by Warhammer
Brondt’s grin slipped. ‘I never forget a debt,’ he growled. ‘Artycle six, point three of the code states–’
Zana shook her head. ‘I know, I know.’
Brondt frowned, then turned and bellowed to several of his crew. They ambled over, in no particular hurry. Brondt growled at them in rapid-fire Khazalid, then turned back to Zana. ‘They’ll show you to your quarters.’ He puffed on his cheroot. ‘It’ll take a day or thereabout to get to the Crawling City. Barring any difficulties. Like last time.’ He looked closely at Zana as he said it.
‘That was an accident,’ she protested.
‘The cost of repairs alone–’ he began, stabbing the air with his cheroot.
‘I didn’t hear you complaining at the time,’ she snapped. ‘Besides, you beat Brokrin to the find, didn’t you? And the Drak Ang took twice as much damage as the Zank…’
Brondt turned away, dismissing her. ‘Get on board before I change my mind.’
As they allowed Brondt’s crew to guide them into the aether-berth, Volker looked at Zana. ‘What happened last time?’ he asked, quietly.
Zana ignored him, her face set. He exchanged glances with Roggen. The big knight grinned and patted Harrow’s beak. ‘I am very excited, whatever happened. It will be my first time flying.’
Volker nodded. ‘Yes. Let’s just hope it’s not our last.’
Ahazian Kel sat before a crackling fire, cooking his evening meal. His seat was what was left of the body of the orruk that had leapt on his horse. The rest of it was impaled on sticks and slowly roasting over the fire. He’d acquired a taste for orruk-flesh in the Ashdwell, in his youth. The beasts were best cooked alive, but even dead they had a decided tartness.
His weapons sat within easy reach, and his helmet was at his feet. His scarred features were relaxed as he stared into the fire, imagining the glories to come. Idly, he toyed with the fragment of Gung, rolling it between his fingers. He reached for a chunk of orruk, snatching the smoking meat from the fire.
‘You are close.’
Ahazian looked up from his meal. The hank of orruk flesh bubbled on the bone, roasted to perfection. He finished chewing and swallowed. ‘I know.’ He flicked the fragment, where it dangled. ‘It… sings.’
Volundr nodded. ‘Qyat of the Folded Soul sang an ancient song of murder as he shaped Gung. The echo of that song still reverberates through the spear, giving it life. The song will grow louder, the closer you get to the weapon.’
Volundr’s shape wavered in the firelight. He was not truly there, Ahazian knew. Just a sending, cast into the realms by the Skullgrinder’s will, and the daemonic fires of his forge. Volundr sat, hands dangling between his knees, head lowered. He looked tired. The fires of his gaze burned low. Ahazian peered at him, and took another bite of orruk. ‘Are you well, Skullgrinder?’
Volundr gestured dismissively. ‘It is of no matter.’ He straightened and passed a hand over the fire. ‘You are being followed.’
‘I know.’ Ahazian cracked the bone and scraped at the marrow with a finger. ‘I keep hoping they will catch up with me, but no luck so far.’
‘Arrogance is healthy in a warrior. But it must be tempered by wisdom.’
Ahazian licked marrow from his finger thoughtfully. ‘As you say.’
Volundr grunted, visibly annoyed. ‘Our enemies are not solely mortal. You must be cautious. The Crippled God is not to be trifled with.’
‘You speak as if you know him.’
Volundr fell silent. Ahazian waited. The Skullgrinder would speak when it suited him, and not before. After long moments, the warrior-smith said, ‘I was born a slave. In the chattel-pens of the Furnace Kings. You know of them?’
Ahazian nodded. ‘They forged weapons and armour for the servants of the Dark Gods, before the Azyrites cast down the Bale-Furnace and scattered its rulers. Stunted brutes. Like duardin, but twisted and cruel.’ He grinned around a mouthful of orruk. ‘They made good blades, though. There are warlords who’ll trade a thousand slaves for just one axe forged by the Furnace Kings.’
‘They deserved their fate,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘They were weak. Decadent. I saw as much, the day the Crippled God came and cracked the Bale-Furnace.’ He stared at his hands. ‘They had stolen his secrets, and turned them to bitter ends. He arrived in an explosion of heat and fire, roaring curses and wielding a great hammer. Not a warhammer, but a blacksmith’s hammer. And with it he shattered our chains and cracked the great furnace. The Furnace Kings fled into the depths of their mountain, rather than face him.’
