by Warhammer
Grungni’s door had opened off the back of a fishmonger’s, in Go-By Street. No one had paid them any mind as they trooped out. But then, the wharfs were the sort of place where one kept one’s eyes on one’s own business. The sight of freshly slain corpses, either in the gutters or dangling from a signpost as a grisly warning from one of the many street gangs that plagued the harbour, weren’t uncommon.
The air was thick with the smells of salted fish and exotic spices, not to mention the more lingering aroma of overflowing gutters. Beneath it all, Volker could detect the tang of the oldest Ironweld armouries in the city, still crafting arms and armour after a century. Everything that was Excelsis had grown outwards from the bay and the Spear. Here in the docklands, the first adventurers from Azyr had arrived, seeking a new life. A variety of languages and dialects hummed through the air like music, including the rough growl of Ghurdish tribesmen and the harsh rasp of natives of the Hot Seas, in Aqshy.
They passed a trio of light-weavers, crafting shapes in the air with the aid of small, concave mirrors in order to entertain a growing crowd. The shapes were part of a story – one of the heroic deeds of the god Tyrion. The light-weavers all wore the symbolic blindfold, marked with the device of the daystar, and sang softly as they manipulated their mirrors. The crowd cheered and whistled as the image of Tyrion lopped the head from some monster.
Elsewhere, merchants hawked their wares to sailors and fisherfolk, as tattooed members of the Fate’s Favoured patrolled the streets, on alert for any sign of rival gang members. Volker eyed the latter, noting the lines of tiny script that covered their faces and shorn scalps. It was said that they tattooed themselves with their own fates, as whispered by the Spear, and that the hand that wielded the needle was always that of the Burning Man, the gang’s mysterious leader. Few had ever seen him, and fewer still admitted that he actually existed. Certainly not the officers of the freeguild or the worthies who made up the Small Conclave.
The gang members gave Volker and the others a cursory inspection, but showed no sign of further interest. Indeed, they gave the group a wide berth. Volker suspected that it was mostly due to the way Lugash glared at them. The fyreslayer looked in the mood for a fight, and wasn’t picky about his opponents.
Lugash grunted softly. ‘Look. Up there.’
Volker looked. Several ravens were perched on the overhanging edge of a roof. ‘The birds?’ he asked, confused.
‘Yes,’ Lugash muttered. ‘I’ve seen those carrion birds before.’
‘There is a siege going on.’
‘Not here. In Aqshy. The Felstone Plains.’ Lugash narrowed his eyes. ‘Same birds, I’m certain of it.’
‘Are you sure?’ Lugash looked at him. Volker raised a hand in surrender. ‘Very well. But there’s nothing to be done about it now. Unless you want to throw a cobblestone at them.’ The duardin glanced down, as if considering, but shook his head.
‘No sense alerting them,’ he growled. He looked at Volker. ‘Next time, though, you put that fancy handgun of yours to use, manling.’
‘Point and I’ll shoot,’ Volker said. Lugash grinned, and Volker immediately regretted the promise. He glanced up, but the ravens were gone. Idly he wondered if they were the same birds he’d seen before, on the Bastion. He pushed the thought aside and inhaled, trying to clear his lungs of the lingering weight of forge smoke.
That proved to be a mistake. He coughed as the wind shifted, and the stink of the tanneries enveloped him. Eyes watering, he turned to the others. ‘The aether-berth is closer to the bay, I think.’ He’d rarely had call to visit the docklands after his arrival. Even the freeguild stayed away if they could help it. It was left to the captains and local merchants’ associations to police themselves, for the most part.
‘We must retrieve my steed first,’ Roggen said. He looked around, clearly bewildered. ‘There was a stable, near the harbour. After I came ashore I left her there.’ He carried a set of bulky saddlebags over one broad shoulder.
‘There’s a stable on Hookjaw Street,’ Volker said. ‘Has a shark on the sign?’
Roggen nodded eagerly. ‘Yes, that is the one. We must get her.’
‘No, we mustn’t,’ Zana said. ‘It’ll still be here when we get back, provided no one sells it while we’re gone.’ Like Roggen, she travelled light. She had a wool blanket bundled up and tied across her chest with leather straps, in the manner of the freeguild. Inside the folds of the blanket would be food and kit, as well as any valuables she carried.
