‘Ch-ch-charming,’ Felix said as the cold dug its talons into his bones. It was far colder at this height than he’d expected and he couldn’t stop his limbs from shuddering. He blinked, trying to clear the frost from his eyes, and looked at the grimacing face of the ancient dwarf king opposite. He didn’t look happy to see them climbing up the cheek of his neighbour, for which Felix couldn’t blame him. It must be like watching a fly crawl up a dinner guest’s nose. He chuckled, and then blinked. ‘Gotrek, I think the altitude is getting to me,’ he said.
‘What, already?’ Gotrek said.
‘How much farther is it to the top, Gotrek?’
‘Who said anything about the top, manling?’
‘I thought–’
‘Only a few moments more, manling,’ Gotrek said. He turned back to the rock face and began to climb, much faster than before.
‘Easy for you to say,’ Felix muttered. The nudging pain in his shoulder was back, and growing stronger. He’d known men who’d dislocated their shoulders before, and knew that it could happen again, and easier, now that it’d done it once. He imagined the spasm of another dislocation shooting through his arm, his grip weakening. Could Gotrek catch him, if he fell? Somehow, he doubted it. ‘Best not fall,’ he breathed. He’d climbed mountains before, but none this high. He tried to concentrate on holding on, on willing his exhausted muscles to work.
‘Ha! Right where I remembered it,’ Gotrek said. Felix looked up. The bottom of another balcony, much like the one they’d left, stretched out over them. ‘Hold tight,’ he grunted. Then, before Felix could reply, he swung out from the peak, arm stretching. Felix’s gut clenched and the world spun and then Gotrek was pulling him up onto another stone balustrade. Felix grabbed the rough stonework and hauled himself over, and collapsed in a puddle on the balcony. Gotrek dropped down beside him, grinning happily.
‘That’s it?’ Felix gasped. ‘We left one balcony for another?’
‘Not a balcony, manling.’ Gotrek pointed and Felix saw a number of squat machines crouched on the flat stone beyond. ‘A landing strip,’ Gotrek said, heaving himself to his feet. ‘Karak Kadrin has a number of platforms like this at these heights. Ungrim doesn’t have much time for the Engineers’ Guild, but he’s not so foolish as to deny the use of a few of these dragon-pluckers.’
Felix rubbed his arms, trying to regain feeling in them, as he walked around the machines. He’d seen gyrocopters before, but only from a distance. They had a flimsiness to them that seemed at odds with other dwarf war machines, despite the barrel bodies and great rotors made from canvas and metal. Each had a bucket seat and a heavy rope ladder coiled on one side. On the other was a canvas roll containing a variety of tools, only some of which Felix could glean the purpose of. Gotrek fondly patted the cannon-like object that extended from the front of one of the machines. ‘Steam-gun, manling,’ he said. ‘It’ll wipe out a horde of charging grobi faster than I can spit.’
‘Did you ever fly one of these?’ Felix said.
Gotrek’s smile slipped from his face. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘a long time ago.’ His eye narrowed. ‘It’s forbidden to any but an Engineer to fly one.’
‘You intend to steal one?’
‘Steal?’ Gotrek glared at him. ‘I’m no thief,’ he spat. ‘We’re simply borrowing it.’
‘That implies that we intend to bring it back,’ Felix said. ‘Besides which, how will we both fit on this thing? It’ll barely fit you!’
‘We’ll improvise something,’ Gotrek said. He grinned unpleasantly at Felix. Felix stepped back, raising his hands, ‘Oh no, no, no,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of being carted around like a babe in a sling.’
‘It’s that, or stay here,’ Gotrek growled, shaking a meaty fist. ‘I care not, manling.’
Felix looked at the gyrocopter, his gut sinking. Then, desperate, he said, ‘What about weapons? What about your axe?’
Gotrek paused. He looked at the door to the landing strip, as if gauging the number of steps, corridors and guards between him and his axe. Then he shook himself. His hands clenched and unclenched. ‘Plenty of weapons where we’re going, manling,’ he said finally, each word escaping his lips as if dragged by hooks. ‘We’ll–’
The door shifted in its frame. Hinges squealed and it swung open. Gotrek stepped forwards, grabbing a heavy spanner from one of the canvas rolls and lifting it. Felix looked around for something to use as a weapon.
Gotrek cursed as a shape stepped out onto the balcony. ‘You,’ he snarled.
