[Konrad 02] - Shadowbreed

by David Ferring - (ebook by Undead)

  It felt strange to be wearing armour again, but at least it was armour which he knew he could remove if necessary. His leathers and metal were black, as camouflage in the tunnels, and the four dwarfs were similarly clad. He wore a helmet without a visor and a breastplate, otherwise his torso and arms were protected by a long coat of chainmail. He wore gauntlets and carried a round shield which bore no emblem; and in addition to his sword, a poniard was sheathed at his hip.

  The dwarfs were all armed with axes and daggers, protected by mail and armour and hide shields like Konrad’s. Middenheim had been constructed by their ancestors, who had dug upwards through the mountain known as Fauschlag. But, dwarfs being dwarfs, they had kept on tunnelling. The whole area beneath the city, and far beyond, had become a maze of passages. Litzenreich had established himself in one such section.

  This was below the web of tunnels which the humans had built for their own purposes: the cellars, the sewers, the escape passages for the Graf and the ruling families of the city, the supposedly hidden vaults for the rich, and the burial chambers of the rich and the dead.

  In ancient times, the whole of the known world had been linked by dwarf tunnels; all their centres of habitation had been connected. Half a century before the Empire was founded, Artur, chief of the Teutognens, had enlisted the dwarfs and begun to build the fortress city. Artur was later defeated in single combat by the chief of the Unberogens, and the eight warring human tribes were finally united by the victor — Sigmar.

  Because of its relatively recent construction, it seemed unlikely that the dwarfs had made Middenheim a part of their subterranean network. They would not reveal this information to any human, just as they maintained the secret of their own clandestine entrances into the city.

  It appeared that Middenheim was, however, part of another series of passages that joined every region of the Old World. Many of these tunnels had originally been built by the dwarfs, but they had been taken over and expanded. Few even knew of the shadowy creatures who now dwelled beneath almost every town and city in the Empire, perhaps even in the world: the sinister breed called skaven.

  Litzenreich had told Konrad far more than he had ever known about the rat beings. They were believed to be hybrids of humans and rats, as he had suspected, and their mutation had been caused by warpstone. Unlike most mutants, however, the skaven were clever. They possessed the animal cunning of their rodent ancestors combined with the intelligence of their human forebears. They were like a new race, just as humans and elves and dwarfs were.

  They had their own benighted city, Skavenblight, which was reputed to be hidden deep in the marshlands of Tilea. Once a human town, now it was but ruins. Because of their extensive web of warrens, nowhere was safe from the skaven. They had originally lived beneath towns that had fallen into decay, and it was their intention that every centre of habitation should similarly become abandoned and left for their own diseased purposes. For this, they needed more and more warpstone.

  “So, by taking warpstone from the skaven,” Litzenreich had said, “I am helping to preserve Middenheim.”

  Konrad was unsure who the wizard was trying to persuade by this argument — himself or Konrad. He was sure that Litzenreich felt no loyalty to the city. But Konrad needed no convincing. He was content to do anything that would harm the skaven, although he was not really sure why he was needed on the mission. Even if he had not been here, the dwarfs would have ventured deep into the sub-world in search of precious warp-stone. But an extra blade was always useful, and the magician knew that Konrad had been a professional soldier.

  It had been a dwarf who taught Konrad the skills of tunnel fighting. He had been his axe instructor on the frontier, and he swore that such a weapon was all that was needed below ground.

  In such a confined space, a two-handed axe could be swung back and forth with devastating effect; it could also be thrust forward, and its hooked blade could snare an enemy, shredding him apart.

  Konrad, however, preferred a sword. In a narrow passage, one man could hold back a dozen enemies, because only one foe could attack at a time. Often, the one would be at an advantage over the dozen, because his first opponent would be unwillingly pushed forward by those behind — pushed towards his death. It was hard to fight when there was no room to make a tactical retreat, no space to lean back and avoid a blow.

