by Warhammer
He passed a hand through the air, and murmured a few words. The air throbbed, and his senses with it. He could taste the magic of the spear, inundating the ancient wood like damp rot. The weapons were things of divine favour, forged in the heat of a god’s wrath and cooled in blood. They could not be hidden by mortal means. Not for long, anyway.
He pointed. ‘That way.’
‘Is it here?’ she asked, one hand on the hilt of her sword. Her warriors stood around him now, though he had not noticed them changing shape. Their black eyes bored into his own, expectantly.
‘It must be,’ Yuhdak said, warily. ‘Where is the Kel? Close?’
‘Not close enough,’ she said. ‘We led him astray, even now, and into the path of another. The survivor will be easy meat.’ She drew her sword. ‘We should keep moving.’ She looked pointedly at the thick folds of web that clung to the walls. More spiders were gathering anew, in the high strands.
Yuhdak nodded. ‘So we shall.’ He held out a hand, palm flat, over the body of a grot. He spoke three bleak words. Something like steam rose from the scrawny corpse – the last memories and thoughts of the dead creature, trapped in its cooling flesh. Swiftly, he shaped them into a crude approximation of a spider, and set it free. The glowing white arachnid scuttled away.
‘Come. It will take us by safe roads to that which we seek.’
Eighteen
Pit of The Spider God
The climb down was arduous and took longer than Volker had thought. The air grew thick and warm the lower they went, and the smell of greenskins grew stronger. Oken and his party had been forced to defend themselves several times during their descent, by the looks of it. Dead spiders hung mangled in their webs, their green-skinned riders dangling beside them. But they were not alone – at the end of one rope on the bottom of the slope, a dead clansman slumped, arrows jutting from his flesh. He had been small for a duardin, and his beard had been dyed a vibrant green, for reasons he had taken with him into death.
‘A few days,’ Nyoka murmured, examining the body. ‘Not long ago.’ She looked at the others. ‘He was among those who visited the Libraria Vurmis with Oken.’
As Volker knelt to examine the body, Zana grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t. If these greenskins are anything like the grots in the Quicksilver Basin, they steep their weapons in poison. No reason to risk it.’
Reluctantly he stood, and looked around. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Something more than just what appeared to be the mouth of an enormous cistern, occupying the centre of a large, semi-spherical chamber. ‘This is a vault?’ he asked. His voice echoed oddly in the strange proportions of the chamber.
It was shaped like a hexagon, with each facet carved to represent what Volker thought must be some pivotal event in the lodge’s history, from its founding to the birth of the first runeson. Each facet faced towards the cistern at the centre. Great chains hung from the concave, multifaceted ceiling, dangling down into the cistern from a complex pulley system. The mechanisms that controlled the system hulked nearby, surrounded by a thicket of stakes, topped by skulls clad in the tarnished helms of fyreslayer warriors.
More stakes occupied the entirety of the chamber’s floor space, and heaving shrouds of web suffocated the upper reaches. Lugash seemed to hunch in on himself as he led them through the grisly field of death. ‘Greenskins have funny ideas about ghosts, and the dead,’ Zana said softly, studying one of the skulls. ‘They probably thought they were honouring them, rather than desecrating them.’
‘Why are they all facing the pit?’ Nyoka murmured. ‘Look – not one of them is staring outwards. As if…’ She frowned. ‘As if in reverence for something.’
‘They died defending the vault,’ Lugash said heavily. ‘Some would have survived, escaping through hidden paths, carrying what they could. But the rest would have made a stand here.’ His face was set and stiff, as if it too had been carved from wood. ‘How many times must we die thus, father?’ he demanded suddenly, his voice loud. He looked up, weapons in hand. ‘How many times must your sons and daughters die, defending the ruins you left behind as your bequest?’
Volker followed his gaze. Above, just visible through the webs, was a carving of what could only be Grimnir. The god was scowling down protectively at the vault – or what was left of it. Lugash shook his head and cursed softly. ‘They didn’t even take it.’
‘What?’ Volker moved to the edge of the cistern, and looked down. Something gleamed in the depths. He set the lantern down, so that its light reached the other side of the cistern, illuminating more stakes. More skulls. All staring into the pit.
