by Warhammer
Grungni returned his gaze with eyes like twin suns. His beard and hair were a celestial inferno, growing brighter with every passing moment. Volker raised a hand to shield his eyes. He could barely breathe.
‘That is what the Eight Lamentations are. Not just weapons, but impurities – motes of cosmic filth, honed and sharpened to a killing edge.’ The god’s voice came from everywhere and nowhere, echoing up from within him, and roaring down from on high. A hammer striking iron. Volker sank to one knee, lungs straining against the heat.
‘But I will reforge them. I will break them and reshape them to a more pleasing purpose. I will make ploughshares from them, if I must. All these things I will do. And you will help me. You will be my hammer, and the realms my anvil.’
Abruptly, the heat vanished, replaced by a cool breeze. Volker opened his eyes. He was still sitting at the table. The others looked as dazed as he felt. The daemon essence rising from the centre of the table had hardened into a tree of black iron. Smoke seeped from it. As he watched, cracks appeared. All at once, and very quietly, it crumbled to pieces. He glanced at the miniature Excelsis and saw that it too was gone, reduced to a pile of black dust by his elbow. He looked at Zana, who was staring at the dust.
‘Vindicarum,’ she said, softly.
‘No, it was Phoenicium, I am certain,’ Roggen said, intently. He looked at Volker. ‘Was it not?’
Volker shook his head. Before he could reply, Lugash said, ‘You wish us to find these weapons, then.’ His voice was harsh, and Volker wondered what he’d seen. Why had Grungni showed them the Founding Cities? Questions heaped themselves at the back of his mind, but he could not give voice to them.
‘No, nephew. Just the one, for the moment.’ Grungni, back to his normal size, circled the table, hands clasped behind his back. ‘My servants search for any sign of the others, even now. But one is here – in Ghur.’ He traced the shape of a spear in the air, using smoke from his beard. ‘The Spear of Shadows. One of my servants was on its trail–’
‘Oken,’ Volker interjected, before he could think better of it.
Grungni looked at him, and nodded.
‘Yes. He sent me a message some days ago, saying that he’d found the location of the spear, and intended to recover it. But since then… nothing.’ He gestured, and the fire in the forge blazed brightly. ‘I can see all of my children in the flames. But not him. He is not dead, for I would know it. So, you will find him.’ He swept the table with his fiery gaze. ‘And with him, the Spear of Shadows.’
A moment of silence followed Grungni’s words. It was broken by a laugh from Lugash. The duardin slapped the table. ‘Find him? Where do we even begin? The trail must be long cold.’ He shook his head. ‘Best find a death-mage, Maker.’
‘He sent a message,’ Volker said.
Lugash peered at him. ‘So?’
‘So where did he send it from?’
Grungni smiled, obviously pleased with Volker’s logic. ‘A library. The greatest library in all the lower realms – the Libraria Vurmis, in the city of Shu’gohl.’
Zana whistled. ‘The Crawling City.’
‘What is this “crawling city”?’ Roggen asked. ‘Is it dangerous?’
‘Depends on how you define dangerous.’ Zana scratched her chin. ‘It’s on the back of a bloody great worm, I know that.’
Volker had never visited the city of Shu’gohl, but he’d heard plenty of stories. Mostly from Oken, who had visited it often, though he’d never said why. It had been freed from the grip of the skaven early in the wars and had slowly regained prominence as one of the great trading hubs of the steppes. Thousands of merchants, pilgrims and travellers of all sorts arrived every day, seeking passage on the ancient basket lifts, which connected the worm’s back to the ground far below.
Zana frowned. ‘It’ll be hard to reach. Especially from Excelsis. The Amber Steppes are several days’ hard riding from the coast, and most of that’s orruk territory.’
‘There are duardin roads, but they’re no safer than the overland routes,’ Volker said. ‘More dangerous, some of them.’
‘You speak as if you are afraid, manling,’ Lugash sneered. ‘Does your courage shrink at the thought of facing enemies closer than a cannon’s range?’
‘Only a fool lets an enemy get so close,’ Volker said.
