Gotrek stood still and silent for a moment, but then he nodded brusquely. ‘I will go with them as well,’ Axeson said, with his thumbs hooked in his belt. Ungrim gaped at him, but recovered quickly.
‘Yes, fine, go,’ Ungrim said, twitching a hand in assent.
‘No,’ Gotrek growled, shaking his head.
‘Now who’s denying whom?’ Axeson said, eliciting another glare from Gotrek. ‘You hold no sway over me, Gurnisson. Not now and not here. It is the will of Grimnir that I go, so… I go.’
Gotrek turned away, mouth working. Felix thought he looked as if he were choking on whatever it was he wanted to say, but in the end he swallowed the words and stomped out of the blockhouse. Felix made to follow, and Axeson fell in beside him, keeping pace easily.
‘You seem to get some pleasure in pricking him, master priest,’ Felix said. It was obvious that Gotrek knew Axeson from a previous encounter. He had never mentioned the priest before, but that wasn’t unusual. Gotrek was as frustrating a subject as any biographer had ever had the bad luck to be pledged to. He refused to speak of his past or even of his present. To Gotrek, only one thing mattered, and that was how his story would end.
‘So it must seem to a manling. I assure you, I get no pleasure from it,’ Axeson said, not looking at him. ‘Very little about this pleases me, in fact.’
‘How long have you known Gotrek?’
‘Longer than is healthy,’ Axeson said. Felix was surprised. He hadn’t truly expected an answer. Despite Felix’s first impressions, the priest seemed not to hold him in the same casual contempt that most dwarfs held for men. It was no coincidence that the Khazalid words for ‘badly made’ and ‘man’ were very similar.
‘So longer than a week then,’ Felix said.
Axeson surprised him again by chuckling. ‘Oh yes. The last time I saw him, he did not have a Remembrancer, nor, it seemed, a desire for one. Even then, he was selfish.’ He caught Felix’s look. ‘All Slayers are selfish, Jaeger. Grimnir marched north against the advice of his fellows and deprived our people of his might in our darkest hour. Thus do Slayers emulate him, separating themselves from our society and spending their remaining years seeking their own way,’ he continued.
‘I have always assumed that it was by mutual consent that Slayers leave,’ Felix said, glancing at Gotrek moving ahead of them, pushing his way through the dwarfs in the blockhouse with single-minded heedlessness. Most got out of his way quickly enough and more than one dwarf turned away from Gotrek’s belligerent gaze. Everyone knew who Gotrek was, it seemed, and no one seemed happy to see him.
‘Does that make it any less selfish, that we let them go?’ Before Felix could reply, Axeson made what might have been a frustrated noise. ‘But it is a facet of our people to be selfish. Just as it is a facet for us to be generous, or dour or boisterous. The gods crafted us as artificers craft gems, and we are complex and varied.’
‘You have a way with words,’ Felix said.
‘A good priest must know how to talk. And we dwarfs appreciate words in ways that your people do not. To speak is to chisel the air, which is why it must be done sparingly and with precision. Careless talk causes as much damage as a rock fall. And to write… Well, to write is to carve the very stuff of history, Jaeger.’ He looked at Felix. ‘He did not choose wrong in you, I think.’ He looked back at Gotrek, his expression considering. ‘He is prideful. Ufdi, as my people say. Vain, as you manlings might call it. He is too proud to submit to death’s whim, too proud to seek an appropriate end. For him, it must be the greatest doom, the final doom, because nothing else will extirpate his shame.’
‘Was it so bad then, what he did?’ Felix said, hesitantly.
Axeson was silent. Then, ‘He thinks so. And that is enough.’
‘If you’re finished talking about me, I would have you with me when I speak to the beardling, priest,’ Gotrek grumbled, without turning around. Felix felt a stab of shame. How long had Gotrek been listening? Axeson seemed unperturbed.
‘A sensible plan. The War-Mourner finds you offensive, Gurnisson,’ he said.
‘The War-Mourner finds much to be offensive. Let him stew, I care not,’ Gotrek said. They had arrived at a second blockhouse. This one was much the same as the other, though the noise-level was louder and more raucous. Inside, a dozen Slayers surrounded Garagrim, arguing over one another in a display of obstinate determination that was awe-inspiring to behold. The War-Mourner was trying to keep the peace, but his voice was only one among many.
