Felix swallowed. He’d come too close to meeting the creature’s gaze as it attacked him. He blinked sweat out of his eyes, and scanned the ground. ‘How do we fight something we can’t even look at?’ he shouted. As far as he was concerned, they weren’t showing the proper amount of worry. ‘Gotrek,’ he yelled. ‘Gotrek, where are you?’
‘Right behind you, manling – don’t move!’ the Slayer thundered. Felix froze. A shadow fell over him, blotting out the sun. Sand and dirt dribbled into his hair and across his shoulders from above. He heard Gotrek say something, and then he heard the hiss of a blade descending at all speed. Felix threw himself from the top of the wall and hit the ground, hard. The air whooshed out of his lungs. Behind him, bronze struck stone, and then something much, much harder than bronze smashed down on the strange, fleshy stone of which the Stalkers were seemingly composed. ‘Ha!’ Gotrek roared. Felix risked a quick glance and saw that the Slayer had split the Stalker’s inhuman skull in two with a single blow. Holding tight to the Stalker’s shoulder, Gotrek rode its body to the ground as it crumpled in on itself, its tail lashing in its death throes. The thick muscles in the dwarf’s arm bunched as Gotrek tore his axe free of its head and stepped off the writhing body. ‘One down,’ he said. ‘From the sound of them, there are only two, maybe three, to go.’ He grinned at Felix.
‘Don’t sound so happy,’ Felix said, as he picked himself up. ‘Not all of us find this as entertaining as you do. In fact, I can think of a hundred other places I’d rather be than right here, right now, facing deadly eyed burrowing snake statues.’
‘Bah! Antar, Scion of the Greatest Dynasty, has no fear of wide-eyed statuary,’ Antar said. Unlike the others, he hadn’t sought higher ground. Like Gotrek, he seemed intent on confrontation, though he hadn’t yet had the Slayer’s success. ‘They fear Heaven’s Favoured Son, and slither from him like serpents before the crocodile!’
A Stalker exploded out of the ground behind the tomb-prince. Antar whirled, hurling his flail. The Stalker’s eyes pulsed with a terrible energy and Antar’s arm dissolved into sand moments before the flail struck home. The Stalker reared back, and lashed out with its staff. Antar leapt over the blow and his khopesh hissed out, removing both of the Stalker’s arms. Before it could recover, arrows sprouted from its eyes. Zabbai’s warriors fired smoothly, striking the Stalker again and again. Zabbai herself lunged over its lashing tail and brought her axe up and around, tearing the top of the construct’s head off with a single powerful blow. ‘That’s two,’ she said, as the thing’s body crashed down behind her.’
As soon as the Stalker had appeared, Gotrek had sprung into motion. Felix looked for him, and saw the Slayer pelting away in pursuit of a swiftly moving furrow in the soft ground, his axe held tightly across his body, and his mouth open to expel a nigh-constant litany of curses. It would be a waste of breath to call after the Slayer; best to save his wind for running.
He heard a shout from behind him, and the telltale explosion that marked the appearance of one of the creatures. He turned in time to see a thrashing tail sink into the sand, but not before its tip caught Antar beneath the chin and sent the tomb-prince hurtling into the air. Antar crashed down behind a fallen statue. The burrowing Stalker circled its fallen fellows and shot towards Zabbai and her warriors as fast as a bolt from a ballista. Sand was spewed from the furrow its passage dug. Zabbai’s warriors fired arrows at the approaching trench, but either the thing was too deep or the sand was too thick, and it exploded out of the ground at an angle that sent it hurtling over a pair of warriors. One it beheaded with a sweep of its stave as it passed, and the other was caught by its deadly gaze. Bone, tack and harness all became as sand. It remained standing for a moment, and then a contemptuous flick of the Stalker’s tail burst the newly made statue into nothing more than a cloud of drifting particles.
