The Great Betrayal (45 page)

‘It will come to us,’ Rundin called after them. ‘Not this day perhaps, maybe not for a decade or more, but war will rage and come to our gates. Alone we will perish, but together we have a chance.’

‘Go back to the Kro, Rundin of the Ravenhelm,’ Orrik replied, slowly disappearing into the wooded darkness. Kruk was already long gone. ‘And serve your king as you pledged oath to do so.’

Rundin seethed. His teeth were clenched, his fists tight as his knuckles cracked impotently. ‘I serve my people,’ he said to the air and the shadows.

‘What shall we do, my lord?’ Kerrik Sternhawk was at his side, wringing his hands fearfully.

‘Go back,’ said Rundin. ‘There is nothing else
to
do.’ He met the beardling’s gaze. ‘Speak to no one of this.’

‘I won’t, my lord.’

‘I have to convince them, Kerrik, that this is right.’

‘What if you can’t, my lord?’

‘Then we’ll all be doomed, lad. Every thagging one of us.’

The rows of
dwarfs marching from the flank of the mountain seemed endless.

Soaring high above a thin layer of cloud on the back of Vranesh, Liandra had never seen so many of the mud-dwellers in one place.

Since the sacking of Kor Vanaeth and her arrival at Tor Alessi, she had learned King Caledor had insulted them. Some grievous slight had made their oafish chieftain decide upon war. Liandra relished the opportunity to wet her blade on the dwarfs, mete out her revenge for what they did to her city.

She was tempted to fly lower, harass the dwarf army’s flanks and rearguard, spit flame over their war machines, but decided against it. A lucky shot from one of their ballistae could shear Vranesh’s wing easily enough, and there were many in the wagon train that followed the armoured dwarf hordes. Doubtless, many more would be marching under the earth, along roads lost to darkness and filth. Perhaps the elves could flood the tunnels and drown a great many mud-dwellers before they even reached Tor Alessi. She decided to suggest it to Prince Arlyr upon her return.

It would almost be worth losing her quarry to see that. The dark elf had been close, the one from the gorge that had left its spoor and eluded her for eight years. In her mind, Liandra had transformed the creature into a spectre of the one that had killed her mother on the burning shores of Cothique. Though the perpetrator of her mother’s murder was dead, this spectre represented everything Liandra hated about the dark elves. After the dwarfs had been defeated at Tor Alessi’s gates, an outcome of which she was certain, she would resume her hunt.

Dark elf, dwarf, it didn’t matter to Liandra. Imladrik was right, she
was
a supremacist, utterly convinced of the asur’s superiority over all sentient races. Crushing the dwarfs in the Old World was the first step towards dominion. Then, with a strong and thriving colony on the mainland, the high elves could turn their attention to Naggaroth and the overthrow of Malekith.

Having seen all she needed to, Liandra turned Vranesh about and headed back towards Tor Alessi. In her head, she saw the flames renewed, first at Cothique then Kor Vanaeth. She had seen something else too, a third vision framed in fire, but had banished that one from her thoughts with a shudder. Steel returned quickly, hardening her heart, strengthening her arm and conviction.

‘All of them will burn,’ she whispered to Vranesh.

The beast growled, low and threatening, its voice lost on the wind.

Several days had
passed since their close encounter with the dragon rider. Drutheira had no idea why they had been spared, but she had no intention of wasting her reprieve either. She sat cross-legged in front of a pyre of blood-slicked skulls, hunkered beneath the half-broken roof of a ruined outhouse. It had been a trading post before the dwarfs had razed it. There were no bodies, but the raiders-turned-fugitives had discovered several graves buried in the hard earth.

Behind her, Malchior and Ashniel were flensing the skin and meat off the elf riders Sevekai and his warriors had killed. The small band of reavers had been utterly unprepared for the assassins and died without any fight. Their headless corpses would be left to rot, sustenance for the carrion flock already circling overhead.

She was weak. They all were, and she needed the knives and quarrels of the shades for the communion of blood with her dark lord.

Crimson smoke was already coiling from the piled skulls when she summoned the other sorcerers.

‘Come forth, make the circle,’ she hissed, her limbs trembling.

Both her fellow coven members looked gaunt and wasted. Their efforts to hide from the dragon rider had been taxing in the extreme. Malchior was weary, but Ashniel managed to make daggers with her gaze.

‘Sit. Now,’ Drutheira commanded.

Once the circle was made, she began to incant the rites. Red vapour coalesced into something more corporeal and Drutheira felt the chill of Naggaroth knife into her through her robes. She wrapped her cloak tighter, speaking the words of communion faster and faster, Malchior and Ashniel echoing every syllable.