Lugash flushed, but Grungni silenced him with a curt gesture. ‘Hush, nephew. You’ll have plenty of opportunities to wet those blades of yours.’ The god frowned. ‘I am not the only one searching for the spear. There are others, even now, who are on its trail.’
‘Could one of them have something to do with Oken’s disappearance?’ Volker asked.
‘It is possible.’ Grungni idly sketched smoky shapes on the air. Weapons, Volker thought, though the shapes dissipated almost immediately. ‘The portents are no more clear on this subject than any other.’
‘Maybe we should visit the Prophesiers’ Guild,’ Zana said.
Volker laughed. The Guild house stood at the heart of the trade quarter, and was the most heavily defended building in the city. Every augury wrenched from the Spear of Mallus, no matter how large or small, passed through the Prophesiers’ Guild. There they were refined and codified, before being auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Grungni made a dismissive gesture. ‘The secrets and lies they peddle are no true prophecies. More like hints and glimpses. Useless to one who can hear the voice of the fire. Worse than useless, for they muddle otherwise clear perceptions.’ He shook his smoky head. ‘No, the gunmaster has the right of it. You must follow the trail wherever it leads.’
None of them argued. For all of his informality, Grungni was still a god, and when a god commanded, mortals could not help but obey. Zana sighed. ‘I do know of a way we can get there, and quickly. It’ll take some haggling, though.’
‘And that is why I chose you, daughter of Chamon,’ Grungni said. ‘You are the only mortal I know of to bargain with death itself, and come out the better.’
Zana laughed. ‘That was easy, compared to what I have in mind.’ She sat back. ‘The Kharadron have a berth in Excelsis, near the docks. One of their captains owes me a favour.’ She frowned. ‘Just the one, though.’
Volker blinked, surprised. The aether-vessels of the Kharadron were a common sight these days, but the sky-borne duardin were still something of a mystery. Despite their shared origins, they had little in common with the Dispossessed clans, and indeed, seemed to regard them as little more than penniless vagabonds. The Dispossessed, for their part, seemed to hold their cousins in similar distaste.
From his expression, Lugash shared their opinion. ‘Aether-swilling cowards,’ Lugash muttered. ‘What sort of duardin forsakes stone for sky, I ask you?’
‘Wise ones, given the ground was crawling with Arcanites and Bloodbound,’ Zana said. ‘At least in the sky they only have to worry about harkraken and the like.’ Volker shivered, thinking of the immense, tentacled nightmares that haunted the upper aether of most realms. Even the skies of Azyr were not free of the predacious aerial monstrosities. ‘Old Captain Brondt will take us, and complain the entire way.’
Grungni nodded. ‘I will make it worth your while, lass. And his as well, if I must.’ That last was said with some reluctance. A duardin was a duardin, all divinity aside, Volker mused.
Zana bowed her head. ‘You always do, Maker.’ When she looked up, she was grinning. ‘But I’ll hold you to it, nonetheless.’
Grungni gave a rumbling laugh and clapped his big hands. In his mirth, the god seemed to fill the room, and his fiery mane blazed as brightly as the flames in the forge. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. When you find Oken, you will find the Spear of Shadows. Or so the flames say. Return both to me, if you can.’
He gestured, and a door Volker hadn’t noticed before swung open. It was an old door, battered and swollen by damp. A sea
breeze whistled through the opening. Volker could hear the creak of rigging and the squalling of seabirds. Grungni rubbed his hands together. ‘You said this Captain Brondt’s berth was near the docks, yes?’
Zana nodded. Though they were obviously no strangers to Grungni’s power, she and the others appeared somewhat taken aback by such a casual display. Like his people, Grungni seemed to have little time for mystery or enigma. Even so, Volker couldn’t help but recall that he’d been nowhere near the docks when he’d arrived.
‘How far does this place extend?’ he asked, in awe.
Grungni shrugged. ‘As far as it needs to.’ His smile faded. ‘Be watchful and wary. There are spies abroad in every realm, seeking word of the Eight. Trust no one, save that you must.’ At this sobering dismissal, the others rose from their seats and headed for the door. Roggen said something, but Volker wasn’t paying attention. Instead, he was thinking about all that had happened. Things were moving quickly. Too quickly to process. A day ago, the skaven had been his biggest concern. And now–
‘Life comes quickest when you least expect it,’ Grungni said, studying him. ‘It has always been thus. An agile mind will adapt, while others are overwhelmed.’ He sighed. ‘The world is not in the habit of waiting for permission before it changes.’
