“Until the end,” he muttered, crushing the smouldering pipeweed with his thumb and leaping down off the rocky promontory into the darkness below.
Lokki awoke, not in the halls of his ancestors, his place made ready at Grungni’s table; but coughing and spluttering amidst the ruination of the long stair. He was alive; a terrible, searing pain in his back where the knife had gone in reminded him of that fact. He’d lost his helmet somewhere — there was a large gash on his forehead, the blood was still slick and filled his nose with a copper-like scent.
Rubble lay all about and the air was thick with dust and grit, his once dark brown beard was wretched with it. A brazier still burned from a sconce attached to a nearby wall. Its flickering aura cast long, sharp shadows. The skaven were gone, as were their dead. They must have thought him slain, else he would be dead too.
Lokki tried to look around and found he couldn’t move. A huge slab of granite crushed his legs. With some effort he heaved himself up onto his elbows and pressed both his hands against the rock but it wouldn’t yield. He slumped back down again, gasping for breath. He was weak; the blade that had stabbed him must’ve been coated in poison. Dwarfs were a resilient race though, and could survive all but the most potent venoms — at least for a time.
Mustering his strength Lokki glanced around, hoping to find something he could use to lever the slab off his legs. His axe lay just beyond his reach. He tried desperately, gloved fingers clawing, to touch it but it was too far.
A stench wafted over him on a weak-willed breeze emanating from some unseen source. He knew it well. It was the cloying, rank and musty odour of skaven. The reeking stink was overpowering; Lokki felt bile rising in his throat and his eyes water. Then he heard something, the tiny sound of claws scraping stone.
“Poor little dwarf-thing,” said a horrible, rasping voice.
A skaven, clad in thick rust-ridden armour, with black and matted fur, loomed over Lokki. The creature gave a half snarl, half smile revealing yellowed fangs. Lokki noticed a scar beneath its filthy snout; the stitches were still evident in the pinkish flesh. On the fingers of its right paw the ratman wore a golden ring; a rune marked it out as treasure stolen from the vaults of Karak Varn. The other ended in a vicious-looking spike. A crude helmet sat on its head, two small ears poking through roughly sheared holes. Lokki had fought enough rat-kin to realise this was one of their clan leaders — a warlord.
“This is skaven territory, yes-yes,” hissed the creature. Lokki fought the urge to wretch against its foetid breath as it crouched down close, beady little eyes scrutinizing, mocking.
“Neither dwarf-thing nor green-thing rule here now. Here, Thratch is king. Thratch will kill, quick-quick, any who set foot in his kingdom, yes. Dwarf hold is mine!” he snarled, slashing a deep wound in Lokki’s cheek with a filthy spike.
Lokki grimaced and spat a thick gobbet of blood into the skaven warlord’s face. “Karak Varn belongs to the dawi,” he growled, defiantly.
Wiping the dwarf’s blood away with the back of his remaining paw, Thratch stood up, a feral grin splitting his features. Lokki watched as the creature slowly backed away into the darkness, and at exactly the same time another skaven emerged from it as if the shadow were an extension of his very being.
It was clad in black rags, its eyes blindfolded, its gait slightly stooped as it crept towards Lokki menacingly.
“Tried to cut my throat, Kill-Klaw did yes…” hissed the warlord, who was lost from view. “Took his eyes, took his tongue — but Kill-Klaw not need them to stab-stab, quick-quick. Now Thratch is master, and he bids Kill-Klaw… stab… stab… slow… slow.”
The blind skaven assassin loomed over Lokki, dagger in hand. For the first time, the dwarf noticed it wore a necklace of severed ears strung around his neck. Kill-Klaw screeched — a terrible sound, emanating from the very gut — and darkness engulfed Lokki utterly. Agonised screams ripped from the dwarf’s mouth, echoing through the ancient halls of Karak Varn and into the uncaring blackness, as Kill-Klaw went to work.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bloody but unbowed, Fangrak trudged through the winding goblin tunnels of the Black Mountains and thought of how he might avoid a grisly demise. The orc chieftain was accompanied by a band of his warriors; the greenskins — orcs and goblins both — that had survived the attack by the dwarfs at the gate.