A face half-materialised in the crimson fog but then collapsed as swiftly as it formed.

‘No…’ Drutheira barely had breath to voice her anguish.

Communion had failed, or rather it was
made
to fail.

She sagged, head slumping into her lap, and wept.

‘What is it?’ hissed Ashniel, fear and anger warring for supremacy on her face.

Malchior could only stare at the dissipating smoke, caught on the breeze and borne away to nothing. Four blood-slick skulls stared back, grinning.

Drutheira didn’t answer. She rose wearily, leaving her cohorts in the ruined outhouse. Snow was falling, peeling off the mountains. It shawled her dark cloak in a fur of ice as she crossed the open, heading towards a shattered building that had once been a stables. Frost crusted her robe where she’d been sat on the ground.

Sevekai was inside, making a fire.

‘More riders are coming, my dear,’ he said without looking up as the sorceress approached.

The other shades were absent, keeping watch at the edges of the settlement. No more than one night at a time, then they had to move on.

‘Hunting us, hunting for them–’ he nodded towards the headless corpses of the reavers, ‘–it doesn’t matter. We have to leave soon.’

‘Leave?’ said Drutheira. ‘I can barely walk.’

Sevekai looked up at her.

‘Then you’ll be captured, and likely killed. The asur have our scent, and war or not they are coming.’

Drutheira stared for a moment, her eyes dead and cold.

‘Malekith has abandoned us,’ she said simply. ‘We are alone, Sevekai.’

Sevekai returned to his fire, coaxing the embers to greater vigour. ‘We have always been alone.’

‘How long can we stay here?’

‘A night, no more than that.’

‘I once had a tower, a manse and slaves to do my bidding,‘ she muttered bitterly.

‘I thought
I
was your slave.’

There was a glint in Sevekai’s eye that Drutheira didn’t care for, but she didn’t rise to his goading.

‘You said you had a ship,’ she said instead, ‘south across the mountains at the Sour Sea?‘

‘There’s no way we’re going south now, too many dwarfs march that way.’

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘Because I skulk in shadows and listen. Armies of dwarfs move north and south towards Tor Alessi.’

‘Then what do you suggest? You are the scout, guide us!’ she snapped.

‘We lay low, find a way to restore your strength and that of your lackeys.’ He looked up again, a question in his eyes. ‘I suppose you lack the craft to open up a gate right back into Naggaroth, yes?’

Drutheira scowled.

Shrugging Sevekai said, ‘Thought so,’ and prodded the fire with a shaft of broken roof beam. Then out of nothing he asked, ‘What did you mean in the valley, when the dragon rider was close?’

‘About what?’ Despite herself, Drutheira came down to sit next to him, warming her hands on the fire.

‘Kaitar. You said he was not druchii.’

Ever since their reunion, Drutheira and the other sorcerers had kept their distance from the enigmatic shade. He seemed to prefer that too, often scouting ahead, sometimes gone for more than a day at a time.

‘He feels… empty, I suppose. Like a vessel of flesh into which something has crept and spread itself out.’

‘That is meaningless,’ said Sevekai.

‘Perhaps, but I can explain it in no other way.’

The shade considered that for a moment before saying, ‘I’ll admit he has caused me some disquiet. At first I thought he was an assassin, a true servant of Khaine, taken on Death Night and inveigled into my ranks to kill us when our mission was done with.’

‘And that has changed?’

‘No. I still think he means to kill us, which is why I need your help to kill him first.’

Malice and desire contorted Drutheira’s face, and Sevekai revelled in both expressions. Embers thought long extinguished rekindled and flared.

‘Kill the shade and the rider,’ she purred, creeping closer, her hand straying onto Sevekai’s thigh, then further…

‘Kill them all,’ he murmured, pulling her down and into his embrace.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Against the Glittering Host

Snorri’s feet were
aching. Even in his boots, robust as they were and made from dwarf leather, the frost-bitten ground had taken a toll. Declining the offer of a palanquin, a throne and bearers to carry him, the prince had joined the ranks at the head of the army. Better they see him that way, as one of them, a dwarf warrior first and a prince second.

‘I thought marching in winter was only something mad or desperate generals did?’ groaned Morgrim, whose bunions were the size of chestnuts. He and several hearthguard from Everpeak protected the prince’s right flank and strode in lockstep with him.

‘Who’s to say I am not one or both?’ Snorri replied. ‘Although, if anyone asks I’ll say you convinced me do it.’

They shared a fraternal grin, something that had been lacking in their relationship of late but had oddly warmed with the onset of winter.