Ahazian blinked in surprise. ‘He… saved you?’
‘More than that. He taught me his arts. Some of them, at least.’ Volundr looked up. ‘And those lessons served me well, in the trials that followed.’ He laughed harshly. ‘He was quite angry, when he learned of my betrayal.’
‘Why did you betray him?’ Ahazian asked the question before it occurred to him that it might be wiser not to.
Volundr’s gaze grew hot and bright, like a fire newly stoked. ‘Your purpose is not to ask questions, Ahazian Kel. Yours is but to seek out that which I desire, and bring it to me.’
Ahazian bristled at the Skullgrinder’s tone. ‘And so I have sworn, warrior-smith.’ He cast the bone he held into the fire. ‘And the oath of a kel is as iron itself.’
Volundr laughed again, but softly this time. ‘And that is why I chose you, son of Ekran. Do not fail me.’
His form flickered and faded, like smoke on the wind. A moment later, he was gone. Ahazian grunted and reached for another piece of orruk. He was still hungry, and he had a feeling he would need all of his strength in the days to come.
Six
Tools of The Maker
Volker woke suddenly. Heart hammering, eyes bleary, he was uncertain for a moment of where he was. He looked around the relatively clean, dry confines of the aft hold of the Zank, lit as it was by aether-lanterns hanging from the support beams. These cast a soft, ruddy glow over the crates, casks and sacks that filled the hold.
Despite the cheery ambience, it was cramped, especially with the demigryph, Harrow, occupying a third of it. Volker sat up carefully, still unused to the ship’s swaying. He could feel the hum of the vessel’s aether-endrin through the crate he sat on. His nose was full of demigryph stench. It smelled a bit like he imagined a chicken coop full of wet cats would.
Zana sat across from him, sharpening her blade with slow, practised strokes of a whetstone. She smiled as he stirred, but said nothing. Lugash lay nearby, his helmet’s brim tipped so that it covered his eyes, his weapons crossed beneath his head as a makeshift pillow. He snored noisily. Roggen had claimed the only clear part of the hold for himself, and now moved slowly, practising his blade work. None of them seemed particularly bothered by the stink of the restive animal sharing their space.
Volker watched Roggen, trying to recall what had woken him. His dreams had been tangled knots of unease that prevented total rest. There had been something dark pursuing him down a corridor of sound and light. A malign force, singular in its purpose and resolve. But his dreams hadn’t been all bad – he’d dreamed of Oken as well.
More a memory, that, perhaps. Not of the duardin himself, but of his voice, deep and rough, as he conversed quietly with Volker’s mother. Catrin Volker had not been amenable to her son’s apprenticeship with the Ironweld at first. But Oken had convinced her. Volker remembered that they’d spoken often, that tall, brittle woman and the short, sturdy duardin. They had known each other since her childhood, at least.
In truth, he didn’t know how long Oken had been acquainted with his family. Once, the old duardin had let slip that his clan owed the Volker family a debt, one older even than Oken himself, though he’d refused to elaborate further. But then that was the duardin way, at least among the clans of the Dispossessed. Debts were shameful things, to be honoured but never spoken of in polite society.
He wondered if that debt had anything to do with why Grungni had chosen him.
That only brought more questions, however. What prevented Grungni from simply finding these Lamentations himself? Why use mortal servants at all? Divine prerogative, or something else? Then the same might be asked of Sigmar – why didn’t the God-King lead his armies to war personally, as he had in ages gone by?
Uncomfortable with that line of thinking, Volker distracted himself with exploring the satchel Grungni had given him. He hadn’t thought to do so before he’d succumbed to the fatigue that had been dogging his trail since the battle.
His suspicions were proved correct; the satchel was his, but subtly changed somehow. He could feel rune magic radiating from it, though he could see no markings save the insignia of the Ironweld, picked out in gold and crimson. Grungni had done something to it, though what, Volker couldn’t even begin to guess.
He checked the powder-loads and shot-cylinders for signs of tampering, but found none. Normally, he carried half a dozen reloads for the repeater pistols and a small quantity of shot and powder for the rifle and his artisan pistol on him at all times, but the satchel would keep him supplied for weeks, if he were sparing. He had the alchemical tools and training to make more powder and shot if necessary, too.