‘Sell her?’ Roggen looked aghast. ‘But she is mine!’
‘So?’ Zana shrugged. ‘Property is for the rich and the careful.’
Before she could continue, the air was split by a crack of thunder. It echoed through the streets, silencing the merchants in their stalls, and the bawdy songs of drunken sailors. The thunder was followed by the piercing crash of artillery. Zana and Roggen both spun towards the sound, their hands on their weapons.
Volker chuckled. ‘Those are the primus line batteries – volley guns, mostly. The wildfires must be dying down.’ The skaven attacks were like clockwork, on a clear day. They’d probe the trench line, fall back and come again, when someone new took charge.
‘You can tell what kind of gun it is by the sound?’ Roggen asked, baffled.
‘Can’t you?’
‘His people don’t use them,’ Zana said. ‘The Lady of Leaves doesn’t care for flint and steel. She prefers creeper vines and poisonous thorns.’ She shuddered. ‘And those bark-kindred of hers are worse.’
‘The sylvaneth?’ Volker asked. ‘I’ve never seen one,’ he added, somewhat wistfully.
‘Oh, you have,’ Lugash grunted. ‘You just didn’t know it. Sneaky sorts of things, trees. Always where you least expect or want them.’ He frowned. ‘Like the sea. Water – pfah.’ He spat on the ground. ‘What sort of thing is that, to make an ocean out of?’ He sniffed. ‘Lava. Now there’s a proper liquid – so hot it’ll scald your eyeballs.’
Zana rolled her eyes. ‘So why did you leave home, if you miss it so much?’
Lugash glared at her. ‘None of your concern, woman. I am oathsworn to the Maker, same as you manlings. Though why he needs you, I don’t know.’ He looked away. ‘Maybe he’s getting senile.’
‘Do gods get senile, then?’ Zana prodded.
Lugash ignored her. Volker shook his head.
‘The stables are this way from here,’ he said to Roggen, catching the thread of conversation before it could escape entirely. He gestured, ‘We’ll cut through Jaeger Lane.’ Jaeger Lane was a cramped artery connecting the Veins and the docklands. It was a rowdy patch of alehouses and cheap eateries, where young blades from the Noble Quarter went to indulge in licentious behaviour, and would-be revolutionaries plotted against the Grand Conclave. A statue weathered to featurelessness marked the largest crossing – the Jaeger for whom the area had been named, possibly.
‘Just leave the beast here,’ Zana said, as they followed the winding lane. ‘It’ll be no use where we’re going. More of a hindrance, in fact.’
‘I go nowhere without my steed,’ Roggen said, stubbornly. ‘She grows anxious without me. She is very sensitive.’
‘I’m not sure we should be taking an anxious horse with us,’ Volker said. ‘Or a sensitive one.’ He’d never been a fan of horses, even the clockwork ones the Ironweld used to haul its artillery trains on occasion. They were temperamental beasts, with a tendency to snap at unprotected flesh.
Roggen looked confused. ‘Horse?’
The doors of the stable slammed open, stirring the hay scattered across the ground. An ear-splitting screech echoed through the courtyard as half a dozen stable hands spilled out, shouting and cursing. They were clad in padded armour and masks, and they stumbled out into the courtyard, dragging a massive shape in their wake with heavy chains and straps.
The beast was hooded, in the sa
me way a falconer might do for his birds. Even so, its thrashing sent the stable hands floundering. It clawed at them, tearing gouges in their quilted vests. They scrambled from its path as Roggen whistled sharply. The heavy shape lunged towards him, and he sidestepped it, tearing the hood from its head as he did so. ‘Oh hell,’ Volker murmured, as he realised what the thing was.
‘Yes,’ Zana said.
The demigryph shrieked in what Volker hoped was recognition as it swung around to face Roggen. The big beast was covered in brownish, shaggy fur and vibrant green feathers. Dark ironwood armour covered the creature in places, and it wore a heavy saddle. With a sinking sensation, he suddenly realised just what sort of knightly order Roggen belonged to. He looked at Zana, his eyes wide. ‘You could have warned me.’
‘Why? No one warned me, the first time.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘And he’s such a mild sort, too. Never saw it coming.’