Biter and Koertig stood off to the side, the madcap Slayer leaning on his mace, the orc skull easily taking his weight. He caught sight of them and waved them over. ‘What is this madness?’ Gotrek demanded.
‘It’s madness all right,’ Koertig muttered. Biter swatted him in the belly with a casual thump of his hand.
‘They want a sortie. The story of Agni’s doom has spread and now the others are getting all hot in the trousers to get their own. The largest Chaos horde in years is camped on their doorstep, and they want to have some fun,’ Biter said.
‘You’re not with them?’ Felix asked.
‘My doom is written, what good is it to seek it out or run from it? It’ll happen when it happens,’ Biter said shrugging.
‘Not soon enough,’ Koertig said.
‘Does your Remembrancer have as much faith in you as mine in me?’ Biter said, grinning cheerfully at Gotrek. But Gotrek had already moved away, towards the crowd of bawling, bellowing Slayers. Felix felt a knot in his gut. Axeson smiled thinly.
‘This should be interesting,’ the priest said.
‘If old Ogun were here, none of this would be happening,’ Biter said. ‘He was the beardling’s second-in-command. Kept the rest of us in line, old Ogun did.’
‘What happened to him?’ Felix said.
‘He died,’ Biter said cheerfully.
Gotrek had climbed up on the table, a second axe gripped in his free hand. As he stood, he brought the axes together with a crash. All eyes turned towards him. ‘You want a sortie?’ Gotrek rasped, facing the expectant Slayers. ‘I’ve got a sortie for you.’
‘Gurnisson–’ Garagrim began, face twisting in anger.
‘King Ironfist has already agreed, Prince Garagrim,’ Axeson said, loudly. Garagrim transferred his glare, but Axeson met his gaze blithely.
Gotrek nodded brusquely to Axeson and then raised his axe. ‘I go to rip the guts out of the Chaos army with their own weapons. Who will come with me?’
‘And how will you do this, death-jinx?’ a Slayer called out. ‘Will you walk amongst them and let them kill each other rather than you?’ His laughter faded as Gotrek pinned him in place with a one-eyed stare.
‘Come with me and see, Dorin Borrisson. Unless you fear to do so,’ Gotrek said. The Slayer called Dorin bristled, one hand reaching for the fat-bladed dwarf sword sheathed on his hip. Another Slayer grabbed his arm and shook his head. The latter spoke up.
‘Come where and do what, Gurnisson?’ he said. Other Slayers spoke up in support of the question. Gotrek looked at him.
‘We will go into the Underway, and take the fight to that cowardly filth outside,’ Gotrek said. His gap-teeth flashed. ‘We’re going to blow up the ground beneath them and by Grimnir we’ll cut the heart of their army out in one blow!’
In the end, twenty Slayers were selected. Felix felt relief when it was over, and without the violence he’d feared. Garagrim joined Gotrek on the table and chose Slayers seemingly at random, among them Biter and Dorin. The others dispersed with much grumbling, but no violence. ‘That went better than I thought,’ he muttered to Axeson, who nodded.
‘Such is the War-Mourner’s responsibility. It is he who chooses those whose turn it is to be slain, when the great throng of Karak Kadrin marches forth. Once, it was the responsibility of the temple. I am glad that it has passed on.’
‘Were you ever–?’
‘How old do you think me, Jaeger?’ Axeson said, cocking an eye at Felix. Felix spluttere
d, trying to take back what he perceived to have been an insult. Axeson’s chuckle alerted him to the contrary. He smacked Felix on the arm, in much the same way as Gotrek. ‘Easy, manling,’ he said.
‘I’m not used to dwarf humour, I fear,’ Felix said, rubbing his arm.
‘No, I don’t suppose you would be,’ Axeson said, looking at Gotrek.
Gotrek conferred with Garagrim for a moment and then joined them, looking inordinately pleased. ‘Well, manling, ready to go back underground?’ he said, grinning at Felix.
‘If we must,’ Felix said.
The chosen Slayers were a loud bunch, excited by the prospect of battle. One of them started a song, and another broke out a cask of ale, one of many stored in the blockhouse.