‘How can you stand carrying all of that?’
He looked at Zana. ‘You’ve carried a field kit before, surely?’
‘Yes, but my field kit doesn’t clatter like an ironmonger’s wagon.’ She tossed him something. ‘Brondt sent down food while you were snoring.’
Volker caught the chunk of hard brown bread and took an eager bite. He chewed carefully, eyes closed, enjoying the acrid tang and coarse texture. When he opened his eyes, Zana was watching him closely. ‘Not many men can get past the first bite of duardin bread,’ she said. ‘Not without a lot of wine.’ She held up a wineskin.
‘It’s an acquired taste,’ Volker mumbled around a second mouthful. He swallowed. ‘Goes well with a bit of chuf.’ He looked around hopefully. Zana snorted and took a swig of wine, before tossing him the skin. He washed his mouth out and turned at a sudden shrill screech. Harrow was turning about in her stall at the far end of the hold, tapping at its sides with her beak and paws. There were bloodstains on the slats, which Harrow had been investigating eagerly since the Zank had hauled anchor and departed Excelsis.
‘They bring cattle, sometimes,’ Zana said, as they watched the demigryph snuffle at the stains. ‘Use them as bait for the megalofins. Brondt sells the meat in Shu’gohl. The worm-folk don’t get much meat that doesn’t come with feathers or too many legs.’
‘You sound like you’ve travelled this way before,’ Volker said. He tossed the bread back to her, followed by the wine. Zana caught them easily.
She laughed. ‘More than once. It’s cramped, but quick. And the Kharadron can always use another quick hand with a blade, whatever they claim. Speaking of which…’ She gestured towards Roggen with the bread. ‘That’s enough practice, sir knight. Come eat before you fall over.’
Roggen let his sword dip and turned. However long he’d been at it, the Ghyranite seemed none the worse for wear. Nevertheless, he gratefully accepted the offer of food and drink. He tore off a hunk of bread, made a face, and swallowed cautiously. ‘Did they make this with stones?’ he mumbled.
‘Probably. Your sword… it’s wood as well?’ Volker asked after a moment, studying the blade the other man held.
Roggen nodded, still chewing. ‘Made from the seedpod of a devourer plant.’ He turned the dark sword over so that Volker could see. Thick, vein-like undulations connected the sharpened blade to the leather-wrapped hilt. The pommel stone was a pearlescent gem, uncut and heavy. ‘You have to whittle and scrape away the excess sap and fibres after you shatter the pod. Then you layer the pieces, one atop the other with a slather of the sap between them. You have to press on it for days, squeezing and leaning, until it’s flat enough to begin carving away all that is not blade.’ He held up the sword. ‘It takes weeks. But when you are finished – ha!’
He pivoted, bringing the blade down. It hissed as it parted the air. He turned, holding up the blade. ‘It will cut through metal as easily as it does wood.’ He looked at the bread he held. ‘Though maybe not this.’ He handed it back to Zana ruefully.
‘You wouldn’t catch a duardin using a blade of wood, no matter how sharp,’ Lugash grunted. The fyreslayer still lay on the deck, eyes closed.
Roggen smiled. ‘Who do you think taught us how to make these?’
‘There are duardin in Ghyran?’ Volker asked, somewhat taken aback. He’d heard stories, but never paid them much mind.
‘Some,’ Zana interjected. ‘The root-kings. A proud folk, but shy. They delved deep, and rarely surfaced, and then only to trade.’
Roggen nodded, a sad look on his face. ‘Some say they abandoned the world when the Lady of Leaves vanished into the Athelwyrd.’ He sighed. ‘Perhaps they will return one day, just as she did. I should like to meet them, just once.’ He sheathed his sword, picked up a nearby bucket and went to tend Harrow. Brondt had grudgingly provided fodder before their departure, after Zana had pointed out that a hungry demigryph was bound to be troublesome. Roggen pulled a hunk of scaly meat from the bucket and tossed it to the demigryph, which chirped in pleasure. The meat glistened strangely in the lantern light as the creature tore at it, and Volker felt his stomach twist.