Volker turned back to the reunion of beast and rider. He had seen the carnage a squadron of such creatures – and their riders – left in their wake. The mountains and forests of Azyr were home to a sizeable population of demigryphs, and many of the ancient chivalric orders of Azyrheim, such as the Myrmidites and the Sons of Breton, sent their aspirants to stalk and break the beasts to their will.
Most failed. Only the most determined of warriors could tame a demigryph. And even then, they’d bear the scars for the rest of their life. The massive creatures were larger than any stallion, and far more bloodthirsty. They could dismember a fully armoured warrior with ease, and made little distinction between friend and foe.
The beast rose up on its heavily muscled hind legs and landed its fore claws on Roggen’s shoulders, nearly knocking the big man to his knees. It stood twice again as tall as its master, though Roggen seemed used to such displays. He caught the tip of the hooked beak and bent it away from his face. ‘Easy, Harrow. There’s a girl.’ Harrow shrieked again, and followed it with a dull clacking as her mad, amber eyes noticed Volker and the others. The brown tail began to lash as the demigryph shoved away from her rider and fell onto all fours with a rattle of armour.
‘Keep that beast away from me,’ Lugash growled. He raised his war-iron menacingly. ‘Else I’ll crack its skull. See if I don’t.’
The demigryph hunkered down, head tilted, beak half-open. She hissed, her claws scraping the street. Roggen caught the scruff of her feathered neck. ‘Well, stop waving weapons at her. I told you – she’s very sensitive.’
‘It’s a bloody great murder-cat is what it is,’ Zana said, eyes narrowed. ‘Why’d you even bring it? Or have you forgotten what happened last time?’
‘That was an accident,’ Roggen said, defensively. ‘She didn’t mean any harm.’
‘It ate Capollino!’
‘Only his leg.’ Roggen stroked the demigryph’s neck, and murmured soothingly. ‘And the Maker crafted him a new one, didn’t he?’
‘Who was Capollino?’ Volker asked.
‘A very unlucky fellow,’ Roggen said, somewhat apologetically. ‘She was just playing, really, but he started screaming and… well.’ He knocked on Harrow’s beak. ‘She gets excited easily. Instinct, you see.’ The demigryph snapped at his hand. Roggen frowned and pried the hook of her beak out of his gauntlet. ‘You are not making a good first impression, Harrow. Be polite.’
‘That ship has sailed, I’m afraid,’ Zana said, one hand on the hilt of her sword. ‘It’s not coming with us, Roggen. I refuse to be in a confined space with that thing.’
Roggen frowned. ‘You would not separate a knight from his steed?’
‘Cheerfully.’
Roggen opened his mouth. ‘She could come in handy,’ Volker interjected. ‘Provided you can keep her under control?’ He glanced at the knight, who nodded.
‘I can try,’ Roggen muttered, looking mulish. Seeing the look on Zana’s face, he quickly added, ‘She will be on her best behaviour.’
‘That’s what he said last time,’ Zana growled. ‘But fine. Your funeral. It goes in the hold, and gods help you if it eats something it’s not supposed to, because they’ll pitch it and us out of the ship. Without landing first.’
That settled, they followed the winding streets down to the docks, Harrow padding beside Roggen, the big knight tightly gripping her reins. Excelsis harbour played host to countless vessels. A forest of masts and sails rose over the waters from merchant fleets and the warships of a hundred fledgling empires, flourishing in the wake of Sigmar’s return.
The aether-berth rose above them all. It was the single new structure amid the old. A tower of bone and wood, higher than any ship’s mast, surmounted by a structure of the Kharadrons’ own design – a wide platform, easily the size of one of the larger streets below, topped by a globular watch-station, crafted from bronze and steel. Anchor-jetties extended in seemingly haphazard fashion from the curves of the station.
Aether-frigates and ironclads, the mainstays of the Kharadron fleets, occupied these aerial wharfs, their bulky, blade-like proportions out of place next to the sleek towers and magical vessels of the Collegiate Arcane. The vessels were heavy lengths of riveted metal and bulbous aether-endrins, resembling nothing so much as the seagoing ironclads some clans of Dispossessed made use of, save that they sailed above the ground, rather than on the water.
