Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls

by Josh Reynolds

  She did not do it for herself, no matter what others might whisper, but for the greater glory of Khorne. The weak must be weeded out, the chaff separated so that only the strong remained, so that the horde was pure and fierce and mighty. Only then could they trample the enemies of the Blood God into the dust.

  She paused before the great ‘X’ where the champion of Slaanesh hung, still alive, despite casual sword-strokes and spear-thrusts. It had become a popular game among the brute element for lack of any other stimulation. It hissed at her, bloody tongue jerking from a nest of shattered fangs. It seemed to gain as much pleasure from its pain as the tribesmen did, and it crooned to itself with every blow.

  It offended her with its refusal to die. Its remaining eye rolled wetly in the socket, fixing on her with undimmed predatory intent. It strained against the nails that held it fixed and hissed again.

  She drew her sword and put out its good eye.

  She left it screaming and moved through the crowd towards Garmr’s tent. She had avoided him since the Bone-Hammer’s death, suspecting that the Gorewolf would view any conversation as an excuse to add a new skull to the pile. But there was no putting it off now. There was a song of murder in the air, and men whispered that they would be moving soon. Garmr’s pet sorcerer had collected the teeth of a hundred dead men and cast them across the flayed hide of a horse. That which Garmr had read there had seemed to excite him, though Ekaterina couldn’t see why.

  Grettir was waiting for her, chained to a post outside the tent. He sat slumped, his many eyes blinking in their secret rhythm. ‘The prodigal girl returns,’ he said. ‘Conquered our fear, have we?’ He gazed lazily up at her. ‘Can you feel it? Can you feel the tightening of Khorne’s collar about your neck? The Master Changer encourages a profusion of fates for his followers, but Khorne prunes all but the bloodiest.’

  ‘As it should be,’ Ekaterina said.

  ‘Then why do you buck so hard against yours?’ Grettir said.

  ‘You don’t know my fate any more than I do, sorcerer,’ she spat. ‘Bloody and short or bloody and long, it matters not. If my skull is to decorate Khorne’s throne, so be it. I will dance happily to my death.’

  Grettir waggled a finger at her. ‘Then why concern yourself with him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you do not care, why do you fret so?’ Grettir hissed.

  She glared down at the sorcerer, wishing again that she could strike his cunning head from his neck. ‘He is weak,’ she said, finally. ‘And his weakness takes us from the Eightfold Path and from Khorne’s sight.’

  ‘How do you know that Khorne has not asked this of him?’ Grettir said.

  ‘To deny battle is not Khorne’s way. To cower in the hills is not Khorne’s way,’ Ekaterina said, gripping the hilt of her sword. She heard a murmur of sound from the tent. She tried to focus on Grettir, but–

  ‘But to send others to die in your place is?’ Grettir said.

  Ekaterina shook herself. ‘What do you mean? Speak plainly!’

  ‘First, a riddle – what is a mutiny, when it is not open? A disagreement,’ Grettir said, spreading his hands. ‘It’s not very funny. But I see little humour in this situation. I have seen the threads you sew, Ekaterina. The black poison you inject into fertile minds. Your hunger for glory is a bright thing, and loud to my eyes. To other eyes as well, though you recognize them not.’

  ‘You talk nonsense,’ she snarled, stepping past him. He chuckled behind her as she ripped the tent flap aside, revealing the interior of the tent. It was humid and stank of rotting meat. Braziers enclosed the squatting shape of Garmr, his head bowed, hands dangling. Blood dripped from his fingers, though whether it was his or someone else’s she couldn’t say. In the weird light and the dancing trails of spiced smoke, a strange shape seemed to crouch behind Garmr and hands stroked his armour. Wide wings spread the width of the tent, and carmine eyes met Ekaterina’s. A talon rose and pressed its length against thin lips in a gesture for silence.

  Then it was gone and Garmr looked up, his eyes glowing within his visor. ‘What?’ he rasped. His voice was hoarse and inhuman.

  ‘My outriders have seen a column of dust in the distance. They say it is Canto,’ Ekaterina said.

  ‘Hrolf?’

  ‘No sign of him. He is likely dead,’ she said, unable to resist a smirk. ‘Likely so are Kung and Yan.’ The last was not so pleasant a prospect, but she had known the Foul One might die. Garmr had lost his two strongest supporters, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘Then they have fulfilled their purpose,’ Garmr said, rising slowly to his feet. ‘That is all any of us can ask.’

