by C. L. Werner
‘My liege, think of what you are doing,’ Onkmarr said. ‘There are many who feel betrayed by your decree. After tending these ships for so long…’
‘Let them bring grudgement against a king if they dare!’ Brynnoth snapped.
Onkmarr shook his head. ‘Most of them won’t be able to. They’ve volunteered to pilot the ships on their last voyage.’
Brynnoth frowned at that last remark, scratching at his missing eye. ‘The sacrifice won’t be in vain,’ he declared. ‘Remember how it looked when we watched from the Durazon as the garrison of Bar-Bruz detonated their supply of Tharzharr and killed the elgi snake? The beast had been ripped to shreds and the elgi scattered like rats.’
‘The garrison and the citadel were lost to us,’ Onkmarr reminded him. ‘You should remember what else has been seen from the Durazon. Signal fires telling us that High King Gotrek is leading an all-out effort to break the siege.’
Brynnoth shook his finger in Onkmarr’s face. ‘That is exactly why we must act now. What pride is left to Barak Varr if it is left to others to rescue us? Gotrek is too soft to be High King, but if I let him rescue my kingdom, I’ll be beholden to him. I’ll be forced to recant my disfavour of him!’
The king and his thane watched as one of the gates began to distort inwards, a tremendous impact pounding a great dent in the portal. Brynnoth pointed at the stricken gate. ‘They won’t hold,’ he said. ‘But we have enough Tharzharr in those ships to blast the serpents into offal. It’s been stockpiled ever since the airships were dismantled.’
‘Maybe Engineer Strombak and his guild are right when they say Tharzharr is suspect, tainted by its association with the skryzan-harbark,’ Onkmarr said. ‘They want to do more tests with it to be certain of its–’
Brynnoth cut Onkmarr off with a scowl. ‘They want to test and test and test. I may have to suffer the timidity of Gotrek, but I don’t have to put up with it from my own vassals.’ Angrily, he waved his hand at the roof overhead. ‘Go! Climb back to the Durazon and look for sign of the High King. Leave the fighting to those with the stomach for it.’
Onkmarr bowed his head and hastily withdrew. He knew better than to test Brynnoth’s temper when the king had his mind set upon a purpose. He could only hope to regain his liege’s favour when he was in a less impassioned mood.
Brynnoth turned his eye back to the harbour, chuckling as he considered the ingenuity of his plan. Ten ironclads, loaded to the gunwales with Tharzharr. Fire-ships to ravage the elgi fleet. The plan had been to unleash them under the cover of night, but the elgi attack had forced a change in those plans. Now they would have to use one of the fire-ships to destroy the serpents at the gates and depend upon the shock and confusion from the explosion to cover the other fire-ships as they sailed out into the Black Gulf.
The shriek of twisting metal drew Brynnoth’s eyes back to the sea-gates. One of the cyclopean panels was sagging inwards, smashed out of all shape by the fury of the sea monsters. A great ophidian head squirmed through the rent, hissing and howling as it snapped at the dwarfs on the gantry below it. The monster’s scales were charred and blackened by the molten lead that had been poured down upon it. Dozens of bolts studded its hide, little rivulets of slimy blood oozing from the wounds. One eye was scorched shut, a blob of shapeless lead hanging from the rim of the socket.
Shouted commands brought hundreds of bolts flying at the monster. Shafts flung from bolt throwers stabbed into its hide; boulders and pots of pitch crashed against its body before splashing down into the water below. The grudge thrower moaned like some vengeful wraith as it cast its massive burden at the serpent. The rune-etched stone slammed into the beast’s head, snapping its jaw and smashing the side of its skull. With hideous reptilian vitality, the enormous merwyrm thrashed and writhed, its furious death throes widening the rent in the sea-gates.
As the first serpent died, two more thrust themselves into the breach, clamping their jaws and flipper-like claws onto the twisted edges of the fissure. Savagely, the brutes broke the locks binding the portals together. With a shuddering wail of ripping metal and crumbling stone, the titanic doors began to swing inwards.