‘I never thanked you for saving me,’ Volker said. ‘From the skaven, I mean.’
‘You’ll repay that debt, I have no doubt.’ Grungni’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have a question. Speak. I will do my best to answer it, before I send you on your way.’
‘Why did you abandon Sigmar?’ It wasn’t the question Volker had intended to ask. Somehow, he thought the god knew that.
Grungni smiled. The expression came easily to him, but like a gemstone it was a multi-faceted thing. Every smile was different, with a different meaning. From his studies, Volker knew that there were whole volumes of metal-bound books in the deep libraries of the warden kings, devoted to translating the expressions of the gods. The duardin took such things seriously, as they did most things. ‘Did I? Is that what he claims?’
‘I – no. I don’t know. People say…’
‘Oh, well, people. Very informed, people.’ Grungni tapped the side of his head. ‘Mortals, lad, are creative things. And stories are tools, like any other. Sigmar and I are allies. I am no more his servant than he is mine. I swore an oath to aid him, but it is up to me to fulfil that oath how I see fit.’
‘The Eight Lamentations,’ Volker said, grasping the god’s point.
Grungni nodded. ‘Sigmar seeks to reforge men, to purify souls and minds. I’ve never been one for that sort of thing. But weapons, now… weapons are meant to be reforged. To be repurposed.’ Sparks danced in his eyes. ‘You know this as well as I.’
Volker nodded. ‘I will find Oken, Maker, and the spear,’ he said, in Khazalid.
Grungni clapped him on the shoulder. Volker tensed, but the god’s touch was surprisingly light. ‘I know. That is why I chose you, Owain Volker.’ Something in the way he said it sent a chill down Volker’s spine, and suddenly the image he’d seen in the dream-spider’s web – of something dark, seeking his life – rose up in his mind.
Before he could ask Grungni about it, the god produced a familiar satchel from nowhere – Volker’s ammunition bag. It bore the seal of the Ironweld, and contained his extra shot-cylinders and powder. But like his long rifle, it somehow felt lighter than before. He hefted it wonderingly, noting the golden threads that now ran through the thick burlap. ‘A weapon’s use is in direct proportion to the availability of ammunition,’ Grungni said. ‘And I have seen to it that your powder will always be dry, and never run low. Use it wisely.’ The god stepped back, arms crossed. ‘Go. The others are waiting.’ Volker slung his satchel across his chest, bowed and turned towards the doors.
He felt the weight of Grungni’s gaze on him the entire way.
Elsewhere, in the Realm of Beasts, a long-sealed gate was opening.
The Jaws were simply named and crudely formed. They had stood inviolate for untold centuries, sealed by the hands of Gorkamorka himself, or so the shamans of the great orruk clans claimed. The ancient realmgate was nothing more or less than the jawbone of some long-dead monstrosity, thrust into the earth and split open by the axe of Gorkamorka so that his favoured children might have a road to fresh conquests. But those conquests had proven elusive, and the dead made for poor sport, especially when they had the advantage of numbers. So the two-headed god had sealed that which he had cracked open. And sealed it had remained, for years without counting.
Until today.
The bone gateway, its binding sigils worn smooth by time and weather, began to glow with a pale, amethyst radiance. Crackling strands of light stretched like a new-spun web between the edges of the gateway as it began to swing wide. There was a sound like an animal’s roar, and then the light blazed upwards. The air took on the consistency of water, and strange, spectral shapes raced from the depths of the light, screaming hideously.
In the sprawling, ramshackle camp that had grown up around the Jaws, orruks brawled cheerfully among themselves, unaware of the light or what it brought. Greenskin tribes from all across the Amber Steppes made an annual pilgrimage to the Jaws, awaiting the day Gorkamorka would see fit to reopen the realmgate. Only the most devout – and violent – were allowed to make camp there, and as new tribes arrived, fights inevitably broke out. Entire wars had been fought for the honour of camping close to the Jaws for a single night. But as the first of the screaming wraiths sped through the camp, all internal hostility was set aside, replaced by sudden and intense interest.