  The tunnels almost seemed the dwarfs’ natural habitat. They were the right size, because the passages had been constructed for their race. They could also see better in the dark than humans. So could skaven, thought Konrad, and they also tended to be of a similar size to dwarfs. He had never considered this connection before. Maybe that was why dwarfs hated the ratmen so much. But dwarfs seemed to hate everything, from elves to goblins.

  The only other race tolerated by dwarfs were humans. This alliance had originally been forged by Sigmar, and now Konrad was continuing this military tradition. Their mission was to find the skaven that lived beneath Middenheim, and to take their warpstone. The dwarfs had accomplished similar tasks previously, or so Varsung had said, and they had claimed great quantities of the stuff. The skaven had not expected to be attacked on their own territory, and were at first easily overwhelmed. Assaults upon the rodent domain had become more dangerous, less rewarding, as time went by. The lairs where they hid their warpstone were both better hidden and better defended.

  The plan now was to raid quickly, grab whatever could be carried, then retreat with equal alacrity. This was to be a swift surprise attack, which was why there were only five of them.

  Konrad needed no instructions in fighting, that had been his life for the five years he had lived in Kislev. But how could he find the warpstone?

  “What do I look for?” he had asked.

  “The dwarfs know,” Litzenreich had replied — and so Konrad had asked Varsung.

  There were two forms of warpstone, he discovered. Its origins were supposedly unearthly, and most of it was found in fist-sized pieces. This was raw warpstone, and it was black, more than black; it was deeper than absolute darkness because it seemed to absorb all light.

  Konrad realized that this was the stuff which had been used to extricate him from the bronze armour; he remembered the ultimate black at the centre of the implements that the dwarfs had manipulated. Raw warpstone could not be properly resolved by the human eye because of the way it drew in light; its edges could not be properly defined except by touch.

  The skaven could also transmute warpstone from its raw state into a refined form, a powder known as grey warpstone. This served the giant rats in many ways. It could be consumed to give them strength, or swallowed in a potion before they went into battle in order to enhance their combat skills. It was used in their weaponry and magic and worship. Warpstone was indispensable to the skaven — and Konrad and the dwarfs were going to steal it from them.

  Grey warpstone presented no danger to humans, or so he had been told. But he had been told so much he was unsure what to believe. The only thing in which he placed any trust was the sword Varsung had given him. As he anticipated the battle ahead, he could feel his heart pounding and the blood pulsing through his veins, and he felt truly alive once more.

  The five checked each other’s black armour, making sure all the straps and buckles were secure and tight. Each shield had been constructed with an oil lantern built into it. The lamps were recessed into the layers of leather to protect them during combat. They were partly obscured in order not to give off too much light, and they cast an eerie glow ahead of them.

  Konrad noticed Ustnar watching him. “I hope you were worth it,” said the dwarf, slinging his double-headed axe across his shoulder.

  They were on the lowest level of Litzenreich’s haunt that Konrad had yet visited, but there was no sign of the wizard. Two guards stood by the heavy wooden door at the end of the passage, otherwise there were just the five of them. The tunnel itself was much narrower and smaller than the others in the complex, and Konrad had to duck to avoid the roughl
y hewn ceiling.

  The two human guards drew the wedges from the door, yanked it open, then sprang back, their halberds pointing into the darkness as they stood side by side. The lanterns revealed nothing except the tunnel. It continued straight ahead, vanishing into the shadows beyond the light. The soldiers stepped aside.

  Varsung was the first one through; Konrad was the second.

  Time passed slowly, and Konrad grew more tense, all his senses totally on edge. He had drawn his sword to give his clammy right hand something to do. They seemed to be descending towards the centre of the world, following a maze of passages which endlessly spiralled down. Sometimes there would be a series of steps carved out of the mountain, sometimes they had to climb down an almost vertical wall of rock.