Brynnoth raised his fist and a trumpeter blared the signal to the captain of the first fire-ship. The vessel’s engine shuddered into life, steam and smoke rising from its stacks as its paddle wheel churned into life. Brynnoth drew his spyglass from his belt, training it upon the ship. He could make out the captain behind the wheel, black beads of mourning already woven into the dwarf’s beard. Briefly, the king wondered if the captain was mourning his own sacrifice or that of his ship.
Then the king’s gaze was drawn to the lone figure down on the deck where the barrels of Tharzharr were piled. It wouldn’t have been strange to see a sailor there, ready to ignite the incendiary once the ship was in range of the enemy. But the figure who stood there wasn’t dressed as a sailor. Indeed, with his strange armour and the feathery cloak hanging from his shoulders, he looked like no dwarf of Barak Varr.
Weird as the dwarf’s appearance was, stranger still was the fact that Brynnoth recognised him. He’d met with this dwarf decades ago, offered him a reward for bestowing upon Barak Varr the perfect weapon with which to arm the skryzan-harbark. But it was impossible for him to be here. Drogor had died at Kazad Mingol when his airship was destroyed.
The strange dwarf seemed to feel Brynnoth’s eye on him, for he slowly turned around and looked back at the king. There was no question now – it was certainly Drogor’s face that smiled at Brynnoth.
Even the mounting fury of the serpents as they broke down the sea-gates couldn’t break Brynnoth’s fascination as he watched Drogor smash his fist against one of the barrels of Tharzharr. The wood splintered as though it had been struck by a hammer, spilling the black powder across the deck. The captain in the wheelhouse left his post, flailing his arms and shouting at Drogor.
Drogor paid the captain no attention, instead keeping his eyes on Brynnoth. Before the ship’s captain could reach him, the thane from Karak Zorn lifted his hand. Purple fire rose from the outstretched palm, flickering and dancing with a malignant energy.
Brynnoth’s eye went wide with horror as he understood what was about to happen. He glanced at the other fire-ships, all arrayed in a nice, neat little line. The lead ship hadn’t drawn so very far away. An explosion started there would most certainly spread to the others. The havoc the combined detonation would wreak on the harbour was something the king didn’t want to contemplate.
Brynnoth spun around to give the order to a nearby regiment of crossbows to strike Drogor down. But even as he turned, the thane slapped his burning hand against the spilled Tharzharr and green fire roared through the heart of Barak Varr.
There had been five hundred dwarfs in the advance when Morgrim led them out from the Ungdrin Ankor and into the tunnel connecting with Barak Varr’s lower deeps. Efforts to penetrate into the upper deeps had proven murderous, the elf resistance too well entrenched to dislodge. Unwilling to take such casualties without gaining any ground, Morgrim had left a few hundred warriors in the upper tunnels to keep the elgi occupied while he led his vanguard into the lower passages in the hope that they would find the enemy less established there. If they managed to force a way into the lower deeps, the thousands of warriors in the main body of Morgrim’s army would come surging into Barak Varr and block the enemy’s route back to the surface. More importantly, the sea hold would be rejoined to the great Underway connecting the whole of the Karaz Ankor.
Such was the plan, at least, but after several hours and dozens of casualties, Morgrim wasn’t certain how much progress they were truly making. The elves they faced were tenacious and as he led the vanguard into another underground gallery, the thane found that the enemy had more than swords and arrows to bring to bear.
Morgrim felt the walls shudder around him. Streams of dust and dirt rained down from the ceiling. Farther down the tunne
l he heard the roar of crashing stone as part of the roof fell in. The cries of maimed and wounded dwarfs echoed down the passageway.
‘That wasn’t any natural tremor,’ Rundin Dragonslayer said as he helped Morgrim to his feet.
‘Aye,’ Morgrim agreed. ‘The old miners and runebearers with us would have given warning well in advance if it was. Some of them are like mine rats, able to feel the slightest vibration in the rock around them.’
Rundin spat on the tunnel floor. ‘Elgi witchery,’ he growled, running his thumb along the brand of Grimnir.
Morgrim nodded. ‘Their mages bleed like any other elgi.’ He turned away from the skarrenawi, peering down the tunnel at the dwarfs ahead of them. A few of those he could see were stumbling about, struck by something more significant than dirt and dust. ‘Wounded to the rear,’ Morgrim barked. ‘All the wounded,’ he added. ‘I want only fit fighters at the fore.’