The Worlds Edge Mountains, the Peak Pass
Grettir Many-Eyes rode a war-altar, held tight by rusty chains themselves held tight by magics older and more fell than any he’d yet learned. Daemons had forged those chains, to bind other daemons, and they held him fast. He examined the palms of his clawed gauntlets, meeting the unblinking avian eyes which sprouted bulbously from his palms. ‘Is this my fate, then?’ he asked softly, knowing from experience that no answer was forthcoming. The Changer had never answered him, even as he served the god on countless battlefields, gaining more and more power, his ascent paralleling that of his cousin.
He had fought champions of the Changer, the Rot, the Lover and even the Breaker, wielding first a sword, then magics. He had broken open the Black Vaults of the dawi zharr and fended off their stone-footed sorcerer-kings in order to steal the Crystal of Crooked Ways, which he had spent a year and a day carving into the mask he now wore. He had made war on the Spellbreakers of the Shifting City and on the War-Judges of the Tahmaks, he had corrupted the monks of the White Lotus, and he had crushed the heart of Isadora Von Carstein on the steps of the Lost Cathedral in order to prevent the vampire from unravelling the Weaver’s works. All of that had been done in the service of one goal… The death of his false friend, Garmr.
And then, at the Battle of the Blistered Sun, he had gotten his chance. Garmr had been there, taking advantage of Dashak Kul’s distraction to stage a raid on his rival’s camp. Khorne-worshippers clashed in the ruins of a city that had not existed the day before. On a screaming, pulsing disc, Grettir had skimmed low over the streets, magic crackling between his crooked talons. It had been his whispers which had driven Dashak to war with the Nine Unfulfilled, and given Garmr his opening.
So close. He had been so close. He could still taste the bitter ashes of his defeat in the back of his throat. He could still see the look of recognition in Garmr’s eyes, and feel the bite of the daemon-queen’s spear as it pierced his side and killed his disc. She had followed him down into the dust like a swooping hawk, with her red eyes alight with untold purpose. The ghost of that spear-thrust still haunted him, echoing through his limbs.
The Changer had seemingly abandoned him then, right in the hands of his enemies. He had been captured, bound and forced to bind another.
Momentarily, his thoughts drifted out, touching the razor-bright hunger of Ulfrgandr, the Slaughter-Hound, the Massacre-That-Walked. He had a link to it, as the one who had bound its soul to Garmr’s own. It had been his hands which had plunged the eight mystical daggers into its flesh, each blade first dipped in Garmr’s blood. But only after it had been beaten and captured by Garmr and his warriors. The creature had been as vicious a combatant as any army of warriors and a hundred men had been butchered on that particular altar of hubris, torn to shreds by Ulfrgandr on the Plateau of Sighs in a battle that raged from the plateau to the Crater Gates, where daemon-engines had spat fire at the combatants.
Garmr had fought Ulfrgandr to a standstill, his axe carving chunks from the monster’s flesh, his armour spattered with the beast’s acidic blood, his helm dented from its fangs. Then, Garmr had almost been as monstrous as the Slaughter-Hound in his berserk desire to conquer. That need to dominate had been at the heart of the binding of the beast, for Garmr had become adrift on tides of blood, his mind slipping into brute hunger like so many of his peers, less a warlord than an engine of murder.
Privately, Grettir felt some modicum of respect for his cousin in
regards to that bit of self-awareness. There weren’t many champions of the Blood God who could recognize the inherent limits of succumbing to the god’s own madness. Most dived in quite willingly. But Garmr had forced Grettir to bind Ulfrgandr, the mystic spells allowing Garmr to force his own madness into the beast’s already insane skull, thus allowing him to be fully clear-headed for the first time in a century, which, in turn, had allowed Garmr to begin his march south.
Perhaps that was his fate, he thought. Perhaps he was merely a tool, fit only to ensure that Garmr met his own destiny.
Grettir snarled. Garmr, he thought, chewing the name to shreds. Garmr Kinslayer, Garmr Childeater, Garmr Tribekiller, those were the names the great and powerful Gorewolf was known by in the north. He was not a hero there, but a monster. A devil that’d killed his own people and made a sacrifice of their guts and bones to the Blood God. And for what, Grettir wondered? He looked around, at the rolling shrines, galloping steeds and brutish riders, at the marchers with their bellicose cries. He sneered at them, though his expression was hidden behind his mask.