‘It is an old way, little practised these days. The lodge’s gold is held suspended on a scale. If it is too light, the lodge knows it is time to walk the war-road. If it is too heavy, it is time for the lodge to send out its sons and daughters to form new lodges. A steady flame burns longest.’ Lugash looked up. ‘The chains were cut – see? The gold dumped into the guts of the tree, where no one could get it easily. The last act of this place’s runefather, I’d wager.’
‘It should have been easy enough, for the spider-riders,’ Zana said, peering over the edge. ‘But then, what would little savages like that know about gold?’
‘Or maybe something else got to it first.’ Volker peered at the chains, and then down at the rim of the pit, where a second set of chains was visible, extruding from knotholes in the lip of the cistern. These stretched down into the glittering dark below. ‘More chains, leading down. Another pulley system?’
‘The vent,’ Lugash said, studying them. He gestured to another, smaller mechanism nearby – a collection of cogwheels, pulleys and levers. ‘That’ll be the control. It opens a shaft below. Probably drops the gold deep into some underground river or other.’ He frowned. ‘They must’ve not had time to open that one. It could be our way down.’ His frown deepened. ‘What–?’
Volker looked. A warm breeze swept over him, and he could see something glittering in the dark below. Ragged shafts of light pierced the gloom, showing huge gouges in the belly of the cistern, as if something had torn great wounds in its shell.
‘They smashed into the vault from the bottom, and gutted it. All that gold…’ Lugash peered down into the glittering depths, his eyes blank. ‘So much of it,’ he continued, absently. ‘They just… left it.’
Volker felt a chill as he realised what Lugash was saying. The skaven had fought their way up from below, and burrowed into the vault. ‘Maybe they weren’t after gold.’ If the spear had been with the gold, it would possibly have been dumped into the depths as well.
‘You think Gung is down there,’ Nyoka said. It wasn’t a question.
He checked the chains and found that they seemed sturdy enough. ‘Only one way to find out,’ he said. And perhaps find out what happened to Oken, as well, though that hope was becoming dimmer with every passing moment. He wondered what he would do if the old duardin were dead. He pushed the thought aside. He would think about it later… if there was a later.
‘You can’t go down there alone,’ Zana protested.
‘I’ll go with the manling,’ Lugash said. He tugged on one of the chains, tested it. ‘I’m the only one who knows what might be waiting down there, if there’s anything left of the vault.’ He glanced at them. ‘Some lodges set little surprises for would-be thieves.’
‘We should all go,’ Zana said, stubbornly.
‘Hsst.’ Nyoka turned, gripping her hammer tightly. ‘Hear that?’
‘What?’ Volker asked. Then, he did. The persistent thud-thud-thud of drums, sounding in the hollow places of the tree.
‘Drums,’ Lugash muttered. ‘Drums in the dark. They must’ve finished off the manling and his beast. Every tribe of spider-riders in this place will be on our trail now, and they’re probably spoiling for a fight, after what the skaven did to them. Their chieftains will be looking for a victory to save th
eir own skins.’
‘We’re hardly a victory,’ Volker said. ‘There’s only six of us. Well – four.’
‘Good odds, from a grot’s perspective.’ Lugash smiled humourlessly. ‘It’ll take them some time to mobilise properly. If we’re going, we need to go now.’
‘No – you will not.’
A flash of blinding light stunned them. There was a shriek of tearing air, and the smell of hot metal. A coruscating typhoon of azure fire swept out, surrounding them and driving them back from the edge of the cistern. The witchfire coiled about them, making strange, nauseating shapes before fading away into winking motes. Volker’s vision cleared. A shimmering figure strode towards them, surrounded by a croaking cloud of ravens.
‘Fate is a jester,’ the newcomer said, almost gently. ‘That I should find you here can be nothing else, save an expression of cosmic humour – a jape, a merriment, an infinite jest, composed by the mind of a god.’ He cocked his head. ‘Don’t you think?’