There was some grumbling at that reminder of the thane’s orders, but he knew they would be carried out. A dwarf would fight with half his body stove-in by a troll unless told otherwise. Such obstinacy was commendable, but impractical. An army needed its best fighters leading the way, not a bedlam of wounded heroes.
Morgrim marched forwards with the twenty hearthguard his uncle had detached from his own bodyguard to defend the Elgidum. Beside him, the savage aspect of Rundin Dragonslayer made for an incongruous sight. Morgrim and the hearthguard bedecked in full suits of plates, the skarrenawi champion wearing only his chains and trousers. As unlikely as Rundin’s appearance was, Morgrim knew the hill dwarf to be one of the fiercest warriors in the Karaz Ankor. He’d seen that for himself during the battle for Athel Maraya.
‘I’m surprised you aren’t up ahead with the scouts,’ Morgrim told Rundin. ‘Or maybe you’ve changed your mind about seeking a heroic doom?’
Rundin shook his head. ‘Far from it. I just figure that the elgi are certain to throw their very worst at you since you killed their prince. When they do, I’m going to be there and maybe find a death worthy of my ancestors.’
Morgrim shared an anxious look with the closest hearthguard, then glanced back at Rundin. ‘That’s not exactly comforting.’
‘Depends how eager you are to die,’ Rundin shrugged. Abruptly the skarrenawi lowered his axe, stiffening like a hound scenting prey.
‘Elgi!’ a white-bearded runebearer gasped as he came rushing back down the tunnel. Fleet of foot and as cunning as stoats, the runebearers made their living carrying messages through the Ungdrin Ankor. Their work was hazardous in the extreme, fraught with all the dangers of the deeps, from prowling grobi to lurking spiders. Those who survived to become veterans of their trade quickly learned the disciplines of stealth and observation.
Morgrim waved the scout back and tightened his grip on Azdrakghar. The rune axe seemed to throb with anticipation as if it could sense the closeness of the enemy. Soon, Morgrim promised it, soon it would again taste elgi blood.
Dozens of Ironbreakers rushed ahead of Morgrim’s bodyguard, a precaution the thane had reluctantly agreed to after his vanguard encountered elgi mages early during the fighting. A strong axe and thick armour were small defence against sorcery as many of his warriors had discovered. As much as he longed to fight, Morgrim knew he couldn’t put himself at such risk. An army without a leader was just a mob.
Before Morgrim had gone another twenty yards down the tunnel, the crash of steel sounded from up ahead. A bright flash of arcane fire blazed across his vision as an elgi sorcerer discharged some spell against the warriors he’d sent ahead. A bitter smile worked its way onto Morgrim’s face. The Ironbreakers weren’t merely warriors; they were all experienced tunnel fighters, used to guarding the deeps beneath each stronghold against the creatures of the dark. The armour they wore was a wonder of the dwarfish forges, fashioned from cold-wrought iron and emblazoned with the rune of Stone to endow them with a protection beyond anything afforded by mundane steel. The enchantment of the rune rendered the Ironbreakers all but impervious to hostile magics. What had defied the crude conjurations of grobi shaman had likewise proven effective against elgi spells.
‘Hold.’ Morgrim raised his hand, warning the rest of his column to wait. The elgi were clever and sneaky, but there were some things that could be depended upon. One was their utter faith in their sorcery. When their magic failed to perform as they expected it to, it threw them into a panic. Confronted by a company of Ironbreakers, seeing his first spells fizzle away harmlessly, an elgi mage would compound his misfortune by throwing further enchantments against the dwarf warriors. A few moments of such frantic conjurations and the mage would be all but spent – and easy prey for the waiting dwarfs.
It wasn’t long before the Ironbreakers in the tunnel ahead began to shout ‘Khazuk!’ The elgi were so accustomed to hearing the war-cry that they little guessed it was a summons. It was the sign from Morgrim’s Ironbreakers that the sorcerous attack had begun to falter.
‘Forward, for Grungni and the High King!’ Morgrim howled, waving his axe overhead. The dwarf axemen and hammerers behind him down the tunnel roared in answer to his command. Like a single great beast of steel and sinew, hundreds of dwarfs surged up the tunnel and around the bend.
