Honourkeeper Read online

‘It is a great honour to be received by the royal hearth guard!’ bellowed Morek suddenly, unable to keep his patience any longer.

  ‘Captain Morek,’ snapped Queen Brunvilda, before the elves could reply. ‘Hold your tongue!’

  Ithalred was fashioning a retort when Malbeth intervened. ‘Please, there is no need. My prince is tired from our journey and acknowledges this gracious welcome,’ he said with a glance at Ithalred, who, to the ambassador’s apparent relief, seemed suddenly disinterested in the exchange. Though Malbeth also caught a look from the black-haired elf, the one called Lethralmir, who smiled mirthlessly at him. The ambassador averted his gaze, focussing his attention back to the dwarf queen.

  ‘Perhaps we can be shown to our quarters?’ Malbeth suggested. ‘A rest will clear all our heads of fatigue.’

  ‘Of course,’ Queen Brunvilda said politely, turning to Kandor.

  ‘We have prepared extensive chambers for you and your party,’ the merchant said quickly, his relief at the crisis having been averted obvious on his face.

  ‘They expect us to dwell in caves like them, no doubt,’ hissed the black-haired elf.

  Morek found his distaste towards Lethralmir deepening by the moment as he spoke to the eldritch female, Arthelas. She seemed to wane as the talk went on, her beauty slowly fracturing as if the travails of the elves’ journey were taking a heavy toll.

  Kandor seemed not to hear the black-haired elf’s remark, or least he chose to ignore it, determined as he was to win over the delegation.

  ‘If you would follow me,’ he said courteously.

  Cringing wattock, thought Morek then said, ‘Wait,’ and showed his palm. ‘No weapons may be carried by an outsider beyond the outer gateway hall,’ he told the elves, ‘You must relinquish them here.’

  At a signal from their captain, the hearth guard came forward to collect the elves’ spears, bows and blades. At the same time, the one wearing the furs, Korhvale, stepped between his prince and the advancing dwarfs. Though he didn’t speak, his intentions were clear. No elf would be handing over their arms.

  The prince muttered something in elvish to the warrior who stepped back, though his eyes never left the hearth guard.

  ‘Is this how you establish a bond of trust, by surrounding your allies with troops and then demanding they submit their weapons?’ the prince asked with growing agitation.

  ‘We request it only,’ said Kandor, still trying to recover the situation. ‘Your weapons would be stored in a private armoury.’

  ‘Private?’ queried the prince, waving away his ambassador’s nascent protests, ‘I see little privacy or consideration here, dwarf.’

  ‘Even still,’ Morek asserted, stepping forward in spite of the six elf spearmen that had come swiftly, almost unnoticeably, to their prince’s side and were brandishing their arms with meaning. ‘You will be disarmed before you enter the hold proper.’

  Though Morek was over three feet shorter than the elves, he stood before them unshakeable like a mountain and would not be disobeyed.

  The elven bodyguard, Korhvale, interceded again, knuckles clenched and aggression written across his face.

  ‘Then you shall have to take them from us,’ he muttered, his elven accent thick as he struggled to pronounce the words. This time Ithalred was content to let it play out, his face a mask of stone. Behind him, the black-haired elf watched with profound amusement, an ugly smile upon his lips, whilst the female seemed suddenly fearful and unsure of where the confrontation was heading.

  Morek had no such concerns.

  ‘By Grungni, I will do it,’ he snarled belligerently, reaching for his axe. His hearth guard moved up behind him, enclosing the other dwarf nobles and preparing to brandish their own weapons.

  ‘Thane Stonehammer!’ bellowed Queen Brunvilda, who had kept her silence throughout the heated exchange until now. ‘Do not dare draw your weapon in anger before me,’ she ordered. ‘Return your hearth guard to the west hall barracks at once.’

  Morek turned and made a face behind his armoured mask, the substance of his mood obvious in his eyes.

  ‘I would not leave you… unattended my queen,’ he protested with a fierce glance at the glowering elves. ‘No hearth guard in the history of the hold has ever–’

  ‘I am well aware of our hold’s history, my thane, and have lived many long years within its halls. What need have I of warriors at my side with you as my honour guard,’ she added with a thin smile, by way of maintaining Morek’s reputation and standing. ‘Your concern is unnecessary. Now, please dismiss the hearth guard.’