He was tall, almost abnormally so, and clad in crystalline armour, over robes of blue. A sword hung loosely in one hand, and one eye was visible through a great crack in his helm. Ravens perched on his shoulders, or hopped at his feet.
Volker swung his long rifle around and fired. The sorcerer waved a hand and, impossibly, the ball stopped in mid-flight, halfway between barrel and target. The Arcanite gestured, examining the lead ball from every angle. ‘A thousand ripples from a single stone. You cast it so freely, seeing only the intended path. As if by belief alone you might make it so. But, it can be diverted, like… so.’ Fingers twitched and the ball sped away to the side. It struck a skull on its stake, shattering it into jagged shards. ‘Fate is not a tool to be wielded by the hands of the ignorant. The gods suffer only a craftsman to make something of it.’
Volker ignored the sorcerer’s ranting and began to reload. The others spread out, weapons ready. The sorcerer and his ravens watched, seemingly in no hurry to dispatch them. He laughed softly. ‘Can you feel it, I wonder? We are being watched – all of us. An awful wisdom sits in places such as this, and finds us wanting.’ The Arcanite paced towards them, sword hanging loosely from his grip. ‘The god of all spiders has set his shadow on this place, hiding it from the gaze of god and man alike. Fitting, then, that it took vermin such as the skaven to find it.’
Volker hesitated, remembering what Grungni had said, about being unable to see Oken. Did the Arcanite speak the truth? Was something else here, watching them? The echo of drums grew louder and the shrill shrieks of grots grew closer. The air in the chamber became still and heavy, and the shadows seemed to thicken in anticipation.
The Arcanite peered at him. ‘You. You’re the one who shot me. Before, I mean.’ He touched the crack in his helmet. ‘An impertinence I could forgive, under other circumstances. But today I am running low on mercy.’ The Arcanite raised a gilded claw and started to speak. The air throbbed with the power in his words, and a sickly glow suffused his hand as he began to gesture.
The world slowed to a crawl as Volker levelled his rifle, hoping his next shot would play out better than his first. He knew, even as his finger closed on the trigger, that he would not be able to pull it in time.
Something dropped down on the Arcanite from above. Not a spider, as he thought at first, but something equally dangerous. Adhema rode the sorcerer to the floor, one arm pressed against the back of his neck. He yelped in shock and pain. His spell lashed the air and the vampire sprang away.
She slid back towards Volker, laughing harshly. Arrows studded her armour, and there were cuts on her marble cheeks. ‘You’re welcome, by the way,’ she tossed over her shoulder.
‘For what?’ Volker asked, incredulous.
‘Finding reinforcements, of course,’ she crowed. A moment later, the walls and ceiling were alive with swiftly moving forms. Spiderfang grots poured into the chamber, their ululating calls filling the air. The sorcerer staggered to his feet and sent a wave of sorcerous fire washing over the first knot of scuttling shapes. He barked a command, and his ravens twisted and swelled into black armoured warriors, who raced to cut down the approaching grots. Several peeled off from the flock and sped towards Volker and the others. At their head was the woman who had led the raid on the Libraria Vurmis.
Adhema met her, sword to sword, moments before she reached Volker. ‘Hello, poppet. Come to finish our dance?’
The raven-woman said nothing, but the ferocity with which she met Adhema spoke volumes. The two traded brutal blows, before splitting apart.
Adhema glanced at Volker. ‘You look surprised to see me, Azyrite.’
‘I thought you’d abandoned us,’ he said.
‘Only briefly. Someone needed to keep the greenskins inside the citadel occupied, and I’m quite fast, even on foot.’ She parried the raven-woman’s blade and shoved her back. Volker made to fire, but the Arcanite was already gone, in a twist of shadow and feathers. He tried to track the raven, but it was impossible.
The chamber had become the scene of a three-sided battle. The black clad warriors and their soft-spoken master were mostly preoccupied with the grots, but several traded hits with Zana and Nyoka. The priestess ducked beneath an attack and sent the raven-warrior stumbling back with a crushing blow. She spun, whirling her hammer up and about, cracking the Arcanite in the knee, and then catching him full in the face as he bent forwards. Lugash rampaged among the grots, laughing wildly, his runes sparking. Volker tried to draw a bead on the sorcerer, but the Arcanite was moving too much – he flickered in and out of sight, like a mirage.