Twice now, he had been defeated. After the massacre in the foothills at the edge of Black Water he had gathered more warriors. He knew the dwarfs were headed for the old city, but he hadn’t bargained on how long they would be down there. Two days he had waited, his patience thinning with every hour. Even choking the odd goblin hadn’t alleviated his boredom. They’d erected totems, made offerings to Gork and Mork out of dung, and lit fungus pyres — the thick fumes cloying and potent. A stupor had descended from the heady fug exuded by the smouldering pyres, and the dwarfs had surprised them as the greenskins had awaited their return outside the gate of the hold. All of this he would have to explain to Skartooth.
The long tunnel opened out into a wide cavern. Daubed upon the walls in dung and fungus paint were the markings of the orc gods. Fires were scattered throughout the vast room beneath the mountain, goblins clad in thick black robes hunkering together and stealing malicious glances at Fangrak as he passed them by. Some hissed and snarled at him as he went, navigating the clutter discarded by the greenskins and the ubiquitous filth that pervaded everything. Fangrak wasn’t scared of any of them, orc or goblin. He growled back, brandishing his flail meaningfully. The brutal weapon was slick with greenskin gore — he’d had to take his wrath out on someone before they returned…
At last, Fangrak reached the end of the chamber. Flickering torches clasped in crude iron sconces threw slashes of light on scattered bones that lay in abundance there. Orc, dwarf and skaven were all picked clean, even the marrow sucked dry by Skartooth’s “pet”. The beast was ever hungry and it was unwise to let him starve for too long.
Ungul was the first thing that Fangrak noticed as he approached the seat of his warlord with shoulders slumped, his defeated warriors in tow. The troll languished on a cot of straw and flayed skin — brown and coarse like leather, and curled at the edges. Chewing on a blood-stained, meaty rib bone, the beast grunted at the orc chieftain, the chains that shackled it to the ground rattling agitatedly.
Fangrak kept far enough away from Ungul so that it couldn’t reach for him with its long, gangling arms, relieved as the beast went back to chewing at the bone. The orc chieftain bowed down on one knee before his warlord.
Skartooth was sat upon his “throne”, as the goblin warlord liked to call it. Wrought from bone, divested of flesh and meat by Ungul, the “throne” took on a macabre aspect. A skull rack served as a back rest, crested by the heads of dwarfs and skaven, and any greenskins who displeased the agitated goblin. Rib, thigh and shin bones fashioned the seat, while the arms, legs and feet were made from an assortment of other parts, each surmounted by more skulls. Skartooth liked skulls; he had one on top of his great black hood, a mere rat skull — else the towering peak would collapse into his eyes. Around his neck he wore an iron collar, infested with spikes. It was a grotesque talisman. As Fangrak stooped he imagined tightening it around the goblin warlord’s neck, until his eyes burst from his tiny head and his thin tongue lolled from his simpering little mouth. The orc chieftain allowed himself a grin at that, careful to conceal it from Skartooth as the warlord spoke.
“So, you is back then,” sneered the goblin, enveloped in his voluminous black robes, stained with the symbol of the blood fist — his tribe. “Ave you killed them stinking stunties yet?”
“No,” growled Fangrak, keeping his head bowed.
“Useless filth!” Skartooth spat, lobbing a handful of rotten meat he’d been playing with, rather than eating, straight at Fangrak. The wretched meat struck the orc chief in the head, knocking his helmet askew. Fangrak went to right it without thinking.
“Leave it,” Skartooth screec
hed, getting to his feet and yanking hard on Unguis chain. The troll, who had been busying himself picking scabs from his stony flesh, grunted in annoyance, but the goblin warlord held the creature’s gaze and it became placid.
“You want to feel the insides of Ungul, do ya?” Skartooth snarled.
Fangrak looked up at the goblin warlord, but betrayed no emotion.
Skartooth took a step forward. Fangrak could see the goblin’s dung staining the furs laid out on the seat of his throne.
“You want to get in ’is belly where ’is juices will melt ya away to nuthin’, eh? You worthless scum, you dung-eating swine.”
Fangrak responded levelly, his voice deep and unmoved.
“We ave found a way through the gate.”
Skartooth halted in his menacing tirade to listen intently.
“But there’s a rock fall in the way,” Fangrak said calmly. “I reckon we can get in, but I’ll need a few lads to clear it.”