‘I still don’t understand what you’re planning,’ Felix complained as Gotrek joined him, a foam-capped mug in his hand. ‘What good can come of creating a crater in the middle of their army, save giving them another avenue of attack? We nearly died keeping them out of the Underway once, now we’re inviting them in?’ He swept a hand out. ‘They care nothing for losses, Gotrek, nothing for odds or strategy.’
Gotrek nodded agreeably. ‘True enough, manling. But even the bravest man will be crushed when he is caught between two forces.’
Felix blinked. ‘The explosion–’
‘Gets us amidst them,’ Gotrek said, running his thumb along the edge of his axe. He watched blood bead on the ball of the digit and then flicked it to the floor. His eye caught Felix. ‘Twenty Slayers will set the blood to flowing, manling, but five times that of stout clan warriors will march out of that pit while we keep them occupied; more than could attack from any hidden tunnel or disguised door set into the mountains. And when they turn, and they will turn, Ungrim will lead a sortie of his own through those hidden doors and tunnels. We can move hundreds from a dozen different directions while they’re occupied.’ Gotrek made a fist. ‘They will learn what it means to attack us, manling. They will learn that we are not men, to cower behind walls until the last gate falls. These are our mountains and we will not suffer northern beasts to desecrate them.’ He smiled a hard, wild, cruel smile. The smile faded as abruptly as it had come, and Gotrek went quiet.
Felix looked askance at him. ‘Why did we come here, Gotrek?’ he said, quietly.
‘What was that, manling?’
‘Why did we come? Axeson said that you couldn’t not come… What did he mean by that?’
Gotrek frowned. ‘You shouldn’t listen to that stripling,’ he said sourly.
‘You’ve been acting oddly for weeks now,’ Felix said, overriding his fear of Gotrek’s temper and plunging ahead. ‘You’re moodier than normal, though that’s hard to tell sometimes.’
‘Moody?’ Gotrek said, raising his eyebrow.
‘You know what I mean,’ Felix said hastily.
‘No, manling, I don’t. Enlighten me,’ Gotrek growled.
‘Something is bothering you.’
Gotrek didn’t reply. Felix sighed. ‘We didn’t know that Karak Kadrin was under attack, so it couldn’t have been that,’ he said. He looked at Gotrek. ‘Could it?’
Gotrek was as stiff and still as a statue. Only his eye moved, his gaze dropping to the axe in his hand. His thumb caressed the runes carved into the width of the blade. ‘I had a dream,’ he said, after a long silence. Felix waited for him to continue, but he didn’t.
They stood in silence after that, Gotrek likely imagining the sea of enemies awaiting him, and Felix looking inwards, thinking of what awaited them below. As plans went, he could see little fault in it. It was direct and to the point. There was no subtlety to it, but then, there was little enough to Gotrek. If it worked, the army laying siege to Karak Kadrin would be broken. What little Felix knew of military matters assured him of that, as did his experience with the followers of Chaos. Like orcs, they were brave in numbers, but as individuals they were as easy to spook as any provincial peasant. Some would fight, but those would die. The rest would run. Or so he hoped.
Karak Kadrin was not quiet, as the evening deepened. Fires burned in the entry hall, and dwarfs spoke and sang and boasted. A grim sort of mirth pervaded the hold, Felix thought. Not quite amusement, but almost a fatalistic joy, akin to the cynic’s pleasure at being proven right. For the dwarfs, this was the way of things. Every stand was the last, and every dwarf knew that it was not a question of if, but when.
For men, every dawn brought new hope. For dwarfs, it brought new grudges. Felix looked at Gotrek, examining his bloated musculature, so different to that of even the other Slayers. Gotrek was a dwarf’s dwarf and the epitome of his people to Felix’s eye, taciturn, brutal and dour. Perhaps that was why he seemed to offend them so… In Gotrek was every failing and strength of the dwarf race made manifest, and to look at him was to see those qualities with dreadful clarity.
‘Gurnisson, come,’ Garagrim said, stepping out of the blockhouse. Felix jerked out of his reverie, realizing that the cheerful noise from the blockhouse had died. While the others had celebrated, Gotrek had stood with him, staring into the darkness for who knew how long. The Slayer met his eyes and nodded sharply. Felix followed him as they joined the others.