The Ironbreakers were fending off the assault of scores of elgi spears when Morgrim and his hearthguard swept around the corner. Arrows from hundreds of elf archers whistled through the darkness, glancing off shields and helms. A sphere of incandescent fire shrieked out from the shadows, crashing against one of the hearthguard and melting his torso as though it were wax. Bellowing in delight, Rundin charged off into the darkness to chase down the lurking elf mage.
Morgrim couldn’t spare any further thought for the death-crazed hill dwarf. A regiment of elf spearmen rushed to block off the tunnel and protect the flank of those who’d engaged the Ironbreakers. The thane was soon beset by elgi warriors thrusting at him with their broad-headed spears, trying to drive him back into the connecting passage.
The elgi effort was fruitless. The hearthguard were too disciplined to break before even their assault. Raising shields to cover their comrades, the hearthguard steadily forced the elves back. Foot by foot, the enemy was pushed down the tunnel. Whenever a spear drew back or an elgi shield lowered, a dwarf axe licked out, smashing armour and slashing flesh. One after another, the spearmen fell, crushed underfoot as Morgrim led his warriors onwards.
The elves, so swift and agile, were out of their element down in the tunnels. In the deeps it was strength and stamina that counted and the elgi simply couldn’t match the strength and stamina of the dwarfs. With their arrows and their magic, they might have held Morgrim’s warriors at bay, but in close quarters the odds were stacked against them. Too proud to accept the fact, the elgi fought on, those in the rear ranks marching forwards to take the place of their fallen kin.
The dwarfs cut them down with machine-like rhythm, as if farmers cutting wheat with their scythes. For what seemed hours, Morgrim and his warriors fought their way to the Ironbreakers. Scores of elves lay strewn in their wake before they reached their objective. When finally they had smashed their way through their foes, the reunited force pivoted, wheeling so that the whole width of the tunnel became an unbroken wall of dwarfish steel.
‘Khazuk!’ the dwarfs roared as they drove the remaining elves down the passageway. For a time, the elves tried to hold their position, spearmen forming ranks while the archers behind them tried to pick off individual dwarfs. It was the last gasp of an enemy who already knew it was beaten. When the dwarfs surged forwards, the line of spears was quickly broken. Once they were among the elf ranks, once their enemy’s formation was shattered, what had been a battle degenerated into a slaughter.
When it was over, Morgrim surveyed the carnage. The tunnel was a mire of elgi blood. He was shocked at such tenacity. It was true that the elves had fought with surprising ferocity before, but he’d never seen them mount such
a stubborn defence. An elf was more likely to retreat if he were looking at certain defeat. These had fought on when there was no hope at all.
Rundin came rushing out from the darkness. The hill dwarf’s skin was puckered and burned where an elgi spell had scorched him, but he seemed oblivious to his hurt. ‘Elgidum,’ the champion cried out. ‘Come quickly!’
Something in the skarrenawi’s tone brooked no question. For a dwarf who’d accepted the inevitability of his own death to have such anguish in his voice sent a chill down Morgrim’s spine. Calling out to his hearthguard to attend him, the thane hurried after Rundin.
The Dragonslayer led Morgrim into a small guard hall off the main tunnel. The room was littered with dead dwarfs and a few elf corpses. Amidst the chaos, Morgrim saw the robed figure of an elgi sorcerer, his head cleft by an axe. Rundin’s, unless he missed his guess.
It wasn’t the mage that Rundin wanted Morgrim to see. Instead the hill dwarf showed him a wounded dawi leaning against the wall. Morgrim was taken aback when he stared down at the other dwarf. It seemed incredible, but he knew this injured warrior, though it had been more than a century since he’d seen him. It was his old friend Drogor, the adventurer from Karak Zorn who Prince Snorri had elevated to thanehood.
Morgrim started to kneel beside the bleeding dwarf, but Drogor pushed him back. ‘No time,’ he coughed, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. ‘You have to stop the elgi.’
Morgrim shook his head. ‘They have been stopped,’ he told Drogor. ‘We’re through. The Ungdrin Ankor joins Barak Varr once more.’
‘The reservoir…’ Drogor said, waving his hand towards a passageway almost lost in the shadows at the far end of the chamber. ‘The elgi are… poisoning the water.’