  Varsung led the way, never hesitating despite all the junctions and alternate routes they passed. Konrad soon realized that he would never find his way back alone, but there was very little chance he would have to: if the dwarfs were all killed, then he would probably have met the same fate.

  Most of the tunnels had been hewn from the rock, and the walls were still pitted with the ancient tool marks of the forgotten excavators, and the occasional runic name could be seen carved in the stone. Other passages seemed to be natural fissures, underground fractures in the strata. The original tunnellers had adapted these flaws in the solid rock as part of their construction.

  There were occasional rockfalls, where the passages had become partially blocked. But there was always room to squeeze by because earlier explorers had come this way and removed most of the obstruction. There was no way of telling when the route had been cleared, whether it was a year ago, a hundred, or a thousand.

  Here and there, the roof had sunk, as though the whole weight of the mountain had pressed down upon it. Even the dwarfs had to bend double to pass through such places. Elsewhere, the floor had buckled, or the sides had been compressed; but there was always enough space to wriggle through.

  It was not only rocks and stones that littered the floor, the dust and debris of millennia.

  There were also bones. They could have been as old as the tunnels, or they could have been very recent, picked clean by the predators which Konrad imagined lurked around every bend.

  Then the shafts began to change. The difference was very subtle, and at first Konrad hardly noticed. He gradually became aware that the passages were not so even, not as well finished, not so regular. These were the tunnels that must have been constructed by the skaven.

  He and the four dwarfs spoke not a word throughout the whole journey. There was nothing to say, they all knew what must be done, and any sound would carry along the empty shafts, echoing and magnifying. Such noise would serve as a warning of their presence, just as the reflected light from their shaded lanterns must inevitably do.

  On and on they went, further, deeper, down and down.

  They were still moving in the same order; there had been few chances to change places, and no reason to do so. Varsung was the pathfinder, leading the way and Konrad followed. Ustnar was behind him, the other two dwarfs took up the rear.

  Then Varsung halted, glancing back. For the first time, he looked past Konrad towards Ustnar. The location appeared no different from any of the other passages through which they had come, but evidently the dwarfs recognized this part of the tunnel.

  Konrad also glanced around, and he saw Ustnar nod. He turned back, and Varsung gestured for him to continue. He did so, but after a few seconds he looked around again. There was no sign of the other three. Konrad and Varsung were alone. For a moment, he wondered where the others had gone. Were they waiting to see what would happen, or had they taken another route? There were so few of them, it seemed a mistake to split their forces.

  He licked at his dry lips, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. His heart was beating faster than ever, his whole body poised for action. He knew something must happen soon, and he felt he would burst if the tension that was building up within him could not find a swift release.

  A few minutes later Varsung suddenly stopped again. He was two yards ahead, and Konrad also paused, wondering why the dwarf had halted. The tunnel was very narrow, and he could not see past him. He glanced back briefly, looking for a glimmer of light. There was none.

  When he turned again, he noticed that the dwarf was slowly falling backwards towards him. As he toppled over, Konrad glimpsed the crossbow bolt through his throat…

  He was dead, Konrad knew that instantly. Without a moment’s hesitation, he leapt forward, threw aside his shield and grabbed hold of the dwarf, pushing him upright. A body was usually a far better defence than a shield. He held the dwarf vertical with his left hand and shoulder, ducking down so that he could see ahead by the light from Varsung’s lantern.

  There was nothing to see, nothing except another narrow twisting passage. He was tempted to smash the lamp, because it was like a beacon signalling his position. But without it, he would be blind — yet the skaven would still be able to see him.

  He heard a sound from ahead, like a sigh of breath, and felt an impact as Varsung’s body jerked back. Another crossbow bolt, he realized.

  What should he do? He could have retreated, dragging the dwarf’s corpse backwards, but he was aware there could be no escape. He had come too far, and he did not know where he should go to get back. Even sprinting away on his own would be futile; he would simply become lost more quickly. Remaining here was pointless. He was pinned down. If he stayed, he would certainly die. That left one alternative, the only alternative for a warrior: to go on.

