Felix took the time to examine his surroundings. Baragor’s Watch was a forbidding place, even once inside the walls. The keep was a thing of crude design, though whether that was by intent or happenstance, Felix couldn’t say. There was none of the sturdy beauty of the dwarf holds here – this was a foundry of war and trade and little else. Dour and effective, it needed no grace, much like its inhabitants.
On the walls, horns sounded and drums beat, the echoes of the noise thrumming with vibrant power through the stones beneath his feet. Warriors were on the wall and the clash of weapons was loud in Felix’s ears. Bolt throwers and grudge throwers sent death flying into the as yet unseen foe. They were moving through a covered corridor at the base of the inner wall. Felix heard the tread of feet above as dwarfs moved up steps onto the wall. The stink of fire-pots and blood choked the air. Screams and cries and howls wrestled and mingled overhead.
The corridor trembled around them as something big hit the wall. It was an explosion, perhaps, or something worse. He paused, but a nudge from one of the guards set him to moving again. Dust sifted down into his hair and across his shoulders. Gotrek looked upwards longingly. ‘We should be up there, manling,’ he said.
‘Honour is for those who deserve it,’ Garagrim said. They were the first words he’d spoken since he’d ordered them taken into custody. Felix looked at the War-Mourner; he was slimmer than Gotrek, and younger, though by decades or centuries, Felix had no way of telling.
‘And you and your father would know all about who deserves what, aye?’ Gotrek said, with a hint of his normal quarrelsomeness.
Garagrim stopped and spun, gesturing with one of his axes. ‘Better than you, Doom-Thief,’ he growled.
‘I’m no Doom-Thief, princeling,’ Gotrek rasped.
‘What you are is yet to be decided, son of Gurni,’ Garagrim said, turning away.
Felix watched the exchange in silence. He caught Biter’s eye, and the cheerful Slayer shrugged, obviously at just as much of a loss as Felix himself.
They left the corridor behind and Felix felt relieved, just for a moment, to be out in the open air, away from the stifling tunnels. Then, the smell of war hit him, and the yearning to find cover quickly replaced the relief. They were in the inner keep of Baragor’s Watch, Felix judged. The sky overhead was black with smoke. The noise, previously somewhat muffled by the rock surrounding him, now gave full vent to its fury and he winced. Dwarfs not on the walls were hard at work, tearing down the by-comparison flimsy houses and businesses of the human population of Baragor’s Watch. Felix had been surprised at first when he’d learned that men and dwarfs lived in such close proximity anywhere outside the Empire, but it made more sense now, knowing that the former were confined to this bastion. Karak Kadrin was a centre of trade famed far and wide, and there was a substantial human community in the outer fortress, including businesses of various sorts. That the dwarfs tolerated such bespoke the relatively cosmopolitan nature of the Slayer Keep.
The humans who’d owned those homes and businesses were refugees now and were streaming across their path in a less-than-orderly queue towards the portcullis that allowed passage from the inner keep of Baragor’s Watch to Karak Kadrin proper. There were hundreds of them, men and women and children, and Felix felt a stab of pity for them. How many had lived here all their lives, only to now lose the only home they’d known? ‘Where are they all going?’ he said.
‘They’re seeking refuge in the hold. There are spaces in the lower levels where they will be put on boats and sent down the Stir back where they came from,’ Garagrim said, in what Felix suspected was smug satisfaction. ‘For too long, these humans have dirtied our stoop. This invasion was a blessing, according to some.’
‘Like you, beardling?’ Gotrek said. Garagrim ignored him. He ordered some of his followers forwards and they moved to clear a path through the refugees in a less than kindly manner. Felix’s palm itched for the hilt of his sword as he saw men and women shoved aside by the dwarfs and separated heedlessly from their loved ones.
Biter thumped his mace into an open palm. ‘War-Mourner, might we trouble you for a bit of relief from guard-duty?’ he said.
Garagrim looked at the surviving Slayers and frowned. ‘If you would go, go. Or stay, I care not. The Engineers’ Entrance has been effectively sealed, thanks to Gurnisson’s rashness.’ He glared at Gotrek, who matched Garagrim’s two eyes with his one.
‘It was a pleasure, Gurnisson,’ Biter said, saluting Gotrek with his weapon. ‘Come, Remembrancer. It’s time for you to watch me kill various and sundry things.’