Garmr used them as he had used their tribe. These warriors, these proud brutes were a collection of sacrifices, waiting to be culled when the time came, all for the glory of Khorne. ‘Cattle,’ he shouted. ‘You are all sheep trusting the wolf not to shear you!’
Through the eyes of his helmet, he saw the diverse fates of everyone he looked at. In most of those, men died. The how and the why of it were different, but still they died. Every warrior within the sound of his voice was a corpse walking, a maggot-farm as yet untilled. True, some survived. Some even prospered, rising up in the esteem of gods and men, rivalling Garmr in time, but most died.
‘You’re all going to die,’ he said, quietly, his words chewed up beneath the creak of wheels and the thunder of marching feet and stomping hooves. ‘Even me,’ he continued, settling back. Like them, Grettir had a choice of deaths, ranging from the shameful to the staggering. In one future, Garmr tore his head from his shoulders once his purpose had been fulfilled. In another, Grettir died in the jaws of the Slaughter-Hound. In a third, he set his talons in his cousin’s throat and they died together. That last one warmed his heart, and it was the only reason he had not yet attempted a futile and fatal escape.
‘What is the first thing we were taught as children, cousin?’ Garmr said. Grettir turned as the warlord brought his night-black steed in line with the creaking altar, the animal’s hooves trotting in rhythm with the cloven paws of the two gorebeasts pulling the structure.
‘Well?’ Garmr said. Grettir looked away. ‘The Changer lies, cousin. That is what we were taught. What all of us, all of them, are taught,’ Garmr continued. ‘Whatever his name, the Steppe-Wolf speaks with a forked tongue, the Spider-Queen spins webs from daydreams and the Raven-Kin speaks in riddles that can trap the unwary. Only in blood is there truth. They know better than to listen to you, these brave warriors.’
‘Self-righteousness has always been the weapon you were most comfortable with, cousin,’ Grettir said, turning. In his eyes, a kaleidoscope of swirling fates spun and duelled for Garmr. ‘Blood is blood, nothing more, nothing less.’
‘Do you really expect to find fertile soil for your poison?’ Garmr asked.
‘And what poison might that be?’
‘I see it, cousin, winding its way in among the red currents of my followers,’ Garmr said. ‘Perhaps I should have cut out your tongue.’
‘Then who would have told you your fortunes?’
Garmr grunted and chuckled. ‘True, cousin,’ he said.
Grettir hated that laugh. He hated Garmr. ‘Ekaterina will betray you,’ he said.
‘And so,’ Garmr said, shrugging. His armour rustled. ‘We all strive for the gods, cousin, even you.’
‘Canto does not,’ Grettir said.
‘Canto has his uses,’ Garmr said.
‘Even as I do,’ Grettir said.
‘Our path is littered with blood and bones, cousin,’ Garmr said. ‘I have shed the blood of daemons and men from the Wastes to here. The road trembles in eagerness. It yearns for completion.’ He hesitated. Grettir knew what question was coming even before it slipped Garmr’s lips. It was always the same question. ‘Is he coming?’
‘For such a mighty warrior, you require much in the way of reassurance,’ Grettir said.
‘Tell me,’ Garmr said. He wasn’t quite pleading, not quite. Nor was he demanding. Here, at this point, at this place on the path of fate, jailer and prisoner stood equal. They were only cousins again, boys who had grown together, becoming warriors, serving their tribe together, fighting enemies back-to-back. Grettir saw the past as clearly as all of the possible futures, and saw blood on the snow as he and Garmr, lean and sun-hardened, had roved like wolves among the enemies of their tribe, swords and axes in hand. They had served no gods save ambition, sword-brothers, blood-kin, and now… What?
‘How did we come to this?’ Grettir said.
Garmr stared at him silently. With a start, Grettir realized that he hadn’t seen his cousin’s face in more than a century. Nor had he seen his own. Both of them were trapped behind their masks, locked into their cycles of destiny. He sighed, his anger fading to a dull ache as he tried to pry one future from the web of dozens. ‘He is coming. They will meet us at the Peak Pass, where we destroyed the others.’
Garmr shuddered in his armour. ‘It will be complete, then. I will have my reward,’ he said, like a child eager for a sweetmeat.
‘Yes,’ Grettir said, and bowed his head.