Zabbai darted for the high ground, and the Stalker, having now plunged back beneath the ground, burrowed in pursuit. Felix ran after them. He wasn’t sure what he could do to help, but anything was better than standing around doing nothing. He propelled himself over fallen stones and vaulted broken columns, running along a parallel course to Zabbai and her pursuer. He stumbled on a loose stone and crashed into a mostly intact, if weather-worn, statue of a hawk-headed god. As he righted himself, he saw the Stalker lunge partially from the ground long enough to swat Zabbai from her feet. Then it plunged back down into the dirt and swiftly circled her. It rose behind her as she tried to regain her feet.
Felix scaled the statue as quickly as he could. His limbs were aching and his muscles were burning, but he knew that to stop was to condemn Zabbai to oblivion. Whatever else she was, the dead woman was a comrade, and had saved his life at least once. The least he could do was return the favour. He tore his cloak from about his neck and snapped it tight between his hands. Then, with a wild yell, he ran down the length of the statue’s prominent beak and leapt off, even as the Stalker raised its staff over Zabbai’s unheeding skull. As he slammed down on the Stalker’s crooked back, he flapped his cloak over its skull and twisted the ends tight, completely enveloping its head.
‘Now, Zabbai,’ he shouted, hauling back. His weight pulled the Stalker off balance, forcing it to rear. Zabbai bounded to her feet and sprang up, turning. Her axe flashed in the red light of the setting sun, and the blade tore a gaping crevasse in the Stalker’s skull, destroying its eyes and most of its face. The construct collapsed. Felix was thrown off, and only narrowly avoided its thrashing coils as he scrambled to his feet. He drew his blade and hewed at its tail, chopping through the joins where some long-dead artisan had connected the segments of its tail.
Karaghul’s hilt vibrated in his grasp as he struck the stone and gilded rings that marked each squirming segment. Zabbai swung her axe in short, fierce arcs, chopping through its joints and finally hacking its head free of its neck. As the head rolled free, the Stalker settled into motionlessness.
Breathing heavily, Felix met Zabbai’s gaze. She nodded tersely, and Felix returned the gesture before moving to carefully extract his cloak from about the Stalker’s head. It had a wide rent in it, from Zabbai’s initial blow, but the wool cloak had suffered worse in its time. He flapped it out and swung it back about his shoulders before hurrying after Zabbai as she ran towards the site of Gotrek’s duel with the lone Stalker remaining.
The Stalker had coiled about Gotrek like a python, but the dwarf had taken hold of its lower jaw and forced its deadly gaze skywards. It had lost its weapon, and Gotrek’s axe was pinned within the Stalker’s coils. As Felix and Zabbai drew close, Gotrek jerked his other hand free, albeit without his axe, and clamped his fingers on the side of the Stalker’s skull. Dwarf muscle swelled with pent-up power, and stone and metal buckled, cracked and began to give way. The Stalker writhed and squeezed Gotrek more tightly. The Slayer’s face was going red, and veins bulged on his neck as he twisted the Stalker’s head around with a loud crack-crack-crack. With a loud roar, Gotrek ripped the Stalker’s head from its shoulders and sent it flying. All at once, its body slumped.
Gotrek shoved his way free of the limp coils and retrieved his axe. He glared at the headless shape and spat on it. Then he looked at Felix and grinned. ‘I told you, manling. Just watch the eyes,’ he said.
Chapter 13
Felix lit the fire carefully. There wasn’t much in the way of combustible material, but he’d scrounged a few bits of wood, dried grass and what he hoped wasn’t a bone belonging to anyone important. He blew on the tiny flame until it caught. Then he sat back, and huddled in his cloak and wondered how any place as hot as the Land of the Dead could grow so cold, come nightfall. Zabbai’s warriors stood sentry, and though they didn’t require it, Zabbai and Antar sat near the fire. Only ten of Zabbai’s warriors remained. Felix wondered how the dead viewed death, or whatever passed for it among their kind. Was it a simple cessation, or something more poignant? Maybe for some of them it was a kind of relief.
They had reached the Doom Glade Swamp
not long after nightfall. Like the coast, it was mostly water, albeit water the colour of strongly brewed Cathayan tea or the dark, bitter kahve favoured by the Arabayans.