‘My joy knows no bounds,’ Koertig muttered, hefting his axe. He slumped after his capering Slayer, the image of dejection. Gotrek looked similarly stricken, watching his brethren in madness go to war.
‘It was hardly rashness,’ Felix said, stung on Gotrek’s behalf. ‘And better it is sealed than sit inviting attack as it was, I’d have thought.’
‘What you think is of no concern to me, human,’ Garagrim said haughtily. ‘Only my father’s wishes matter.’
‘Then let us cease yapping and see him,’ Gotrek rumbled. ‘I grow weary of your company, beardling.’
Garagrim flushed and his axes twitched. Was Gotrek trying to provoke him? But before Garagrim could reply, something arced up over the walls and crashed to the street, hurling flaming potsherds in every direction. One of Garagrim’s warriors fell, his armour wreathed in sticky flames. Felix rushed towards the fallen dwarf and whipped off his own cloak, thinking to smother the blaze, but Gotrek grabbed him.
‘Leave it, manling, there’s no putting out a fire of that sort. You’ll just burn with him,’ the Slayer rumbled as the dwarf died. Alarm bells were sounding in the city. More flaming pots crashed down and liquid fire crawled between the cobbles of the street. Horns wailed and the relative order of the refugees had dissolved into madness as people ran as fast as they could towards the supposed safety of the next wall. The dwarfs, in contrast, were heading towards the noise, faces set and weapons ready.
‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Felix said.
‘They’ve gotten through what’s left of the outer wall,’ Garagrim snarled, clashing his axes together in frustration. He looked at Gotrek. ‘I have no time to deal with you, Doom-Thief, and it seems you’ll get your wish.’ At a barked command, his warriors returned his and Gotrek’s weapons. ‘To the wall,’ Garagrim roared, raising an axe high.
‘Let’s get to the wall before all of the enemy are dead and the beardling changes his mind,’ Gotrek said eagerly. He shoved Felix along and they joined Garagrim as the War-Mourner led his followers towards the steps which led to the parapet of the inner wall.
‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that, more’s the pity,’ Felix muttered. Garagrim and his warriors were already climbing the stone steps leading to the top of the closest section of the inner wall, where great grudge throwers hurled stones and massive bolt throwers fired into the unseen ranks of the enemy. Felix followed Gotrek, his heart thudding in his chest, his hand on his sword hilt.
As they reached the top, he could make out the shape of Baragor’s Watch better. From these walls, narrow stone walkways spanned across the keep towards the final wall. The parts of the outer fortress which were above ground were designed like a series of ever-shrinking half-rings within half-rings. Invaders would be forced to breach two great walls and cross the inner killing grounds before they could even attempt to assault the final wall that separated Baragor’s Watch from the bridge to Karak Kadrin. Felix passed a number of dwarfs who were pulling back to that wall. Some carried only their weapons while others were manoeuvring war machines off their rotating platforms and dragging them to platforms set further back. When he mentioned it to Gotrek, the Slayer grunted, ‘Ironfist is canny. If Baragor’s Watch falls, he’ll need warriors in place to cover the retreat.’ Gotrek said the last as if it were a dirty word.
‘And the war machines?’ Felix said, watching as a group of dwarfs grunted and c
ursed as they unhooked a catapult from its stone and metal stabilizers.
‘Range, manling,’ Gotrek said. ‘If they get past the outer wall, they’ll need to be able to fire into the keep to destroy any buildings that haven’t been torn down that the enemy can use for cover or shelter. Better to see such things destroyed than touched by followers of Chaos.’
Felix frowned. There was a pragmatism to the way Gotrek said it that only served to reinforce the differences between the Slayer’s people and the men of the Empire. Felix had known more than a few men who went in for burning fields and homes in order to deny them to the enemy, but they were, by and large, considered extremists. But for the dwarfs, it was a given that destruction was preferable to surrender. Gotrek had told him more than once of entire holds that had collapsed into darkness and silence and ruin when it looked as if they’d be overrun.
For men, where there was life, there was hope. But for dwarfs, hope was secondary to honour, and seemingly no dwarf sought a better life when a good death was easily available. They were a fatalistic people, but stubborn in that fatalism. Hope was compromise, and for the dwarfs compromise was weakness. Thus, they had no hope and no reason to surrender, even when the odds were stacked so high a giant might not see the uppermost.