‘We are close, Snorri,’ uttered Drogor, on the prince’s left amongst a second cadre of hearthguard. Now a thane with holdings in Everpeak come the end of the war, Drogor also carried the army standard after the prince’s last bearer was slain by an elven scout during a previous skirmish. It was little more than a raid, the enemy gauging their numbers, but Bron had lost his life as he sounded the alarm.

So many had died already in similar meaningless circumstances. Snorri kept his thoughts on the matter to himself; not even Morgrim or Drogor would know them. It would hurt morale if his kith and kin thought his resolve was wavering.

‘Signal a halt,’ ordered the prince, and Drogor raised the banner.

Horns blared across the marching ranks, which stopped immediately to the clattering discord of settling shields, armour and weapons. Some of the mules brayed before their skinners quietened them with soothing words. The creaking wheels of wagons, carrying provisions, quarrels, spare shields and helms, were the last sound to abate. Some of the larger beasts towed machineries and these were marshalled by engineers and their crew, smothered in tarps for now but ready to be deployed at the prince’s command.

Looking back over his shoulder, beyond the hulking hearthguard, Snorri saw sappers, warriors from over fifty different clans, grey-haired longbeards, quarrellers and rangers, the heavily armoured cohorts of ironbreakers and the dour faces of runesmiths. This was a mustering of some potency, one that would tear down the walls of Tor Alessi with or without his father’s help.

True to his word, Snorri waited seven days for the army of the High King to arrive. But his father was late and the prince’s patience at an end. The reinforcements from Barak Varr had also failed to materialise, so with just over thirty thousand dwarfs at his banner, he had marched.

On the fifth day, a band of rangers had returned from scouting. Their leader, Kundi Firebeard, had said the elves numbered in the region of ten thousand, including cavalry.

‘Heh, what use are horses during a siege?’ Drogor had asked.

‘I have seen riders charge from a gate to sack machineries, kill their crews,’ Morgrim had replied. ‘We shouldn’t underestimate the elgi knights.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Snorri had told them both, ‘we are committed to this now. Riders or not, Tor Alessi will fall.’

In the end the prince had chosen the Brundin road, the stories of monstrous trees coming to life and hellish sprites, however far-fetched, enough to dissuade him from taking the mountains. Expecting resistance, the dwarf throng had marched in a tight column with rangers roaming its flanks and rear. They need not have bothered. No elven war host stood in their way. No scouts harried their advance this time. The dwarfs had been allowed to march on Tor Alessi unimpeded.

Several times since they had set out, Morgrim had voiced concern that their haste would mean the High King’s army was that little bit farther away.

Snorri had dismissed his cousin’s misgivings, stating that thirty thousand dwarfs were more than enough to crack open one elven citadel.

That conviction had not changed.

‘Twenty of the hearthguard with me,’ said Snorri, gesturing to the last rise. Over that and they would see the port city and its defences relatively close up for the first time. ‘You too, cousin.’

Led by the prince the dwarfs climbed up the boulder-strewn ridge, descending to their bellies as they neared the summit in case elven spotters were watching the approach and had ready quarrels to hand.

Snorri was the first to reach the top and peer over the edge.

The city was distant, still another hour’s march away, and the dwarf army would be revealed long before they reached it. Bigger than Snorri first imagined, Tor Alessi was erected around a port and used most of the coastline in its defences. Aside from rugged, impenetrable cliffs facing out towards the sea, high walls surrounded a core of inner buildings and there were three large gatehouses. Elven devices, the eagle, dragon rampant and the rising phoenix, were emblazoned on each. Snorri counted three massive towers amongst lesser minarets and minor citadels. There was a large keep, appended in part to the port, and this was protected by a second defensive wall with only one gate. Impressive as it was, what surrounded the elven city surprised the dwarf prince more.

‘I did not know it was at the centre of a lake,’ said Morgrim, as if speaking Snorri’s thoughts aloud.

Snorri reached for a spyglass offered by one of his hearthguard and peered down the lens.

‘It’s no lake…’ he breathed after a few seconds. Putting down the spyglass, he licked his lips to moisten the sudden dryness. ‘It’s an army.’

An undulating ribbon of almost endless silver surrounded the outskirts of Tor Alessi, a vast host of elves that glittered in the winter sun. Pennons attached to the lances of knights whipped around on the breeze coming down off the ridge and numerous ranks of spearmen stood in ready formation with rows of archers to their rear.

‘Grungni’s hairy arse…’ muttered one of the hearthguard.

Morgrim ignored him, pointing to the elven right flank. ‘There,’ he said, ‘machineries.’

Snorri had seen them during the brodunk, elven chariots drawn by horses. There were at least a hundred in a close-knit squadron, scythed wheels catching the light and shimmering like star-fire.