  Morek opened his mouth again, made clear by the movement of his beard, but clamped it shut when the queen’s own expression made it apparent that she would brook no further argument.

  The captain of the hearth guard’s shoulders sagged slightly, though he took care to fire a warning glare at Korhvale before he retreated.

  You were close to tasting my axe, it said. Morek meant every word.

  Morek bowed once in front of the queen, who nodded in turn, before ordering his warriors from the outer gateway hall. Dutifully the dwarfs departed, the sound of clanking armour echoing in their wake, and Morek went to stand back alongside his queen having to content himself with glowering at the elves.

  ‘Now, dear friends,’ Queen Brunvilda began anew, ‘as queen of Karak Ungor, I humbly ask you to leave your blades and bows here. No armed force has ever entered Karak Ungor, save those of us dawi. I will not break with that tradition now,’ she said, her voice soft but commanding. ‘I, nor any of my warriors, shall take them from you. Rather you will be asked to relinquish them. There is an antechamber to this very hall where you may take your weapons until you are ready to leave us. Noble Prince Ithalred,’ she added, facing the prince, ‘your fine sword is clearly an heirloom and we dwarfs know the value and importance of such bonds. I would not ask you to part with it and, as such, I give you my personal sanction to carry it in this hold. A dwarf’s oath is his bond,’ she said, ‘and it is stronger than stone.’

  The prince was about to respond when a meaningful glare from his ambassador, Malbeth, made him hesitate. Understanding passed between them and when Ithalred spoke again, his truculent demeanour had abated.

  ‘That is acceptable,’ he said, this time looking her in the eye.

  ‘Very well then,’ replied the queen. ‘You are invited to the Great Hall once you are settled in your quarters. The hold of Karak Ungor has prepared a feast and entertainments in your honour.’

  ‘You are most gracious, noble queen,’ Malbeth interjected.

  With that Queen Brunvilda bowed again as did the elves in turn, passing slowly from the outer gateway hall to stow their weapons in the antechamber. After that was done, closely watched by Morek, they were then led by Kandor to their quarters.

  Once she was alone with the hearth guard captain, Queen Brunvilda sighed deeply. The elves had barely got through their doors and already hostility was rife.

  ‘That could have been worse,’ said Morek honestly, aware that his own enmity towards the elves had only fuelled the fires of discord.

  The queen offered only stern-faced silence by way of response.

  ‘The elgi are rude and without honour,’ Morek said to fill the uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Yet, we managed to match them,’ Queen Brunvilda replied, her gaze upon the disappearing train of elves as they walked down the long corridor to their quarters.

  ‘But, my queen, they disrespect us… and in our own domain!’ Morek cried, and regretted raising his voice at once.

  Queen Brunvilda’s glare was now fixed upon him, and laden with steel.

  ‘They disrespected you, my queen,’ the captain of the hearth guard said, his voice tender as he looked into the matriarch’s eyes.

  For a moment, Queen Brunvilda’s expression softened, then, as if catching herself, her stone-like disposition returned together with her anger at Morek.

  ‘Let us hope that their mood improves,’ she said quietly, an
d headed off to the Great Hall where her king was waiting for her.

  ‘This dank, this dark, I feel it seeping into my very marrow,’ said Prince Ithalred, a scowl creasing his face as he watched the elven artisans erect his grand marquee.

  Kandor, the dwarf merchant, had brought the elves to what he described as the ‘Hall of Belgrad’ in the eastern wing of the hold. These ‘quarters’ consisted of an expansive central chamber, where it was presumed the elf prince and his entourage would stay, flanked by two wide galleries where his warriors could be barracked, and four antechambers, two each feeding off the barrack rooms, for servants and storage.

  Though long abandoned by the dwarfs when the seams of ore nearby were exhausted, the rooms were still magnificent and lavishly decorated. Flagstones of ochre and tan decked the floors and were polished to a lustrous sheen. Gilt archways, glittering with jewels, soared overhead into vaulted ceilings supported by thick, stone columns inlaid with silver and bronze. Flickering torches, ensconced along the walls, cast a warm glow that shimmered like burnished gold. This ‘opulence’ had failed to move or impress the elves, and once the dwarf had taken his leave, the prince was quick to set his servants to work.

