The prince looked doubtful and bit his lip, causing the fuzz of growing beard to puff up. He nodded in what was intended to be a decisive manner, but Gromvarl saw he was still unsure. He was brave for a boy of his age.
‘Very well,’ said Thorgrim.
‘King Belegar for a father and that one there for his mother, I don’t envy that youngster,’ said Douric quietly.
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Gromvarl replied as the queen and prince talked. ‘But he’s almost past all that. He’ll be his own master soon, mark my words. He’s got a strong head, that boy, but with her temperament, thank Valaya. The last thing Karak Eight Peaks needs is another Belegar.’
‘I’m not sure the queen’s temperament is necessarily an improvement,’ said Douric.
Gromvarl snorted.
Strange noises sounded from deep in the mountain.
‘We best be away, vala. These tunnels were much fractured in the time of Great Cataclysm. They are unsafe. No one knows where they go,’ said Douric.
Kemma’s face crinkled with bitterness. ‘There is nowhere safe in Karak Eight Peaks – there never has been. I should have left as soon as Thorgrim was born.’ She reached into her robes. Douric held up his hand.
‘Payment upon safe delivery, or my word is not my bond,’ he said. ‘Best say your farewells.’ Douric tactfully withdrew, drawing the prince after him to leave Kemma alone with her guardian.
Gromvarl gave his queen a bow. He huffed on his pipe like a steam engine building power, filling the dairy with smoke.
‘Well, I suppose this is goodbye.’
‘Brave Gromvarl. Are you sure you will not come with us?’
‘Not with this, vala,’ said Gromvarl, lifting his broken arm. ‘And even without, I’d have to stay. You know why.’
Kemma smiled her understanding. ‘I lack the words to thank you for all that you’ve done for me.’ She leaned through the clouds around him and laid a gentle kiss on his old cheek.
‘It’s not necessary! Get on with you now, young lady,’ said Gromvarl, his voice inexplicably warbly. He coughed. ‘Damned tobacco making my eyes water! I’d give my other arm for a pouch of Everpeak Goldleaf.’
Douric led on up the passage, a krut ungdrin, where in better days herds of goats had been driven from their pastures to be milked and overwintered. They went through ways long forgotten, winding up the secret stair to a door high up on the shoulders of Kvinn-wyr.
‘Be careful, my lady, my prince,’ said Douric. ‘It’s cold and mighty windy out.’
This proved to be something of an understatement. The three of them were buffeted by a howling gale that drove needles of snow into their faces. The path they found themselves on went down steadily towards alpine pastures arrayed on the mountain’s shoulders. Rusted spikes of ancient iron in the rock showed where a safety line had once been anchored, but it was a distant memory. The three of them clung on to the stone for dear life until they turned a corner onto the southern flank of the mountain, where the wind dropped to strong gusts that plucked at their clothes, petulant at its lost power.
‘That’s the worst bit, for now,’ said Douric.
‘You know this way well?’ said Kemma.
‘I know all ways well, my lady. A reckoner’s not a reckoner if he can’t get in or out of a place where reckoning needs doing. Those with debts are generally shy, retiring sorts. They can be a little tricky to dig out,’ he said with a grin.
They went through high fields well above the tree line. Subject to the caprices of the wind, much of the snow had been blown from them, gathering in huge drifts against broken dry-stone walls and the cairns of piled rocks cleared from the fields by the ancestors. Tumbledown shacks marked the refuges of goatherds, and in one place the walls of a ruined village made straight, soft lines in the snow. All was abandoned, as everything was in the Eight Peaks. Here, however, there had recently been dwarfs tending flocks. The signs of recent occupation were visible in places, especially near other krut ungdrin. Once again, the pastures were empty.
Kemma found it hard to believe, but not so long ago there was an optimism to Karak Eight Peaks, a sense that things were turning for the better. Another cruel joke, and one she had never fallen for herself. This had always been a fool’s errand, and in Belegar the errand had found its fool. Nevertheless, she was a dwarf, and the ruination upset her as much as any other. She had never told anyone, but this was why she hated Vala-Azrilungol so much. Every inch of it was a shameful reminder of what her people had lost.
Douric hadn’t looked back at them the whole time they’d been outside; if he did she hoped he’d think her tears were brought forth by the biting wind and not from sorrow.
At one corner, they passed a collection of dwarf beard scalps, frozen stiff in the wind and rattling against their posts. ‘Thorgrim! Look away!’ she said. Her son did not heed her, and gawped at them. Anguish pulsed in her breast that he had to see such things, but it hardened her resolve. This was why they had to leave.
As they threaded their way through a series of terraced fields, the air grew thicker and it became easier to breathe. The tall white finger of Kvinn-wyr, cloaked in winter snow from peak to skirts, raised itself behind them. They were hidden from the feeble sun, trudging through a world of shadow and ice.
‘Soon we must go back inside,’ said Douric. ‘Through another way. We can rest a while at its head before we press on.’ He said this for the benefit of Thorgrim, who had a long way yet to go before he developed the full width of his thighs. He was trying his hardest to hide his discomfort like a good dawi, but his pale face and trembling lips told another story.
Kemma went to her son, and fussed over him as mothers do. He was proud enough to shoo her away, and Douric smiled at that. Kemma frowned, which he thought a little extreme, but then she held up her hand. ‘Shhh!’ she said. ‘What’s that?’
Douric cocked his head. His eyes widened in concern. ‘Curse my ears, I’m getting old!’
Kemma drew her hammer and put herself in front of her son.
‘Off the path! To that hut down there, and stay on the rocks. Leave no tracks!’ Douric pointed to a sorry ruin thirty yards away. Too late. A party of Belegar’s hammerers came around the corner from below, lining up three abreast to block their way down the rocky path.
‘Brok Gandsson,’ said Kemma. ‘Belegar has you chasing mothers who love their sons, has he? Your beard thickens with honour day by day.’ She spoke haughtily. There was no point in pretence. There was only one reason he could be here.
‘Halt! Halt in the name of the king!’ said Brok Gandsson, leader of the Iron Brotherhood. He stood athwart the path, puffing clouds of cold breath. Dressed in full armour, he wore no extra garb in concession to the temperature, and his nose was red and dripping as a result. His expression made it clear that he meant business.
‘I’ll do no such thing. You’ll let me by, Brok Gandsson. The future of the Angrund clan and all of the Eight Peaks is here by my side. Take him back, and you will doom him. Let me take him away from here.’
Brok stood his ground, his face set. Tension showed in the line of his jaw, bunching muscles under beard. He was not enjoying this role. That was something, thought Kemma.
‘The mountains are full of grobi and urk, and the tunnels heave with vermin. If I let him off this mountain, it is you who will be killing him, not I. I will not let your mistake weigh on my conscience.’
‘It’ll be your mistake, not mine. I’ve made my mind up.’