Then came the sharp, savage sound of a cane striking something metal and all the cheering ceased. Both Volker and Kross turned as a lean, broad-shouldered figure stumped through the crowd. The newcomer leaned on a cane, and was dressed in the heavy furs and coarse jerkin that all of the members of the Knights of Sigmar’s Blood wore when not in armour. His face bore the sort of scars that came from getting pulled off a horse and into a knot of orcs and summarily trodden on. His name was Rudolph Weskar, and he was the closest thing to the word of Sigmar made flesh this side of Leitdorf in Heldenhame.
All of the fire went out of Kross, and he hastily put away his blade. Volker swallowed as the limping man approached them. Deinroth and the other captains were already melting away with the crowd. ‘Brawling without prior permission is a pillory offence, gentlemen,’ Weskar said, leaning on his cane. His hard, dull eyes pinned Kross. ‘Commandant Kross, I can smell the reek of alcohol on you from here. Do not make me regret recommending you to the Grand Master for promotion, Otto. Go sober up, and keep that potato peeler you call a knife in its sheath from now on.’
Kross hesitated. He glared at Volker one last time, then nodded tersely and slunk away. Volker didn’t watch him go. He kept his eyes on Weskar. He licked his lips, suddenly dying for a drink. Weskar stumped towards him. ‘Wendel, Wendel, Wendel. You disappoint me, Wendel. When I heard what was going on, I was hoping you might finally spit that hog, and thus deliver yourself to the hangman, freeing me to promote a more congenial pair to your positions. Instead, here we are.’ He came close to Volker, and the latter tensed. A discreet cough caused Weskar to glance around. Father Odkrier alone had remained where he was, when Weskar’s arrival had caused everyone else to scatter. The old Sigmarite wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything.
Weskar turned back to Volker. ‘Why?’ he asked simply.
Volker swallowed. He knew what Weskar was asking. ‘Kross was drunk, and bullying an innkeeper. When the man refused him further service, he tried to gut him. The lads intervened. Kross was still drunk when he ordered that they be flogged for laying hands on a superior officer. I thought if I could keep them out of sight until he sobered up…’ He trailed off. Weskar grunted.
‘That he might regret it, and not punish them further,’ he said. ‘You know a little something about the regrets overindulgence brings, I think, eh, Wendel?’ He leaned forwards again, like a hound on the scent. ‘You’re dying for a drink now, I’d wager.’ Volker didn’t answer. Weskar twitched a hand. ‘Go,’ he said.
Volker hurried past him, his hands trembling. Odkrier caught him around the shoulders and shoved a flask into his hands as they left Weskar standing there, staring after them. ‘Drink up, my boy. I’d say you’ve earned it.’
Ungrim Ironfist sat on his stone bench and listened to the basso rumble of dwarf disagreement as the Kingsmeet entered its fifth hour. King Kazador of Karak Azul pounded upon the stone table with a heavy fist, and King Alrik of Karak Hirn crossed his brawny arms and scowled at his fellow monarch. Belegar of Karak Eight Peaks sat hunched and silent in his seat, looking at no one, his face sagging with the weight of constant worry. And glaring at them all, from the far end of the table, sat the High King, Thorgrim Grudgebearer.
As Kingsmeets went, this one wasn’t as bad as Ungrim had begun to fear, on his journey to Karaz-a-Karak. He’d learned that the occurrences in Sylvania were already well known, at least by Thorgrim, and that the von Carstein was one of the problems under discussion. One of many problems, in fact. The reports he’d received had only been the tip of the proverbial anvil, and the world seemed to be intent on coming apart at the seams, all at once.
Ungrim didn’t find that as distressing as the others. Indeed, it filled him with a bitter enthusiasm. He had long been torn between two fates – that of king, and that of a Slayer. To prioritise the one over the other was impossible, and as the centuries progressed, he had begun to feel as if he, like his father before him, would die still cloaked in dishonour, and that his son, Garagrim, would be forced to tread the same line. Ungrim closed his eyes for a moment, as the old pain resurfaced. Every time he thought it buried and gone, it clawed its way back to the forefront of his mind. Garagrim was dead now, and free of the shame that still held Ungrim. He had died as a warrior, and as a Slayer, though he’d had no dishonour of his own to expunge. He’d thought his blood could buy his father’s freedom, but such things were not proper.
Garagrim had meant well, but he had been a foolish boy, with a beardling’s bravado and his mother’s stubbornness. At the thought of the latter, he felt a pang. He missed his wife’s quiet counsel. His queen had a mind second to none, and a clarity of thought that cut through even the most rancorous preconceptions. It was she who should be sitting here. He had no mind for politics, and no patience for querulous oldbeards like Kazador.
Ungrim contented himself with examining the table. It had been carved long before the Time of Woes, and a map of the ancient dwarf empire at its height sprawled across its surface. Holds that had not existed for untold centuries were still marked there, as if to deny their destruction, as if to shout, ‘What has been still is and will always be’ into the void. Then, that was the way of his people. Like mountains in the stream of time, they sat immoveable and intractable, but worn down bit by bit, over the span of aeons.
He sighed and looked about the chamber, scanning the gathered faces that watched from the ascending rows of benches that surrounded the table and its occupants. Courtiers, thanes, advisors, second cousins twice removed of the aforementioned thanes, and anyone who could get past the chamber wardens was watching. Politics was a spectator sport among the dawi. Like as not, someone was collecting bets on when the first punch would be thrown, or the first head-butt delivered.
‘The Underway swarms with ratkin and grobi,’ Kazador said, drawing Ungrim’s attention as he cut the air with his hand. ‘But they do not attack. Something is afoot. Something is growing in the deep darkness, something foul, that threatens to drown us all when it finally surges to the surface.’
‘Or maybe they’re simply warring with one another as they are wont to do,’ Alrik said. He looked at Thorgrim. ‘Their numbers swell and their filthy warrens abut one another in most places. They seek the same holes, and like the vermin they are, they fight over them. If they have gone quiet, it is because they are busy doing our work for us!’
‘Then explain the new access tunnels my miners have found,’ Kazador snarled, slapping the table. ‘Explain the skaven-sign splashed on the walls of the lower levels. Explain the sounds echoing up from the far depths – not of battle, but of industry.’
Alrik settled back in his seat, silent and frowning. For several moments, no one said anything. Then, Thorgrim spoke. ‘I too have heard these reports, and more besides. I have seen the glowering skies and heard the growl of the stones. Beasts stir in mountain caves, and our northern kin, in their strongholds in the mountains of Norsca, send word of daemons scouring the lands, and of the mobilisation of the barbarians who worship the Dark Gods.’ He looked around. ‘But these are not new tidings. These are merely old tidings on a new day. Our people are still strong. Our enemies still break themselves on our walls and are swept away by our throngs. Did not the Ironfist shatter such a horde in years past? Did he not take the head and pelt of the Gorewolf?’