He cast his gaze skywards and felt suddenly foolish for their attempts at subterfuge. Circling above were flocks of birds. Not like the screech hawks, talon owls or griffon vultures of the peaks, these were giant eagles with claws and beaks like blades.

Snorri lowered the spyglass for the second time.

‘Looks like they’re expecting us,’ he said to the others.

‘It explains why the road became suddenly empty,’ said Morgrim.

‘Because they were all here.’

Snorri got to his feet, seeing no point in stealth any more. ‘I am no engineer, but a sight more than ten thousand wouldn’t you say, cousin?’

Morgrim nodded slowly, taking in the glittering host in all its shining glory.

‘What do you want to do?’

The prince sniffed disdainfully, hiking up his belt.

‘First I want to punish Kundi Firebeard for his abject stupidity, then I want to march down there and kill some thagging elgi.’

It wasn’t like
Kor Vanaeth and the clash for the gate. Nadri had never fought in open pitched battle before. Before the short siege at the elven city, he had never donned axe and shield in anything more than a skirmish. Unlike Krondi had been, he wasn’t a campaigner or a soldier; though he knew his axecraft as all clansmen did, he was a merchant. With war unleashed upon the land, Nadri had exchanged gold for blood as his currency.

It was proving a difficult trade.

Two dwarf war hosts had descended the ridge into the teeth of the elven hordes. His liege-lord King Brynnoth led one, his cup of vengeance not even half full from Agrin Fireheart’s untimely death. The other was led by Valarik of Karak Hirn, though Nadri did not know him except by sight.

Arrows met them at first, a heavy rain of steel-fanged death that reaped a lesser tally than the pointy-ears had hoped. Dwarfs knew defence as well as attack, and their formations were peerless. Locking shields front, back, to the flanks and above, several large cohorts had weathered the arrow storm with almost no casualties. But for the uncanny accuracy of the elven archers, no dwarf blood would have been spilled at all.

Dismayed at such resilience, the elven lordlings had called for their cavalry. Clarion horns, shrilling much higher than the pipes of Barak Varr, had signalled the charge. The earth shook with the pounding of the knightly horse, and had made Nadri’s teeth chatter.

Even in the third rank, behind kith and kin he had known most of his life, he felt the impact of elven lance. It tore into them despite their organised shield wall, raked a great ragged cleft, and left them bleeding. With dogged tenacity, the dwarfs had closed, holding though the urge to run was strong.

Now they were locked with the high-helmed elven knights, matching axe and hammer to longsword.

Sweeping out his arm, Nadri felt more than saw his axe cleave horseflesh. The beast whinnied, its caparison shedding against his well-honed blade. It cut the saddle belt too, plunging the rider into the mass where he slashed wildly for a few moments before he was lost beneath a hail of hammer blows.

Something smacked into his shoulder, and he was about to strike when he realised it was Yodri, a fellow clanner. The old dwarf risked a gap-toothed grin when he saw Nadri’s face. The merchant smiled back, grim rather than humorous, before Yodri’s expression slackened, the longsword through his neck puncturing his good mood. The blade withdrew with a meaty
schluk!
before it struck down on Nadri, who had enough about him to raise his shield. A thick dent appeared on the underside next to where he’d pressed his cheek. A third blow took a chip of the shield’s edge, allowing a narrow aperture through which to see his attacker.

Cold fury lit the knight’s face, a snarl growing on his lips with every determined blow. He swung again, Nadri unable to manage any reply, tearing the shield from the dwarf’s agonised grasp. Rearing horse hooves put Nadri on his back and he half expected to be ground into paste by them before a heavy shaft punched the beast’s flank and sent it and rider sprawling.

‘Grimnir’s balls, it’s a good job them thaggers from the Varn are accurate!’ said one of the Copperfist clan that Nadri couldn’t place at first.

It was Werigg Gunnson, an old friend of his father’s.

Nadri looked to where Werigg was pointing. King Ironhandson’s engineers were loosing their ballistae, and the bolt throwers were exacting a heavy price from the knights, whose armour meant little against the thick arrow shafts.

Overhead, there came the heavy
whomp
of stone throwers loosing their cargo. The dwarfs of Karak Varn were neglecting the walls in favour of punishing the stranded cavalry. Through the melee, where the press of bodies and the thicket of limbs had thinned, he saw a swathe of dwarf dead, cut up by the chariots. Here the stone throwers struck next, rewarded for their efforts as one of the elven machineries exploded in a storm of wood, bone and flesh. Blood slicked the flung rock, painting it in a greasy line as it rolled to a halt.