Following the Slayer onto the parapet, Felix again contemplated what strange set of circumstances had set him in Gotrek’s wake. Did the dwarf fatalism extend to Gotrek’s own desire for a grand death? That didn’t seem right. Gotrek appeared hopeful, at times.
Maybe that hope was part of his shame. Or maybe it was something he allowed himself now that he was outside of the rules and strictures of orderly dwarf society. Felix shook his head. Or maybe Gotrek was simply suicidal and mad.
At the top of the parapet, a vista of horror unfolded before Felix like something out of a nightmare. He looked out over the serried ranks of the enemy army, and his breath died in his lungs and all thoughts and musings over honour and hope vanished from his mind. ‘Sigmar’s oath,’ he whispered.
It seemed as if a howling sea was crashing against the walls of the inner keep. The ruined shapes of the lower wall thrust up crazily from the depths of that sea, and as Felix watched, a section crumbled, collapsing atop the invaders with a roar of grinding stone. The remaining Chaos troops didn’t seem to have noticed, or else didn’t care.
They stretched as far as the eye could see: a rolling, ever-shifting tide of enemies. Chaos marauders and Norscans charged towards the wall that Gotrek and he now stood on, chanting the names of their dark gods. Grisly banner poles jutted from that morass of moving bodies, heavy with skulls, scalps and ruinous icons that stung Felix’s eyes, even from a distance. Many warriors carried hideous looking siege-ladders crafted from what could only be giant bones and strange metals and sinews on their shoulders, while others wielded great torches to light the way. Some of the latter were sent whirling into ruined buildings, where the wood quickly caught and blazed high, casting a grotesque light over the invaders. They seemed undeterred by the steep slope between one wall and the next, and chanted as they ran. Chaos hounds threaded through their feet, loping alongside their human masters, and giving voice to terrible bays full of un-canine like ferocity. The heavy, ponderous shapes of mutated trolls and bellicose, monstrous ogres forced their way through the press eagerly. At the head of the horde, the heavy, armoured shapes of the Chaos warriors led the way, silent and inevitable. Some wore black armour, others brass or virulent crimson, all the colours of savage death and brutal violence.
Felix sucked in a breath. They looked unstoppable, inexorable, like an oncoming storm. Part of him wanted to flee, to find a hole and pull the earth in over him and wait for this all to pass. But one look at Gotrek sent his fear fleeing. The Slayer stood on the parapet, legs braced, axe extended before him and he bellowed an extensive litany of curses, in Khazalid as well as several languages that Felix didn’t recognize, at the onrushing Chaos troops.
A moment later, the siege-ladders struck the stone and the barbaric shapes of Chaos marauders clambered up them, screaming blasphemous prayers. As soon as they set foot on the parapet, Felix was subsumed into the frenzy of battle. A bellowing Chaos marauder, his face almost featureless amidst the scrawled scars that covered him brow to jowls like a mask, swung a rusty axe at Felix’s head as the siege-ladder he rode crashed against the parapet. Karaghul slid easily from its sheath and Felix chopped down. His blade sank between the marauder’s neck and shoulder and screeched as it grated against the single rusty pauldron the barbarian wore.
The warrior slumped back, only Karaghul’s bite keeping him from toppling backwards into those of his companions who were climbing the siege-ladder. Felix grunted and jerked the sword loose. The marauder disappeared, only to be replaced by another. Then Gotrek was there, shouting in harsh joy as his axe swept out, beheading the next warrior to try his luck on the wall.
More ladders settled on the parapet. Hundreds of marauders surged up the bones, throwing themselves on the defenders with brute abandon, seemingly not caring whether they lived or died. Felix was momentarily adrift, his sword lashing out automatically at foes he barely had time to glimpse before they were gone, the only sign of their presence the blood on his hands and face.
Soon his arms burned and ached as he cut and thrust with mechanical repetition, killing in a dull fog. For every Chaos marauder who fell, another seemed to take his place. Had every attack been like this, Felix wondered? The sheer mindless ferocity to the assault was mind boggling. Surely no army, not even one made up of Chaos-worshipping savages and daemon-worshippers, could sustain this sort of savage pace. But bad as it was for the attackers, it was worse for the defenders.