  ‘Speaking of purposes,’ Ekaterina said. ‘What is ours, if not to sack that dwarf hold?’

  ‘Do you require a reason now to spill blood?’

  ‘No, but I want one regardless,’ she said. ‘Why should I not take my men and seek prey this very morning, Gorewolf?’

  ‘Ask the Bone-Hammer,’ Garmr said.

  ‘I’m asking you,’ Ekaterina said. ‘I don’t fear you, Garmr. I don’t fear your hound or your axe.’ Her hand dropped to the hilt of her blade. ‘I serve you because you promised me battle.’

  ‘You serve me because Khorne wishes it,’ Garmr said.

  Ekaterina frowned. Garmr cocked his head, watching her. ‘Is this it, then? Have you come to it at last? You were the only one who was not forced to bend knee, Ekaterina. You are the one who came hunting the massacre wind, rather than the other way around,’ Garmr said. His voice was strangely soothing, a basso hum that vibrated in her bones.

  He moved so swiftly, she barely saw it. His hands settled on her shoulders and she could smell the raw, beautiful stink of him. Scenes of battles from beyond the great gates had been engraved on his armour and they seemed to move and sway with his voice. Thousands died on his cuirass as Ekaterina watched, men and daemons and worse things writhing in eternal battle. It was the loveliest thing she had ever seen. She reached out with eager fingers, stroking the scenes of bloodshed.

  Garmr’s head dipped. Half-remembered snatches of an old fairy-story rose to the surface and she said, ‘My, what big teeth you have.’

  Garmr laughed. ‘The better to eat the world,’ he said.

  14

  Karak Kadrin, the Slayer Keep

  When Felix awoke on the third day, Gotrek was standing before the broken section of the balcony, perched inches from oblivion, like a bird about to take flight. The Slayer twitched and trembled, muttering to himself. Felix’s heart stuttered in his chest and he was on his feet, hand shooting out before he was even fully awake. Was this some kind of fit? Or was captivity having a more harmful effect on the Slayer than he’d first thought?

  Gotrek had become morose and silent since his earlier outburst, as if sharing his secret with Felix had drained all of his vitality from him. He brooded gargoyle-like, staring north as the sun rose and fell, barely moving. Felix had never seen the Slayer so silent and still. Gotrek was normally a bundle of nervous energy, at least for a dwarf, unless he was stone drunk. But all of that energy was gone now, leaving a scowling statue in its place. Or, at least it had been.

  ‘Gotrek? Gotrek,’ Felix said, grabbing one massive shoulder. Gotrek didn’t reply. His eye was closed, the lid twitching. Felix realized that he was asleep. ‘Gotrek, wake up!’ Gotrek shrugged, sending Felix tumbling. Adrenaline pumping, Felix was on his feet a moment later, grabbing again, though he knew he had no hope of stopping the dwarf if he decided to jump. At best, he’d go over with him. Was this how it ended, with imprisonment and suicide?

  ‘This isn’t going to make a very stirring conclusion to your saga, Gotrek!’ Felix shouted, trying to snake his arms beneath Gotrek’s in a move he’d seen a Tilean wrestler perform once at a country fair. He hadn’t gotten to see much beyond that before Gotrek came to blows with a trained bear and its Kislevite handler.

  The Slayer’s eye opened, but he wasn’t awake. Felix deduced the latter a moment after Gotrek slap
ped aside his reaching arms and grabbed his throat in a vice-like grip. The pressure on his throat set off a storm of panic in Felix’s brain. He scrabbled at Gotrek’s immovable fingers, trying to pry them loose. ‘Gotrek,’ he gurgled. ‘Gotrek!’

  Gotrek’s only reply was to tighten his grip. He spat something in Khazalid, a burst of harsh syllables that sounded as if they hurt his throat as much as they hurt Felix’s ears. Darkness began to gather at the limits of Felix’s vision as a flame of frustration burned in him. It wasn’t fair, that after all he’d been through, that this was the way he was going to die – strangled by a lunatic Slayer.

  Lashing out, he drove a fist between the Slayer’s eyes. Pain exploded in his hand, but it was worth it. Gotrek released him abruptly and staggered back, shaking his head. ‘Manling, what–’

  Ignoring the pain in his hand, Felix lunged, grabbing Gotrek’s beard even as the Slayer took a step too far back. His foot skidded on emptiness and then he bawled with pain and rage as Felix hauled back, falling onto his rear and pulling Gotrek atop him. Gotrek bounded up, grabbing two fistfuls of Felix’s jerkin and dragging him to his feet.