Skartooth looked Fangrak in the eye, scrutinizing him carefully to try and detect if he was lying. Satisfied, the goblin warlord sat back down.
“You’ll ave what you need,” he whined, squeakily. “But Ungul is still ’ungry and I’ve peaked ’is appetite.”
Fangrak got back to his feet and pointed to one of his warriors. It was Ograk — he’d been the lookout at the gate, sprawled on a rock, snoring loudly when the dwarfs had attacked.
“Oi!” said Fangrak, gesturing Ograk towards him, “Come ere.”
Ograk pointed dumbly to his chest, to make sure it was him that his chieftain meant. Fangrak nodded once, very slowly. The orc shuffled forward, one eye on Ungul, who was licking his lips.
Fangrak got up close, eye-to-eye with Ograk, then took a knife slowly and quietly from a sheath at his thick waist and slit the backs of Ograk’s legs with two fiercely powerful swipes. The orc howled in pain and rage, collapsing to his knees. He ripped his cleaver from its sheath, spitting fury, but Fangrak swatted it from his grasp with a heavy backhand blow.
“You’ll not be needin’ that,” he said, grabbing Ograk by the scruff of the neck and growling in his ears, “and you’ll not be runnin’ away, iver.” With a grunt of effort, Fangrak hurled Ograk into the reach of the troll. Ograk screamed as Ungul battered him down with a meaty fist, the splintering retort of bone echoing around the cavern.
“Are we done?” he said to Skartooth, belligerently.
“Go clear that rock fall,” Skartooth said, “or it’ll be you in its belly next time.”
Fangrak turned, snarling harsh, clipped commands at his warriors before going off into the cave to press-gang others for his work crews. In his wake, he heard the wet tearing sound of rending flesh and the dull crunch of slowly mashed bone. He didn’t stay long enough to hear the sucking of juices or the swallowing of innards; he was hungry enough as it was.
Uthor led the procession of dwarfs as they approached the Great Hall of Everpeak, Seat of the High Kings, behind Bromgar, one of the High King’s hammerers and bearer of the key to the King’s Chamber. It was a great honour indeed and Bromgar bore it with stoic fortitude and irresolute dourness.
The gatekeeper had met them at the mighty entrance to the hold — an impregnable bastion of flat stone that defied the ravages of the ages. He’d been waiting there as they’d approached from the Everpeak road — a lone dwarf made seemingly insignificant before the edifice of rock and iron.
The dwarfs of Everpeak had been expecting them.
A series of secret watchtowers set into the highest crags offered a view of many miles and were a ready early warning of approach. Quarrellers had stood at sombre guard from a final pair of watchtowers, flanking the outer gate. They were wrought with massive statues of the ancestors and the High Kings of old, the imposing sentinels glaring down at all-comers. The venerable image of Gotrek Starbreaker was amongst them, holding aloft the Phoenix Crown of the elves, a trophy won at Tor Alessi and which still resided in Everpeak as a reminder of the dwarfen victory.
At the loftiest upper wall the glint of armoured warriors could just be seen, patrolling diligently. The gate itself was a colossal structure. Some four hundred feet tall, its zenith seemingly disappeared into sky and cloud. So solid, so formidable was the great gate to Karaz-a-Karak it was as if it was carved from the very mountainside itself. Valaya’s rune was inscribed upon it in massive script, a sure sign of the protection of hearth and hold.
They had been granted entry mainly due to Halgar’s presence and the fact that they bore dire news and the Karak Varn Book of Grudges as proof of it. Bromgar had turned then, rapping five times with his ancient runic hammer on the immense barrier of stone and tracing a symbol with a gauntleted hand. Uthor had stared, enrapt, as a thin silver seam appeared and a portal no larger than four feet tall opened and allowed them all admittance.
“Ever since High King Morgrim Blackbeard ordered them shut during the Time of Woes, the great gates to Everpeak have not been opened,” the gatekeeper had said dourly, by way of explanation.
Having been received by an honour guard of Bromgar’s hammerers in the audience chamber, the dwarfs now walked down a vast gallery, flanked by the royal warriors in silent vigil, their great hammers held unmoving at their armoured shoulders.