The dwarfs were doughty enough, but they were not many. Even the Slayers among them were like rocks in the tide and not entirely stable ones, and as Felix watched, a Slayer screamed wildly and hurled himself over the parapet, into the maw of battle. Instinctively, he sought out Gotrek. He hoped the Slayer wouldn’t be tempted to do the same.
Gotrek had climbed atop the parapet and was roaring, ‘Come on, scum! Come to Gotrek! My axe thirsts!’ Warriors rushed to answer his challenge. Two siege-ladders dropped towards the Slayer, snarling warriors crouched atop them, spears in their hands. Gotrek chopped his axe into the stone of the parapet and reached out. The heads of the ladders slapped into his waiting palms and he gave a grunt of exertion, his muscles straining. For a moment, Felix feared he would lose his balance, and he stretched out a hand. The spears of the warriors on the top of the ladders stabbed out, one skidding over the flesh of Gotrek’s shoulder. Felix struck, slicing the weapons in half and leaving their wielders staring in stupefaction at their broken weapons. A moment later, Gotrek gave a great heave, sending the ladders hurtling away from the wall. Those warriors still clinging to them screamed as they were carried away from the wall and disappeared into the successive waves of the horde.
Another ladder slapped against the wall in front of Felix, forcing him to jerk back. He stepped forwards and drove his shoulder into the edge of the siege-ladder, his flesh crawling at the touch of it. Strange runes had been carved into it and he felt an unnatural heat emanating from it. ‘Gotrek, help me!’ he shouted.
Gotrek reached out with one hand and gave the ladder a shove. It slid sideways, carrying its cargo with it. A fire-pot struck the wall nearby, and Felix twitched as a wash of stinging heat caressed him. ‘There must be thousands of them,’ he said.
‘The more the merrier,’ Gotrek said, uprooting his axe. Felix turned, looking for the others. Garagrim and his warriors had moved to the centre of the wall, where the fighting was heaviest. The prince’s axe flashed out, sweeping the head from a screaming warrior as Felix watched. Then, from within the guts of the horde, horns sounded. As if in reply, from a high dais on the wall, a dwarf blew a large, curled horn.
As they watched, the seemingly endless horde, improbably, impossibly, began to retreat. Not out of fear, Felix knew, but simply because their momentum had be
en broken. A dulled edge needed to be re-sharpened. They left their dead heaped where they lay, retreating in grudgingly good order. Champions, marked by the gods, stood and shouted parting imprecations at the defenders before turning and trotting after the rest. Gotrek spat over the side of the wall. ‘They’ll bring up the siege-weapons,’ he growled.
‘Aye, but they’re done for now,’ Garagrim said, marching towards them. ‘We have unfinished business, Gurnisson. The king waits, and you shall see him.’ Felix stepped back, only to be nudged forwards by one of the dwarf warriors. Garagrim, without waiting for either of them to reply, turned on his heel, leading the way towards the palace of the Slayer King.
5
The Worlds Edge Mountains,
the Valley of Karak Kadrin
Canto cursed for the fifth time in as many minutes as he watched Hrolf’s lieutenants battle each other for the honour of taking control of his warband. They were a hairy, uncouth lot, Vargs and Sarls for the most part. Norscans, rather than marauders, like Kung and Yan. The latter stood beside him, watching the ritualized idiocy with apparent glee.
‘So the idiot cur finally got what was coming to him, eh?’ he cackled, touching a burned patch of flesh on his arm. ‘Good, more glory for the rest of us.’
‘Why aren’t you with Kung, seeing to the assault?’ Canto said, not looking at him. A Varg named Gurn roared and stamped, and the pulsing tendril that replaced his left hand shot out, undulating around the scaly throat of another champion, this one a bloated cannibal clad in ragged armour that barely fit his overly muscled and bulky frame, named Harald the Lean. Harald grabbed the tendril and bit down, sinking scissoring wide, shark-like fangs into it. Gurn yelped and jerked his arm back, flinging Harald to the ground.
‘Because Kung enjoys scaling walls and I don’t. Besides, there are more profitable things to be done,’ Yan said, flexing his scorched arm. ‘That’s why you’re here, after all.’
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 9