  ‘Never touch a dwarf’s beard,’ Gotrek snarled, shaking Felix with tooth-rattling force.

  ‘Then don’t sleepwalk!’ Felix replied with equal heat, meeting Gotrek’s glower with one of his own. Gotrek looked away first, which startled Felix more than the attempted throttling.

  ‘Who was sleepwalking? Dwarfs don’t sleepwalk,’ Gotrek snapped, releasing Felix.

  ‘Then what do you call it?’ Felix said, trying to straighten his cloak. ‘Were you trying to learn how to fly? Even dwarfs need machines for that.’

  ‘I wasn’t sleepwalking,’ Gotrek insisted. He shook his head. ‘I thought…’ He trailed off.

  Rubbing his throat, Felix looked at the Slayer. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘Nothing,’ Gotrek growled.

  ‘So you tried to strangle me for no reason then?’ Felix said acidly. ‘That makes me feel so much better! At least if you’d been dreaming, you’d have an excuse, but no, it was nothing.’ He sneered at Gotrek and the Slayer glared at him. But Felix didn’t retreat. Almost dying had a way of stiffening his spine, he’d learned. It wasn’t quite an admirable trait, but it’d do.

  ‘Daemons, manling,’ Gotrek said finally, staring at his hands. ‘I was drowning in a sea of daemons and lights, falling forever into the maw of an eternal battle.’ He closed his fingers into fists and knocked his knuckles together.

  ‘Sounds like a good dream for you,’ Felix said, hawking a wad of spit, trying to clear his bruised throat. Gotrek shot him another glare.

  ‘Trapped forever in an eternity without doom or death? More like a nightmare, manling,’ he rumbled, scratching at his eye-patch.

  Felix shivered, trying not to think about it. He’d seen enough daemons to last him several lifetimes and the idea of forever circling the drain with them took the wind right out of his sails. Gotrek rubbed his chin. ‘Dreams or no, it’s been long enough, I think,’ he said, finally.

  ‘What?’ Felix said, taken aback by the sudden change of subject.

  ‘You didn’t think we were just going to sit here forever, did you, manling?’ Gotrek said. ‘Did you think I was just going to let them take my doom from me?’ He snorted. ‘For shame, manling, I thought you knew me better than that.’ He peered at Felix. ‘Maybe you’re not the right choice to be my Remembrancer after all…’

  ‘I – no – but what about the prophecy?’ Felix said, stunned, his words tripping over each other.

  ‘What about it?’ Gotrek said.

  ‘You seemed to take it seriously enough earlier!’ Felix flapped his arms. ‘I thought that was why you let them take you!’

  Gotrek blinked. ‘Why would you think that?’

  ‘You – but I – but you–’ Felix said. ‘Then what are we doing in here?’

  ‘I told you,’ Gotrek said. ‘There is a grudge between Ungrim and I. I did not wish to press the matter and force his hand.’ Gotrek hesitated. Then, ‘I am many things, manling, but a kinslayer isn’t one of them.’

  ‘So what have you been doing all of this time? I thought you were–’

  ‘Brooding? Ha!’ Gotrek’s head jerked as he laughed. ‘No, manling, I was planning for our escape. It was a tricky proposition, I admit.’ Gotrek tapped the side of his head with a blunt finger. ‘Sometimes, with some problems, you just have to sit and think on them awhile.’

  ‘But what of the prophecy,’ Felix said again. ‘Do you not believe Axeson?’

  ‘I believe him,’ Gotrek said, walking to the balcony. ‘He said if I marched north, Karak Kadrin is doomed.’

  ‘And?’ Felix said, following him.

  Gotrek gave a gap-toothed grin and shrugged. ‘Who said anything about marching?’

  The Worlds Edge Mountains, north-east of Karak Kadrin

  ‘I prefer beer to dust,’ Dorin spat. The sword-wielding Slayer stomped along beside his fellows, all of whom moved within the dust cloud of the throng’s march. They had been travelling for several days, and Karak Kadrin was long behind them. They marched not within the ranks, but behind and to the side, within their own unruly mob. Despite being an honoured part of Karak Kadrin’s throng, no thane worth his beard would have attempted to include the Slayers in the proper order of battle.

  ‘Think of it as a snack before the main meal,’ Biter said. He had a crude patch over his ruined eye and his new axe, etched with runes of wounding and battle, bounced on his shoulder. He hawked a gob of spittle and flashed metal teeth at the frowning Dorin. When the other Slayer turned away, Biter thrust his finger beneath his patch and scrubbed at the raw socket. It itched furiously.