Karak Kadrin, the Slayer Keep
‘Yes, me,’ Axeson said, gesturing to Gotrek with what Felix realized was the Slayer’s axe. And that wasn’t all: the priest also had Karaghul’s hilt peeking over one shoulder. ‘Take your axe, Slayer, there’s wet work to be done.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Gotrek growled, not quite lowering the spanner as Axeson shoved the door closed. ‘Have you come to try and talk me out of leaving, priest?’
‘Where would be the sense in that, Gurnisson? Would you be swayed by words, sweet or otherwise?’ Axeson said, holding out Gotrek’s axe, balanced across his palms. ‘Take it.’
Gotrek did, snatching the weapon and bringing it close. He ran his thumb along the blade and then stuffed the bleeding digit in his mouth. Axeson unstrapped Felix’s sword-belt and tossed Karaghul to its astonished owner.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Felix said, sliding Karaghul partially from its sheath. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the blade until he had been separated from it. ‘You were the one who convinced Ungrim not to let us go in the first place.’
‘Did I?’ Axeson said. ‘I merely told Ungrim that if Gurnisson marched with the throng, Karak Kadrin would fall. You are not with the throng and I don’t believe you intend to march…’ He gestured to the gyrocopters. ‘The prophecy doesn’t cover flying, swimming or falling.’
‘If you were a man, I might accuse you of sophistry,’ Felix said.
Axeson grunted. ‘If I were a man, we wouldn’t be having this conversation in the first place.’ He looked at Felix. ‘I knew Gurnisson wouldn’t be content to rest in captivity, even as I knew that he wouldn’t seek to fight his way out. Not even a Slayer would shed dwarf blood so lightly or so selfishly. That left only two options.’
‘That still doesn’t explain how you knew,’ Felix said.
‘Grimnir told me,’ Axeson said, shrugging.
‘But why help us?’ Felix said, strapping Karaghul to his waist even as he wondered what that last bit meant. When had Gotrek had to escape before? ‘Why bring us our weapons?’
‘Prophecies are funny things, human, especially when they are at cross-purposes,’ Axeson said.
‘Speak plainly,’ Gotrek grunted.
‘Your doom is not today, Gurnisson. Or even tomorrow or a year from hence,’ Axeson said, glancing at the door. Despite the wind, Felix heard a faint noise. Horns, he thought. ‘But there is a doom out there, and it is hungry for y
ou and if it takes you, we will all die with you.’
‘But if Gotrek is fated to die elsewhere–’ Felix began.
‘Chaos makes mockery of all prophecy and portent, even its own. What is immutable becomes mutable when the Chaos winds blow,’ Axeson said. Gotrek nodded grudgingly.
‘Aye, mountains become water and the truth becomes a lie,’ Gotrek muttered. Then, ‘You play dice with the gods, boy,’ he said to Axeson.
‘Then you had best see that we win, Gurnisson,’ Axeson said. ‘Now, take to the air. Garagrim has noticed your absence and sounded the alarm.’
‘What will happen if he catches us?’ Felix asked nervously.
‘Best see that he doesn’t, eh?’ Axeson said, clapping him on the arm in a friendly manner. ‘Keep him fighting, Jaeger,’ he added, more softly.
‘Because of the prophecy,’ Felix said.
Axeson hesitated, and then nodded jerkily. The door shuddered in its frame. Someone was trying to open it. Axeson fairly flew across the distance and planted one broad shoulder against the door. ‘Time’s up. If you’re going, go!’
‘Get on, manling,’ Gotrek said, climbing into the bucket seat of the gyrocopter. He grabbed a pair of goggles and strapped them over his head before tossing a pair to Felix. ‘Wrap that cloak tight about yourself. It’s going to get cold.’
‘Concerned over my health?’
‘If you freeze to death, I’ll need to find a new Remembrancer,’ Gotrek grunted, flipping switches and pulling levers. ‘Give the rotor a push, and then get on.’
‘Where, out of curiosity?’ Felix said.
Gotrek pointed. While Felix had been talking to Axeson, Gotrek had stretched a heavy roll of canvas out beneath the landing struts of the gyrocopter, creating an improvised hammock. Felix stared at it, aghast. Gotrek growled impatiently. ‘Manling, we use these to carry rocks three times your weight. It’s secure enough! Now give the blasted rotor a shove!’
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 27