‘Megalofin,’ Zana said. ‘It’s quite good, if you cook it properly.’
‘You seem to have an opinion on everything,’ Volker said, smiling. Zana laughed. She had a rough laugh, like something worn thin. Everything about her spoke to a life hard lived. He’d met her sort before – sellswords and coinspinners. They fought for anyone who could pay their fee. Most had served in one army or another, even the freeguilds of Azyr. Some freeguild captains hired entire companies of such war-dogs to fight the battles they didn’t want to waste other troops on.
Volker had fought alongside such troops more than once. They were brave enough, but they had a distressing tendency to value their own lives over whatever cause they had pledged themselves to. And yet, this one had pledged herself to a god. And not just any god, but one whose oaths were as iron.
‘It’s one of the drawbacks of an interesting life, gunmaster. I expect I could say the same about you.’ She eyed him. ‘You’re young for your rank. Are you a hero, or just lucky?’
‘I hunted megalofins, once,’ Volker said, avoiding the question. ‘From a blind. They feed on mountain goats and the like, in the high places of Azyr. Dive down and snatch up anything they can get their teeth in.’ He frowned, thinking of the immense shark-like beast as it had pierced the clouds and swum down through the snowy air, jaws impossibly wide. He hefted his rifle and peered down its length. ‘Never doing that again.’
Zana smiled. ‘Easier from the deck of an aether-ship, but probably not by much. Brondt has it down to an art – hook them quick, let them tire themselves out, and then pummel them senseless. Once they’re dead, it’s just a matter of cutting them up and salting the meat. It keeps practically forever, or so I’m told.’
‘You have lived an interesting life,’ Volker said. He hesitated. ‘What were you before?’ he asked.
‘Before I became a sellsword, you mean?’
Volker flushed. ‘Yes.’
‘I served in the freeguild, in Vindicarum,’ she said, running the stone along the length of her sword. ‘Gold Gryphon regiment. Got promoted to captain, eventually.’
‘What happened?’
‘What makes you think something happened?’ She laughed at his expression. ‘You’re not wrong, though – something did.’ She laid her sword across her knees. ‘And I’d wager that it’s the same thing that caused you to be here, rather than standing in some draughty chamber, poring over maps and arguing strategy.’
‘Politics,’ Volker said.
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She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Got it in one. Maybe you’re as smart as you look.’ She took off her glove and ran her thumb along the edge of the blade. ‘I made enemies. Highborn Azyrite brats, with comfy positions bought for them by their mothers and fathers.’
Volker frowned. That described him as well, though he didn’t think it prudent to admit as much. He continued wiping down his long rifle. ‘They forced you out?’
‘Eventually.’ She squeezed her thumb. Volker watched as a bead of blood welled up. She sucked on the injured digit for a moment before continuing. ‘One too many duels, even for Vindicarum. Too many dead Azyrites. And a price on my head, besides.’
‘A price…?’
Zana grinned. ‘Like I said, I made enemies. What about you, gunmaster?’
Volker paused, rag in hand. ‘No, no enemies. No friends either.’ He suddenly felt the weight of Makkelsson’s flask sitting in his coat, and touched the pocket it rested in. ‘Not any more, at least.’
‘Count yourself lucky,’ Lugash growled. ‘Friendship is a chain of obligation that weighs heavily on the weak.’
Volker glanced at the doomseeker, uncertain how to respond. The fyreslayer was worryingly volatile, and they were trapped in a confined space. Lugash glared at him, as if daring him to reply.
‘Spoken like a doomseeker,’ Zana said. ‘No wonder your lodge kicked you out.’
‘They didn’t kick me out,’ Lugash said. ‘My lodge is no more. Their name is dust, and their deeds nothing more than ash.’
Zana nodded. ‘Maybe you should’ve died with them.’
Lugash was on his feet, weapons gripped tightly. ‘What was that?’
Zana stood. ‘You heard me.’ She pointed her sword at him. ‘Did you run? Or maybe you simply weren’t worth killing.’
Volker exchanged worried glances with Roggen, and let his hand drift towards the grip of his artisan pistol. If Lugash made to harm her, he might have no choice. Duardin were tough though – a single shot, carefully placed, wouldn’t kill him. And Sigmar only knew what would happen if he shot the doomseeker and didn’t kill him.