Cursing, he gave up. ‘Can you hold the line here?’ he demanded, looking at Adhema. She nodded, even as she beheaded a grot with a casual sweep of her sword.
‘Until I get bored,’ she said, booting a spider into the air. ‘Best hurry, though.’
‘She’s right,’ Zana called out. She jerked her head towards the chains. ‘The priestess and I will keep the path clear. You and the doomseeker go.’ She snagged a knife from her belt and whipped it into a grot, plucking the greenskin from its spider.
Volker nodded and hurried towards the edge of the pit, calling for Lugash. The doomseeker was covered in blood and ichor, none of it his. ‘Thought you’d forgotten, manling,’ Lugash said, grinning. ‘Thought I was going to have to go claim the spear myself.’
‘You thought wrong.’ Volker slung his rifle and took hold of the chain. ‘Now let’s go.’ Lugash chortled and slid down the chain, into the dark. Volker waited until he’d vanished into the gloom before following. The links were large enough that he could get several fingers between them.
‘Coming, manling?’ Lugash called up.
Volker took a breath, and then started down.
Grungni held the white thing in the palms of his hands, and watched it twist and change itself, as if by warping its form, it might escape him. He smiled, almost gently, and clucked his tongue. ‘No, no, my little soul. There is no escaping me. I am behind you and before you, all at once and suddenly. However far you fly, however long you live, I will still be here. I will persist unto the guttering of the last star. For that is my nature, as this contortion of flesh is now yours.’
The thing screamed. A tiny sound, a wail of discontent stretched over octaves. Grungni closed his fingers, silencing it. He considered what to do with it. He had put the question to it, after a fashion, and learned what it knew – precious little, in fact. Though, in his experience, it was the little things that wound up mattering most.
‘What will you do with it, grandfather?’
He glanced down, his smile fading. ‘I do not know yet, Vali. Perhaps I will try my hand at reforging it, as my brother has done.’
‘Is such a thing worth so much effort?’ Vali said, sourly. The old duardin frowned thunderously, his pinched features settling into a familiar expression of discontent.
Grungni sighed and placed the white thing
into his apron. It squalled piteously, begging an uncaring god for salvation. Somewhere, that god was possibly laughing. It was in his nature to do so, being a great one for japes and tricks.
‘Better to ask whether any task is worth any amount of effort. The answer is inevitably… possibly. We won’t know until we’re done.’
Grungni looked down at his bondsman, and felt a flicker of – not quite guilt, but something like it. Vali was old. Older than he should be, and it weighed on him. Every decade he grew a little more gnarled and knotted, body tightening against itself as the spark within him sought more fuel to keep itself alight. He’d been kind once, had Vali. A great teacher and student, in one. Now…
‘This is not worth doing,’ he said. It was not quite a sneer. One did not sneer at a god. Vali clung to propriety the way a drowning man clung to a broken spar. ‘It is a waste. We could make new weapons in the time we spend searching for these… these lamentable devices.’ He grimaced. ‘Foolishness.’
Grungni snorted. Vali had ways of calling him a fool without stating it outright. ‘And if it is, it is my foolishness. Besides, I prefer to think of it as a gamble.’ He sighed, and looked around his smithy. The first smithy, and the last. Forges flickered with fires first set millennia ago, which had never been doused. And never would be, if he had any say in it. It was in these fires he had forged the first weapons of sigmarite, from the core of a dying world. He smiled, revelling in old satisfactions.
‘Have I ever told you how I met Sigmar, Vali?’
‘Many times,’ Vali said, bluntly.
Grungni blinked. ‘Ah. Well, he’s a good lad, for all that. Bit headstrong, bit rough around the edges, but there’s a good seam there, running through him.’ He frowned. ‘Not like the other one, hiding there at the centre of all that is, like some great spider.’ He sighed. ‘Though even in him, something gleams. It’s the way of mortals, I think. They’re weighed down with possibility, even when they don’t see it.’