Bosses bellowed and mobs of boys scrambled out of the camp and up the slope leading to the Jaws, waving their choppas joyfully. Something was coming out of the gate, and every orruk wanted to be the first to meet it.
The black horse and its red-armoured rider burst from the pulsing light. Ahazian Kel gave a wild, whooping laugh as his vision cleared and he spotted the orruks barrelling towards him. The orruks roared in response. Ahazian released the animal’s reins and snatched his hammer from his belt.
He had ridden hell for leather across the lowlands of Shyish, through storms of bone dust and howling maelstroms of feral wraiths. Several times he’d been attacked by flying shapes or dark-clad riders. He’d allowed none of it to stop him.
The splinter of Gung hung from a rawhide thong about his neck. It was almost painfully cold, the chill radiating through his armour and into the flesh beneath. The discomfort was good. It kept him focused. He leaned forwards in his saddle, arms extended. The first orruk died quickly, skull cracked open. The second lived, but lost its hands and the choppa it had held. The black horse shrieked angrily and lashed out with its hooves. Ahazian laughed and followed its example, striking again and again. The orruks swirled like a green tide, but soon enough the horse broke away from them and pelted down through the camp. More orruks sought to bar his way, and he urged the horse to run them down.
The blood sang through his veins, hot and swift. He wanted to turn, to drop from the saddle and meet the greenskins in battle. His weapons howled in his mind, desirous of death. They yearned for murder, the way a man might yearn for the love of a woman. But there was another sound in his mind, warring against the whispers of his weapons. A soft crooning, like the voice of some distant singer.
He knew, without understanding how, that the voice belonged to Gung. The Huntsman was singing a killing song, one that echoed across the realms. A song that he could hear, thanks to the piece of it in his possession; a song that would lead him right to it.
So distracted was he by the song that he failed to notice the orruk charging to intercept him. The brute roared and leapt, landing on the back of the horse. The animal staggered, nearly falling. But the black horses of Shyish were made of sterner stuff and instead of falling it began to buck and kick. Ahazian fought to remain in his saddle, even as the orru
k attempted to twist his head off. The creature snarled. It had lost its axe, and now gripped the horns of his helmet. Ahazian drove the haft of his goreaxe into the orruk’s belly. The spiked pommel punched through the creature’s crude armour and into its stomach.
If it felt any pain, it didn’t show it. Instead, its grip tightened. Ahazian’s neck began to ache. Spots danced before his eyes. He twisted and flung himself from the saddle, carrying his opponent with him. They struck the ground hard and rolled over and over in a bone-crushing tangle. When they slid to a dusty stop, Ahazian shoved himself to his feet, weapons in hand. The orruk lurched after him, bloody froth coating its tusks. Ahazian swung his skullhammer. The creature ducked and tackled him. He drove the pommels of both weapons into the orruk’s hard skull, again and again. The orruk drove him back, his heels digging a trench in the dirt. He struck it again and again, until the thick bone of the brute’s skull at last crumpled. The orruk slumped with a gurgle.
Ahazian stumbled back, breathing heavily. He stared down at the creature. A worthy foe. Slowly, he lifted his hammer in salute. ‘May Khorne grant your soul the battle you crave,’ he murmured. He turned, and saw his horse standing nearby. It glared balefully at him, but made no attempt to flee when he moved to recapture it.
He began to mount, stopped, and looked back at the orruk. His stomach rumbled. It had been some days since he’d eaten. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he murmured, as he led the horse towards the body. It had been some time since he’d tasted orruk.
He wondered if it was as good as he remembered.
Five
Captain Brondt
The harbour district of Excelsis was very much the nerve centre of trade in the city. Bustling and vibrant, it seemed worlds removed from the shabby squalor of the Veins, or the elaborate styling of the noble districts.
Instead, as befitted the oldest district of the city, it had been constructed in the style of the tribes who’d fished the waters of the bay for generations. Structures made from the calcified bones of leviathans, fused together with a mixture of sun-baked mud and animal dung, predominated among the stalls and shacks of the harbour.