  He could not go on with Varsung. The corpse would have been heavy enough to drag back as protection; it was far too weighty to push forward. He reached behind, picked up his shield and its lantern, which was still lit, held it in front of him and allowed Varsung to fall. By bending double, the shield completely covered him. He grabbed the dwarf’s axe, wedging it into his belt. Then he moved forward, very slowly, very cautiously, peering past his shield every few seconds. An arrow bounced off it, but the next one missed his right ear by an inch.

  Judging by the time it took to load a crossbow, there was only one archer ahead; and the passage was also too narrow to allow more than one bowman — or bowrat. If there were but one isolated guard ahead, maybe he could take it before he could sound the alarm. Having counted the seconds between the arrows, he knew that for a brief while he could dash forward without fear of a crossbow bolt halting his progress.

  He waited for another shaft to hit his shield, then sprang upright and ran.

  He heard voices, inhuman voices, skaven voices, dozens of footsteps echoing in the passage. A whole pack of them were rushing at him. The archer could have held him back, but it seemed that all the others were anxious to get to him first.

  That was fine by Konrad. He halted, ducking beneath his shield, remaining absolutely still and waiting while the rat things came nearer. Then he leapt up, slamming the first one aside with his shield. The lamp smashed with the impact, but the oil from within splashed across the skaven’s fur, and the flames set the rodent alight. It screamed hideously as it burned alive, but the tunnel was now brighter than ever.

  The second creature ran straight onto Konrad’s sword, impaling itself. “That’s for Varsung!” he yelled, and he spat into its ugly tortured face.

  The death cries of the first two beasts mingled, an unholy duet of death. Konrad’s earlier vow had been fulfilled: drawing his sword had meant spilling skaven blood.

  A second later, the next skaven’s throat was torn out with a single sword sweep. It gurgled, blood bubbling from its mouth and pouring from its neck as it died. He wrenched his blade free, then plunged it into the chest of the next creature. Its hot blood spurted over him, and he laughed in triumph. Four down, a hundred more to come!

  Konrad’s sword ripped out the guts of the fifth ratman, and it went down screeching as the blade decapitated the next giant rodent. The bodies piled up in front of him, a furry r
ampart. They had their own weapons, and he felt himself cut and stabbed, but it was of little consequence. His injuries were not enough to slow him down; he seldom felt battle wounds until later.

  He advanced across the corpses of his enemies, trampling upon the bodies of the dead and the dying, deflecting their weapons with his shield, dealing death with his sword. They were vermin, he was their exterminator. Their lives were nothing, and he annihilated them as simply as if he had been squashing insects. He did not need to think, his reactions were automatic. Then suddenly there were no more, the way ahead was clear.

  The flames from the burning rat had died, but the shaft was not totally black. There was light coming from ahead, a ghostly green radiance from what must have been the skaven nest.

  Breathing heavily, Konrad paused, wiping the foul blood from his face. Then he walked slowly on, and after a time the passage widened. The roof receded, the ground sank and he found himself on a gallery over a huge pit, above a scene from damnation. His own level seemed to be lit with tiny red lights which encircled him, but then he realized that every pair of lights was a red-eyed skaven. They were all watching him, lined up around the walls of a cavernous amphitheatre.

  High above, stalactites hung from the domed roof like threatening weapons.

  There could be no retreat. This was where he would make his stand. Konrad leaned on his bloody sword, breathing heavily, and he gazed at all his enemies. There were hundreds of rat beings, all clad in various pieces of armour and bearing their jagged knives and swords and spears. Their dark garments were decorated with runes, their fur branded with their clan insignia, and the same emblems were on the tattered banners their standard bearers carried.

  The skaven were not the only ones in the vast cave, he noticed. Far below, there were humans — or creatures who had once been human. They carried on with their arduous tasks, slaves to the rat-things, performing their unknown functions amongst the huge fiery furnaces.