Garagrim marched purposefully down the stairs from the blockhouse, Gotrek just behind him. Felix fell in beside Axeson. Behind them came Biter and Koertig and the other Slayers chosen for the sortie. At the bottom of the stairs, Snorri Thungrimsson was waiting for them, a number of his hammerers in tow. Past them, Felix saw a small throng of dwarfs, each carrying a crossbow and an axe. They had a rough look to them, and their armour bespoke hard use. Two from among them stepped forwards to join Snorri. One was tall, the other short, but both were muscular and stout.
‘Lunn and Steki Svengeln,’ Thungrimsson said. ‘They are cousins to Fimbur Svengeln, who fell at the Peak Pass, and rangers, like him. Good ones, if the truth be told.’
‘The best,’ Lunn said.
‘Better than any of the rest,’ Steki added.
An armoured dwarf stepped forwards at Snorri’s curt gesture. ‘Bael Grimbold, ironbreaker.’
He was slim, by dwarf standards, but his armour added bulk to him. Young as well, Felix judged. He tapped his brow with the back of his axe. ‘We are ready to go into the dark, War-Mourner,’ Grimbold said, his voice surprisingly deep.
‘Who isn’t?’ another dwarf spoke up, pushing past Grimbold, who grimaced. He was ancient, judging by the pure white of his beard, and he wore a dented and wax-splotched helm and his armour was stained with dust and ash. ‘Always up for a stroll, me,’ he said, tapping the ironbreaker on one gleaming pauldron with a wicked looking pick-axe. ‘Gurnisson, I hear this was your idea, you great wattock.’
‘Aye, Copperback,’ Gotrek said, his eye alight with amusement. ‘Is that a problem?’
‘Bah,’ Copperback waved his pick, forcing Grimbold to step back to avoid its keen bite. ‘I’ve lived long enough, I expect.’
‘Are your kin still trying to find your hoard, you old boki?’ Gotrek said. ‘If they hear you’re going with us, they’ll probably throw us a leaving party.’
‘It’ll be a poor one,’ Copperback said, yellow teeth surfacing from the white spray of beard in a crooked grin. ‘Not a nugget between them, the wazzoks.’
‘If you’re done socializing,’ Garagrim growled between gritted teeth, ‘we have a sortie to get under way.’
‘Impatient as always, these beardlings,’ Copperback said, letting his pick rest on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Prince Ironfist. My miners and I will lead you straight and true.’
‘And then, we’ll show the daemon-lovers what Slayers can do,’ Gotrek said. He raised his axe, and the other Slayers followed suit. ‘Their god wants blood and skulls? Well, we’ll choke him with equal measures of both!’
Canto cursed as he looked down at Kung’s body. The latter still clutched the shattered remains of his axe, and his eyes stared up blindly on either side of the cleft in his skull. That was why he had ever evaded the
eyes of the gods. Only so many ascended into their graces, the rest fell and became food for worms.
Once on that path, those were the only two fates allowed you, victory or death. It was so limiting, that path, and yet so many gleefully trod it, hoping, anticipating that they would be the ones to please the fickle gods and become as the daemons which whispered on the northern wind, that they would be as those whose names were inscribed on the ancient monoliths which jutted like signposts in the bleaker regions, names like Valkia or Lothar Bubonicus.
Canto hated them. He hated them and respected them in the way that a jackal respects a wolf. They had had the courage of their convictions and had reached a dark pinnacle only dreamt of by many. It was hard not to admire that. But he hated them none the less.
He was tempted to go south. To take what forces he could gather and head into the bleak wilderness to burn and pillage and sate the ache in him for another century. When he’d been only a man, he’d dreamed of owning a villa in the south of Tilea, on the golden shores. A stupid dream for a down-at-heels nobleman, but one he’d never been able to shake. Comfort, not carnage, was what he desired.
But if he did that, Garmr would have no choice but to hunt him down. Rebellion and betrayal the Gorewolf could tolerate and even encourage, but desertion – never. No, Canto was bound to the horde now, by ligaments of fate.
At the time, it had seemed the lesser of two evils. He recalled the battle – multi-coloured dust coating the air as thick as paint, a million men crashing against one another like waves made of flesh. There had been a hundred sides present, all striving against one another. There had been a hundred champions, leading their followers in battle beneath the frosty gaze of the northern sun, bellowing out bellicose cries to their gods. Banners crafted from stretched human flesh, gemstone feathers and motes of light dancing like fireflies around brass poles swung high above the fray, heralding identities and allegiances.
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 16
