Josh Reynolds - Neferata

Dwarfs in armour marched past, some throwing curious glances her way. Razek had never spoken of the Silver Pinnacle’s military might, but she knew that it was substantial. They had easily weathered an orc Waaagh! and Kadon’s ill-fated incursions, among other perils. And King Borri had fought against the elves in that distant time when Ulthuan’s armies had marched on the dwarf holds.

The Silver Pinnacle would not fall easily. Not to conventional tactics.

A dull rhythmic thudding filled the air. She brushed aside the reverie, concentrating on what was coming. She had been led into a vast chamber, larger even than Ushoran’s gaudy monstrosity of an audience chamber. The first thing she saw was the glaring skull of a dragon.

She had never seen one. The closest she had ever come was a glimpse of the saurians of the Southlands, and they were as different from dragons as men were from her kind. The skull was large and studded with horns and it bent over as if in benediction.

Whatever force lingered within those bones, was unwelcoming at best and malevolently hostile at worst. In many ways, it reminded her of the cold malice of Nagash’s crown. A vast, ancient presence that threatened to blot out her senses with the effluvium of its passage. Even Nagash, the voice of the crown said, even Nagash would have hesitated to face that thing when it had lived.

But it was dead now, and its skull and spine and tattered wings were trophies for the dwarf king who sat glowering beneath it.

The throne beneath the bones was not large, but impressive all the same, as was the squat figure who sat upon it. Borri Silverfoot, King of Karaz Bryn, Lord of the Silver Pinnacle, looked like an ancient version of his son. He was broader, if anything, and heavily built. He wore no robes, only a sleeveless suit of fine mail, belted at the waist by a broad leather belt. On his white head was a simple circlet of office. His only decorations were the silver charms woven into his great beard and the silver bracers which enclosed his massive forearms.

Several figures stood to either side of him. One was a dwarf woman, clad in heavy, pale robes with her head hooded and her hands folded into her sleeves. She carried no weapons, but her eyes burned with something that Neferata could not identify beneath her steel half-mask. A burly bare-chested warrior, more squat than any dwarf she had ever seen before, stood a few steps down from the throne. He held an unadorned axe and his head was shaved, save for a swooping crest of rust-hued hair. His beard had been dyed the same colour, and it had been greased into stiff spikes that stuck out in all directions. Just behind the throne, an elderly dwarf stood, leaning against the haft of his hammer, which was taller than he was. His beard reached to the stone, and hundreds of rune-stones had been threaded through it. The sound they made as they clinked together set Neferata’s teeth on edge.

Her escort fell back as she approached the throne and dwarfs in heavy armour with their faces hidden behind iron masks took their place. They carried heavy, but perfectly balanced, hammers in their gauntlets, and looked less like living things than stumping mechanisms. They escorted her to the foot of the throne dais and then formed a living palisade around her. It bore the air of formality and ritual, rather than caution, but she knew that even so, the warriors would be alert to any threat to their king.

‘My son is dead,’ Borri said, his voice shattering the silence like a hammer ringing on an anvil.

‘Yes,’ Neferata said. One of the guards took the axe from her hand and carried it reverentially up the steps to the throne. Borri’s blunt fingers brushed the bloodstains on the handle and for a moment, his eyes clouded over with pain. Then they snapped back into focus and he flicked his fingers. The warrior laid the axe across Borri’s lap and stepped aside to stand with his king.

‘How did he die, and how did you come to bring me the news?’ Borri said.

‘He did not die by my hand, and I was commanded thus,’ she said.

A hush fell over the audience chamber, as if every dwarf present had drawn in a breath at the same moment. Borri’s expression didn’t change.

‘The manling lies,’ the red-crested dwarf grated. He looked at his king and then at Neferata, and gestured with his axe. ‘She lies! Razek was a mighty warrior!’

‘Silence, Grund. I asked how he died,’ Borri said hollowly. Grund fell silent, glaring at her.

‘As a result of treachery,’ she said plainly.

‘Whose?’ Borri said, his fingers curling almost protectively over the haft of the axe.

‘My lord Ushoran’s,’ Neferata said. ‘He struck down Razek and his followers.’

‘As the runes foretold,’ the old dwarf wheezed, his knuckles popping as he tightened his grip on his hammer. ‘Razek’s doom was writ long ago. This he knew.’

Borri gave a stiff nod. ‘It does not mitigate the stain of the misdeed,’ he said. Then, more loudly, ‘Step forth, Grudgemaster! There is a record to be made!’

An older dwarf, clad in ceremonial robes, stepped forwards from the crowd, cradling a heavy book in his arms. The book was almost as large as the dwarf himself and nearly as thick, and he carried it forwards with difficulty as well as reverence. Its covers were made from thick plates of silver and bronze, and the spine was made of iron. As the book-bearer moved, the king’s guard began to rhythmically pound the floor with the heads of their hammers, and a droning dirge rose from the throats of the gathered dwarfs. Neferata’s hackles rose as the sound resounded through the hall and coiled around her like restraining chains.

‘Be honoured, woman,’ Borri said, his voice carrying easily over the dirge. ‘You are to pay witness to something sacred.’ His eyes were deep and dark and sad as they held hers, and Neferata was once more struck by the thought that the dwarfs would make better allies than enemies. Borri motioned to the bones that loomed over his throne. ‘This beast took my father and my brother,’ he said solemnly. Grund flinched, looking away. ‘I took its life and made its lair into my home. The debt was thus paid. Debts must always be paid.’ Neferata said nothing. Borri grunted. ‘Good. Your words are neither needed nor welcomed.’

The Grudgemaster ascended the stairs towards the throne, and Grund joined him, sinking to one knee before Borri. The book was placed on Grund’s broad back and he grunted as its great weight settled on him. He leaned on his axe for support as the Grudgemaster carefully opened the book. Ancient parchment crackled. The Grudgemaster barked something in Khazalid and a younger dwarf hurried forwards, bearing a heavy stone bowl filled with what Neferata thought might be ink. The Grudgemaster extracted a silver and leather writing implement from within his robes and handed it to Borri, who took it and dipped it into the bowl of ink.

Silence fell. As the echoes of the dirge faded, Borri began to write. And as he wrote, he spoke. ‘Let it be henceforth recorded that I, King Borri of Karaz Bryn record this grudge before my people. I name myself grudgesworn against Ushoran, King of Mourkain. He is zanguzaz, and treacherous. By his hand did my son and heir, Razek, Thane of Karaz Bryn, meet his doom. Recompense and reparation are called for, and accounts will be settled in blood. Before my thanes, and my people, and with Grungni, Grimnir and Valaya as my witnesses, I swear this oath.’

The Grudgemaster sprinkled ground stone on the page and Borri carefully blew it off. Then he closed the book and looked up. ‘Why did Ushoran do this?’ Borri’s voice grew soft, but it carried as easily as before. The Grudgemaster took the book up and descended the dais. Grund stood and cracked his neck, working the kinks out.