little, smoked his pipe, made a sandwich, dozed a little more. Evening was approaching and the dwarfs were getting their second wind after their naps and between-meal snacks. They talked a little, on beers in the king’s hall, the queen and the princes, Thundred’s family, and then Skraffi’s tone became more serious.
‘So, what’s the king really thinking about these refugees?’
‘We’ll do what we can. Encourage as many as possible to head to Karak Eight Peaks.’ Thundred shrugged, making his mail armour jingle. ‘What else can we do?’
Gabbik remembered the conversations with Haldora, and her insistence that the refugees had to be helped. She was flighty sometimes, but her heart was in the right place.
‘What about before they get here?’ Gabbik asked. ‘Some have said the orcs have been at them in the wildlands.’
‘What can we do?’ said Thundred. ‘That’s the wildlands, isn’t it?’
‘We could go out and help them,’ said Skraffi. ‘Sounds like they’ve had more than their fill of orcs recently, I reckon. What if things were the other way around?’
‘Never would be,’ said Thundred. ‘There ain’t no giant cracks in the walls here, are there? And I figure that the Varnfolk have had plenty of practise killing greenskins just recently, a few more shouldna be a job.’
‘Harsh,’ said Skraffi, ‘even for the dwarf that saw half his command killed while holding the gap at Darkwater Vale.’
‘You’ve never forgotten about that, have you?’
‘‘That’s not really relevant, now, is it?’ Gabbik said quickly, sensing the conversation was about to descend into an argument well-worn, even centuries after it was first raised. ‘Thundred has a point, doesn’t he? How can we provide for the folks that are arriving and go traipsing into the wildlands looking for others? We can’t do everything. And we’ll lose folks doing it. Honest Ekrundfolk killed.’
Skraffi looked unhappy, chewing his moustache, eyebrows rising and falling in waves. He grunted and took a swig of beer.
‘And what if they lead the orcs right to our gates, eh? Goblins in the deeps and trolls wandering the pastures. The last thing we need is orcs on the doorstep.’
‘Bring ‘em on, I say,’ said Vadlir. He had his book out and was sat to one side, not looking up from the text. ‘Save us having to look for them, won’t it?’
‘This ain’t the old mountains, Skraffi,’ said Gabbik. ‘We might have a few greenies running around in the wildlands, but it’s nothing like the Dark Lands out east. The wastes have been swarming with all kinds of beggars I hear, since we had to pull back from the eastern watchtowers to defend against the elves.’
‘I was talking to a ranger what did some work up at the passes north of Karak Eight Peaks.’ Vadlir seemed to be capable of taking part in the conversation whilst simultaneously reading his book. ‘He says there’s never going to be an orc army that could cross the mountains.’
‘And I knew some damn fool who once said a dwarf city would never fall!’ snapped Skraffi. ‘Now two have, and what’s to be done about it? Sit on our backsides and wait for it to happen?’
‘That’s my point,’ said Vadlir. ‘It can’t happen here. There just ain’t enough of them bad sorts around.’
‘A few dozen goblins, the odd troll and some greedy orcs chasing terrified refugees is not an invasion force, old friend,’ said Thundred. He leaned across the table, placing his hammer on the boards, and patted Skraffi on the shoulder. ‘And there’s me and my door wardens to welcome them if they want to come knocking.’
‘And a few dozen bolt throwers,’ added Gabbik.
‘And catapults, and crossbows, and sixteen thousand paces of ramparts, walls and eighty towers,’ muttered Vadlir. ‘It’d be a really stupid orc that tried.’
‘But Karak Varn…’ Skraffi looked mollified but couldn’t quite concede that there was very little to threaten Ekrund.
‘Was broken, by the quakes, and half-sunk,’ said Gabbik. ‘Haldora heard it herself from one of the refugees. Lower deeps flooded, a good number of them were dead already by the time the orcs and goblins arrived. Plus ratmen from the depths.’
‘You were never this worried about the elves,’ said Thundred. ‘I don’t know what’s turned you into such a worry-brow.’
Skraffi shook his head, took a drink and shrugged. ‘I don’t know neither. Just a feeling in my bones, I guess.’ He puffed out a sigh and cocked an ear towards the open door. ‘Anyways, I should be getting back in there, they’ll be calling my number soon.’
Gabbik was reluctant to go, but it was clear that Thundred’s invitation to the three of them was courtesy of Skraffi’s presence. As his father and Vadlir went back into the main hall, Gabbik stopped at the doorway and turned to give his thanks. Thundred was looking at him curiously, stroking his beard.
‘What is it?’ asked Gabbik. He patted his beard and wiped his top lip. ‘Have I got crumbs? Beer froth?’
‘’Cept to look at you, Gabbik, I’d never have figured you for Skraffi and Awdhelga Angbok’s son.’
‘I know,’ Gabbik said, suppressing a sigh.
‘It’s a good thing, lad,’ Thundred said. He pulled his hammer towards him, the head scraping over wood. ‘Stand with your feet braced and your shoulders squared and be strong. You know your mind. Skraffi, he could talk the back legs off a pit pony, but he doesn’t know half of what he says. Used to be a sensible lad, but Awdhelga turned him inside-out and upside-down she did. You’ve got to keep it straight, be the beardier dwarf.’
Gabbik was about to say his thanks again and leave but Thundred continued.
‘Nobody ever got nowhere by being a hothead, lad. There’s your Skraffis that will run about and have mad ideas and such, but it’s the rest of us, the solid folk, what has to knuckle down and mine the ore and feed the forges and keep the ovens full and sow the fields and farm the mushrooms. He was a wild fighter, sure enough, but in a scrape what you want is a fella beside you that will keep his shield and hammer up and watch your back. You know what’s best for your clan and that’s what you’ve got to keep focused on, Gabbik.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ Gabbik replied, reassured by the old dwarf’s words. ‘I know Skraffi means well, but…’
‘Exactly. He’s proud of you, sure enough, and if you were my son so would I be. But he’ll never be fond of you, right? His heart was all taken up with Awdhelga and you’ve got little enough in common.’
Gabbik sighed and nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’
‘And don’t change, that’s the worst thing you could do. I seen a lot in my years and it takes all sorts of folks to make the world work. ‘Cept elves. They can all go rot. And orcs too. Anyways, mark my words, this thing with the orcs will blow past in a year or two, if not sooner, and then we’ll all be feeling silly if we didn’t keep our heads.’
‘He means well.’
‘Meaning well and doing well ain’t the same thing, just remember that.’
They looked at each other for another moment, with Gabbik feeling that he would have been happier had his father been Thundred rather than Skraffi. Then the look became uncomfortable and the two of them broke the stare.
Gabbik moved back into the hall without saying anything further, and saw his father was already pressing into the crowd at the bottom of the royal steps. Vadlir loitered nearby, surreptitiously glancing down at the book in his hands whilst pretending to listen to the petitioners.
‘Just a couple more to go before your old pa is up,’ said Vadlir. ‘Almost missed his spot, the daft beggar.’