  According to Kandor, the Hall of Belgrad was formerly the dwelling of a long-dead dwarf noble. At least that was as much as Ithalred could discern with the few words of Khazalid he knew.

  ‘It is every inch the crypt that the dwarf described,’ he said, as the cohorts of servants laboured hard to fashion something more to his liking.

  Belts of flowing white silk were unfurled across the flagstone floor then taken up and affixed to wooden stanchions to make large tents. Elven designs had been stitched into the luxurious cloth: runes of Lileath, Isha and Kurnous, preying hawks and soaring eagles, the rising phoenix and rampant dragon. They represented Ulthuan, their gods and the symbols of their power.

  Once the tents were up they were filled with thick rugs and furs, hanging tapestries and carved wood furnishings such as beds, stools and chests decorated with elven imagery and fine jewels. Ithalred had brought several draught horses and elven carts with him from Eataine. This baggage train had entered the hold with the servants, and its horses were housed within the overground stables of the dwarfs – elvish steeds ill-suited to life under the earth.

  Each of the marquees the elves had brought with them that were reserved for the nobles had several rooms. They were sumptuously decorated according to their specific tastes with pillows and pennants. Long velvet curtains contained the aroma from silver dishes of slowly burning spices intended to ward off the stench of soot and oil from the underground hold.

  As ambassador to the prince, Malbeth, too, was afforded a separate abode. The remainder of the elven cohort had less grandiose accommodations, their tents smaller and bereft of the outrageous finery and luxury prevalent in the grand marquees, but not without comforts of their own.

  ‘It is not what we’re… used to, my prince but this hall obviously has some significance to the dwarfs. By granting us such accommodations they are bestowing great honour,’ counselled Malbeth, the inauspicious start to their visit at the forefront of his mind.

  ‘Malbeth, are you so beguiled by this soot-stained race that you cannot see the cave we are meant to dwell in, or has Loec tricked you with some glamour that hides the truth of the matter?’ Lethralmir asked, arriving at the prince’s side with Arthelas in tow.

  The ambassador stiffened at the noble’s presence but bit his tongue when he felt his heart quicken with anger. Lethralmir was Ithalred’s closest companion, his best friend. They had shared swords on the field of battle many times over and a bond forged in blood was unwise to challenge. Malbeth would only lose Ithalred’s favour if he spoke out against the blade-master, and he would need the prince on side if they were to come to any agreement with the dwarfs.

  ‘An honour you say?’ Lethralmir continued. ‘I do not see it as such. These earth-dwellers may be content to roll around in muck, even consign their royal households to such ignominy, but the purebloods of Ulthuan will not bow down to such debased levels.’

  Arthelas giggled quietly. Even Ithalred suppressed a smile at the blade-master’s remark.

  A servant approached before Lethralmir could speak further, though he did manage to flash a furtive grin at Arthelas. It was not so secretive that it escaped Ithalred’s notice, however, or that of his towering bodyguard, Korhvale, who had appeared silently behind them.

  ‘My lord,’ said the servant, bowing as he addressed the prince, ‘where should I put this?’ The plain-robed elf carried a small chest of dwarf design, one that was obviously intended for the prince. From the clinking sound emanating within, it seemed that there were bottles of some description inside.

  Ithalred stared at the item as if it were something unpleasant he had stepped in.

  ‘Put it with the rest,’ he said, and looked away. The servant took it as a gesture to leave.

  Malbeth watched him take the dwarf chest into one of the antechambers where he saw the shadowy outline of other furnishings and victuals from their hosts. The dwarfs had laid on a small banquet of food and drink, together with stools and tables that their guests could use. The elves had swept it all away swiftly, stashing the items unceremoniously where they’d be out of the way and out of sight. It pained Malbeth to see it. He had hoped Ithalred would have tried to embrace the dwarfs’ culture. It seemed, though, that he had no desire to.