Never had Uthor witnessed such beauty and such immensity. The audience hall rose up into a vast and vaulted roof, banded by gold and bronze arcs. Columns of stone, so thick and massive it would take a dwarf several minutes to walk around them, surged into that roof, resplendent with the bejewelled images of kings and ancestors. A mighty bridge, a thousand beard-spans across and covered in a mosaic representing the past deeds of Everpeak, stretched across a gaping chasm that fell away into the heart of the world. It led to a broad gallery lined by a veritable army of gold statues, each one a perfect rendition of the royal ancestors of the hold. So wondrous was Karaz-a-Karak that even Hakem was stunned into abject silence.
Of their company, only six now remained for an audience with the High King himself. Rorek had parted ways with the throng at the edge of Black Water. He would take the long road back to Zhufbar, taking care to avoid the greenskins lurking in the mountains and petition his king to grant troops for the mission into Karak Varn and the reclamation of the hold. Lokki, of course, had fallen. It was a bitter blow, felt by all, but none so keenly as Halgar who had said little since they’d made their oaths.
After a bewildering journey, they stood at last before the doorway to the Great Hall, resplendent with runes, etched in gold and gromril and bedecked with a host of jewels. Uthor quailed within, humbled to be at such a place. It even banished the dark spectre that haunted the edges of his mind — the memories back at Karak Kadrin — if only for a moment.
Horns bellowed throughout Karaz-a-Karak, their notes deep and resonant, heralding the arrival of the visitors to the king’s court. The great stone doors opened slowly, grinding with the weight of ages. Another hallway stretched before the dwarfs, so long and wide it could have held several small overground settlements. Its vaulted ceiling seemed to disappear into an endless firmament of stars as an infinite array of sapphires and diamonds sparkled high above. Light cast from huge iron braziers, forged into the dour faces of high kings and ancestors, inlaid with huge fist-sized rubies, created the glittering vista and made it seem as if the hold was open to the very heavens.
The awesome planetarium made Uthor feel insignificant, as did the hundreds of beautifully carved columns stretching away in the shadows, much further than he could see. They were etched with the deeds and histories of the clans of Everpeak. Bare rock was visible on some, where a clan’s line had been wiped out. Even now, high up in the lofty space, artisans were at work dutifully engraving with chisel and pick.
Like the thick tongue of some immense beast of myth, a mile-long red carpet swept down the centre of the massive hall. As the dwarfs made their way along it, treading down the mighty crimson causeway in awestruck silence, Uthor noticed the great deeds of his forebears etched onto the walls
. These vistas were much, much larger than those of Karak Varn, over a hundred feet tall: the ancestor gods, Grungni and Valaya teaching their children the ways of stone and steel; mighty Grimnir slaying the dark denizens of the world and his long trek into the unknown north; the coronation of Gotrek Starbreaker and finally the great deeds of High King Morgrim Blackbeard and his son, the current lord of Everpeak, Skorri Morgrimson. Uthor wiped away a tear at their magnificence.
At the edge of a vast circular dais of stone, Bromgar bade the dwarfs stop. Around the far side, the ancient faces of the Karaz-a-Karak council of elders regarded them. Every one of them sat upon a seat of stone, the high backs decorated with ancestor badges wrought of bronze, copper and gold. Each seat bore its own particular device to reflect the status and position of the incumbent. A gruff-looking dwarf, his long black beard flecked with metal shavings, bound in plain iron ingots and with tan skin that shone like oil, could only have been the king’s master engineer; his chair was decorated with tongs crossed with a hefty wrench. The high priestess of Valaya, a wise old matriarch wearing long purple robes was seated in a chair that bore the image of a great dwarfen hearth, the rune of the ancestor goddess above it. There were others too; the head victualer had a tankard, the longbeards of the warrior brotherhoods bore axes and hammers, and the chief lorekeeper an open book.
In the centre of this venerable gathering, atop a set of black marble steps and sat upon a further dais was the High King himself, Skorri Morgrimson.
He wore a doublet of white and royal blue, edged in silver thread over a broad, slab-like chest. Thick and rugged, his black beard — the namesake of his father — was bound up in ingots of gold. Dappled with grey hair, it hinted at his age and wisdom. Thick, heavily muscled arms, banded with rings of bronze, copper and gold, and inscribed with swirling tattoos were folded across his chest. On one arm, the various devices of the ancestors were depicted; on the other, a rampant red dragon, its coiling serpentine tail made into a runic spiral.
[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Page 8