Duardin clad in aeronautical gear and weatherproof uniforms busied themselves about the base of the tower, overseeing the loading and unloading of cargo or arguing loudly with harbour officials. Others clad in the heavy war-plate the Kharadron called arkanaut armour, their faces hidden behind stylised masks, stood guard, aethershot rifles held across their chests.
Volker stared up at the docked vessels in awe. He’d seen the aethercraft of the Kharadron at a distance, but seeing them this close was something else again. Whereas the duardin he was familiar with preferred to dig down, these had soared upwards. ‘Magnificent,’ he murmured.
‘Unnatural is what it is,’ Lugash said, glaring upwards. ‘Floating in the air. Like birds. Or worse.’ He spat. ‘No way for a proper duardin to live.’
‘You mean half-naked, in a volcano?’ Zana asked.
Lugash looked at her. ‘It’s not my fault your thin manling skin can’t handle the weather,’ he said, huffily. ‘You should grow thicker skin.’
‘And then hammer gold into it.’ Zana looked up. ‘Brondt’s vessel is the larger one – not the usual frigate or ironclad. It’s a long-distance hauler. He had some bright spark of an endrinrigger make modifications, last I heard, to improve the old scow’s speed.’
‘It’s called the Zank, as you well know, woman,’ someone growled, in a voice like wind rushing through a metal tunnel. Volker looked down and saw a broad form stumping towards them. The duardin was dressed in battered, midnight-blue aeronautic gear, over a tan uniform. He wore a dark coat of some slick-looking material, with thick fur cuffs and collar. What little of his face could be seen within the bristly thicket of iron-grey hair and beard was burnt bronze by the wind and weather. He clenched a smouldering cheroot between thick, yellow teeth. ‘She’s the finest Makaisson-class hauler in the fleet, and don’t you forget it.’
Zank meant cleaver, or thereabouts, Volker thought. An appropriate name for such an ominous-looking vessel. It had the curved hull common to Kharadron vessels, but it was twice again the length of the frigates moored above and around it. Strange weapons lined its decks, and studded its armoured hull. An ancestral figurehead of dark gold glared down from the prow. It reminded him of Grungni, with its billowing beard and wide face, and for a moment, it almost seemed to be looking down at him…
‘Gunmaster.’
Volker started. ‘What?’
‘I’m introducing you,’ Zana hissed. ‘Apologies, Brondt. He’s a bit deaf.’ She tugged on her ear. ‘Artillery is loud. As I was saying, meet Captain Njord Brondt.’
‘I’m well aware of the
noise the ground-pounders make.’ Brondt eyed them with ill-concealed displeasure. As Zana spoke, he extracted his cheroot and tapped ash onto the ground. ‘Give me one good reason I shouldn’t have you tied to a skyhook and fired out over the bay, woman,’ he growled.
‘Two reasons,’ Zana said, fingers held up. ‘One, I saved your stumpy rear from that harkraken – remember? And two, we’re on a mission from a god.’
Brondt frowned. ‘Which god?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It does to me.’
‘I thought you Kharadron didn’t believe in gods,’ Zana said.
‘We don’t. That doesn’t mean we’re foolish enough to annoy the wrong one without cause. Which one – Sigmar?’ He hesitated. ‘Nagash?’ he asked, more softly.
‘The Great Maker.’
Brondt examined the glowing tip of his cheroot. ‘Fine. What do you want?’
‘A ride.’
‘Where?’
‘Shu’gohl. I know for a fact it’s on your route.’
Brondt looked past her, at Volker and the others. ‘All of you?’
‘Yes.’
Harrow screeched.
‘And that thing?’
‘Yes,’ Roggen said, frowning.
Brondt grinned. ‘That’s worth two favours.’
Zana cocked her head. ‘One.’
Brondt puffed on his cheroot. ‘Two.’
‘One and a half.’
‘Deal,’ he said. He spat on his hand and held it out. Zana did the same, and they shook hands. ‘There’s room in the hold for livestock. And passengers, come to that.’
Zana’s face fell. ‘No cabins?’
‘Not for one and a half favours.’ Brondt’s grin never wavered. ‘It’s dry and warm. Better than sleeping above decks.’
Zana sighed. ‘Fine, you old grumble-miser. But you still owe me half a favour, and don’t you forget it.’