  Even the dwarf torches had been doused, the prince complaining of the smell and the smoke they exuded. In their place the servants had hung elven lanterns from gossamer-thin cords of silver. Immaculately carved wooden stanchions supported the loping lengths of silver that carried the lanterns and these in turn were decorated with some of the native flora of Ulthuan. The scent of the flowers did, in part, mask the heady stench of soot, oil and damp stone that permeated the air, and were supplemented by incense burners, great golden cauldrons set around the main hall, that cast an eldritch glow.

  Once they were finished, it was as if the elves had created a small corner of Tor Eorfith within the subterranean halls of Karak Ungor.

  ‘It will have to do,’ said Prince Ithalred, striding towards his marquee. ‘Lethralmir,’ he added. The other noble stopped in his tracks as he sidled up to the prince’s sister.

  Korhvale’s face darkened abruptly when the blade-master approached Arthelas.

  ‘Yes, Ithalred?’ said Lethralmir.

  ‘Have my servants pour me a bath, and send a maiden to bathe me. I have need for this stink to be washed from my body.’

  ‘Of course, my prince,’ Lethralmir replied, masking his annoyance well as he stalked off to gather the servants.

  ‘What of the trade pact, Ithalred?’ Malbeth interjected, just as the prince was about to disappear through the door flap of his tent. ‘We have much to discuss.’

  ‘I will attend to it later… over wine,’ he replied, and entered his dwelling without looking back.

  Korhvale was quick to follow, though he stopped short of going inside, contenting himself to standing at the door. He was a White Lion, the traditional bodyguard of the nobles of Ulthuan, and a native of the mountainous region of Chrace. Malbeth liked Korhvale. Though sullen and taciturn, he spoke plainly and honestly, and without the venom-tongued bile that Lethralmir favoured. The ambassador noticed the White Lion linger a little too long on Arthelas as she departed to her tent, averting his gaze when she made eye contact.

  It seems you have many would-be suitors, thought Malbeth as he retired to his own dwelling, a fact that will displease your brother, seeress.

  The tent flap closed behind him and Malbeth sighed deeply, before dismissing his servants so that he could be alone. He had worked hard to forge this meeting with the dwarfs, in spite of Ithalred’s resistance. He knew it would not be easy, that his greatest obstacle would be the prince’s attitude, his arrogance. As a child of Eataine, his blood carried within it the royalty of Ulthuan and Ithalred was as noble and proud
as any of his forebears. His grandfather had even fought alongside Aenarion himself, aiding the greatest and arguably most tragic of all the elf heroes to cast the daemon hordes back into the abyss that had spawned them.

  History was not the only thing working in Ithalred’s favour. The estates of his father and uncle were extensive, his family amongst the most affluent of all the Inner Kingdoms. Ithalred, though, had no desire to cement his fortune in lands and title, he was an explorer, and in that he and Malbeth were kindred souls. Small wonder having seen the Glittering Tower – that glorious spike of purest silver, blazing like an eternal beacon before the Emerald Gate of Lothern – that Ithalred had turned to the life of the wayfarer and desired to set sail for lands across the Great Ocean. He could no more deny its call than a dwarf could suppress his urge to dig into the earth and explore the mountains. It was in his blood.

  Malbeth knew it had been personally hard for the prince to come to the dwarfs, even under the mask of a trade agreement, but come he had and now they needed to make the best of things, to ingratiate their hosts if they could. Ithalred’s narrow-mindedness, his imperious superiority was always going to make things difficult, but Malbeth had fostered hopes that the first meeting with the dwarfs would have gone better in spite of all that.

  Their need was a dire one, if only the prince would acknowledge it. Establishing a trade pact with the dwarfs was a small but necessary thing; without it the elves would never get what they truly wanted from them.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Goblin Hunting

  Six dwarfs stalked down a narrow, rocky gorge. Despite a distance of some several miles, the towering peaks of Karak Ungor still loomed in the background like rocky sentinels watching the party’s progress. The dwarfs moved in single file, against the wind, their cloaks fluttering in a chill breeze. Wearing tunics over shirts of mail, each with a low slung crossbow over his back, the dwarfs were hunting, and their prey was not far.

  ‘We are close, Prince Nagrim,’ said Brondrik at the head of the group. He was crouched by a cluster of rocks jutting out on the snow-dappled trail. He eyed the edge of the gorge ahead, the scree path rising to a natural plateau.