  ‘Stop that,’ Koertig muttered. The Nordlander was easily keeping pace with the Slayers, despite having only a man’s stamina. ‘It’ll just start bleeding again.’

  ‘See, you do like me,’ Biter said, grinning. Koertig grunted and looked away. Biter kept up the grin for another moment before he let it slide off his face. In truth, he didn’t feel much like smiling. He felt tired. Every muscle ached and his head felt as if the skin were burning and peeling off at the same time. He needed a drink and a sleep and not necessarily in that order.

  Instead, he was marching to war.

  The rumours flew like birds through the throng as it left Karak Kadrin behind, and had grown in the repeated telling over the past few days. Dwarfs gossiped as much as any other race, though they liked to claim otherwise. And what the loose lips were letting slip was dark and unpleasant.

  ‘I should have let the Norscans take me,’ Koertig muttered.

  ‘Then you’d be dead, and not marching with the greatest army that Karak Kadrin has ever unleashed, human,’ a grim voice said. Koertig stiffened as Ungrim Ironfist approached the Slayers, the jewels set into his crown-helm gleaming in the sun. ‘Still, if it’s death you’re after, I’m sure the Chaos lovers will oblige. You, Biter, you’re in charge?’

  ‘No?’ Biter said. The other Slayers had put distance between them and he cursed them all silently. He sighed. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good,’ Ungrim said. ‘March with me. I require the voice of a Slayer to counter the other, more sensible ones I’ve surrounded myself with.’

  ‘Surely you can provide that yourself, Lord King,’ Biter said, grinning slightly.

  Ungrim chuckled. ‘Not when I’m the one tasked with the decision. Come, Biter,’ he said, slapping the Slayer on the back. ‘Aye, and bring your Remembrancer as well.’

  The throng was making camp as they made their way back to where Ungrim’s circle of thanes awaited their king. Dwarfs rarely used tents on the march, but it was the storm season and the valleys and dips of the mountains could flood quicker than a dwarf could wink. Wide pavilion tents were erected, with open sides and brass scales over the tarp to keep out arrows and reflect the sun. The tents were set up quickly and efficiently, the support poles biting the hard earth with iron anchors. It took a matter of minutes t
o collapse the tents and pack them for travel.

  Heavy pavise shields were the next to go up, around each tent, making each of the pavilions a miniature fortress. The shields were as large as the dwarfs who planted them and as wide as three, and each had a reinforced slot that the warriors could extend spears, handguns or crossbows through. They wouldn’t hold up under sustained attacks, but there wasn’t a dwarf alive who didn’t feel safer with a roof over his head and stout walls around him.

  The king’s bodyguard had set up a pavilion on the slopes of one of the low peaks that rose up around the route the throng followed. They were setting up the shields when Ungrim arrived with Biter, and a heavy, round table had been placed on a smooth disc of stone to keep it level.

  Biter nodded to Thungrimsson as he entered the pavilion with Ungrim. The other thanes looked at him with distaste and Biter chuckled. Koertig stooped and slouched unobtrusively, watching but not speaking. Biter sometimes envied Gurnisson. What he wouldn’t give for a more talkative companion. Talking was the only thing that kept him from hearing the screams in his head and smelling the damp of the mine as it flooded and–

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ one of the thanes grunted, gesturing towards Biter.

  ‘Tradition, Damminsson,’ Ungrim said. ‘A representative of the Slayers who accompany the throng must be included in every meeting of the thanes.’

  ‘Aye, but he’s no War-Mourner, nor a designated Battle-

  Master, like old Ogun. He has no authority,’ another thane said.

  ‘He has as much authority as any of you,’ Ungrim said, his tone implying that the thanes had as much authority as the king chose to give them, when they were on the march.

  The thanes grumbled into their beards, but gave no further argument. Biter gave them a cheery wave as Ungrim motioned for them all to gather around the table, where a map, drawn on the inside of what could only be a scrap of dragon-hide, had been unrolled. The map was the work of a dozen centuries’ worth of information gathered by peddlers, scouts, rangers and adventuresome clansmen. Lost holds, now long vanished or otherwise rendered uninhabitable, marked it, as did those ancient routes where the savage tribes of the north travelled from the Wastes into the lands of men and dwarfs. Biter whistled softly as Ungrim traced their enemy’s route with his finger.