Thin, serpentine trees rose in close-knit groups from thick nests of sword blade-shaped foliage, punctuating the dark water. Hummocks of earth and compacted, decaying vegetation slumped and crouched in out-of-the-way places. Larger trees, heavy trunked and with a profusion of thick roots, occupied these, sitting silent sentry. Felix fancied that he could see faces in their bark, and when the thick branches rattled in the night breeze, just at the edge of his vision, they gave the impression of voices.
The group had made camp on one such hummock, where the ground was more or less solid. ‘This arm is lacking in divinity,’ Antar grumbled. He flexed the stone fingers of the forearm he’d filched from one of the fallen Sepulchral Stalkers. Somehow, he’d managed to attach it to his elbow joint, as if whatever residual magics lurked within the severed limb had interwoven themselves with the magics that kept the prince of Mahrak ambulatory.
It was slightly larger than his original, and Felix suspected that it was a good deal heavier. ‘It has no grace, no skill. Antar, the Swift Edge of Justice, is displeased. Also, he believes that it smells of damp.’ He shoved the arm under Felix’s nose. ‘Judge, fleshy one. Judge and answer the question of the Most Beneficent Prince.’
‘It smells like stone,’ Felix said, pushing the offending limb aside with distaste. Antar retracted his arm and glowered at Felix as if he were at fault. Felix ignored him and looked at Zabbai. ‘Is that something all of your folk can do?’ Felix asked, gesturing to Antar.
Zabbai shook her head. ‘The liche-priests of Mahrak have ever been masters of joinery. After the Great Awakening, it was discovered that many of their princes and kings had been badly damaged by the Usurper’s bone-gnawing acolytes. They had cut into the sacred mummies and scattered them across their tombs with all the care of jackals at the feast. Thus the priests were forced to repair them with what they had to hand. Stone, bronze and turquoise were used to replace missing limbs or repair broken spines and skulls. The rites and magics they used have enabled the scions of the Mahrak dynasties to repair themselves quickly, and without the need for a liche-priest. It is not a trait they have been able to pass on to their legions, thankfully.’ She gazed at Antar for a moment and then shook her head. ‘Antar and his ilk will outlast the rest of us.’
Felix looked at her. He didn’t think she was simply referring to Antar’s new limb, or what it represented. ‘Are there many, then? Like him, I mean?’
‘Antar is right here,’ Antar said. ‘Do not ignore the Son of Heaven!’
‘More awaken every season, and they stay awake longer,’ Zabbai continued, ignoring Antar. ‘They are as glory hungry now as they were in life, and while Settra’s edicts hold sway over them now, it will not be long before even the Imperishable Son of Heaven cannot control such creatures. They yearn for war and slaughter with all the longing of a youth for his first concubine. They wish to extend the borders of the Great Land and to reclaim our ancient demesnes, though Settra has forbidden it. They see no reason why the dead cannot rule the living, if they even bother to think that far ahead. Most of them, Antar included, would have no idea what to do with a conquered city, if they ever managed to acquire one.’
She looked at Felix, still steadfastly ignoring Antar, who visibly fumed, his bones trembling with annoyance. ‘Your people are lucky that we confine ourselves here. If the kings sent their chariots thundering through your lands, no two stones would stand atop one another in their wake. Your Empire would be as a morning dream, and your treasures would adorn our palaces and necropolises, rather than the reverse.’
‘We would crush all beneath our wheels – barbarians, greenskins and stunted monkeys alike!’ Antar said, clapping his hands together. ‘It would be glorious!’
‘My people do not crush easily,’ Gotrek rumbled. It was the first thing he’d said since their encounter with the Sepulchral Stalkers. He stared moodily at the fire, his axe across his knees. Gently, he ran a finger across the runes that stretched across the flat of the blade, tracing them again and again. ‘We have weathered cataclysms and invasions, and will do so unto the last hold, and the last dwarf.’ He lifted his axe, and turned it so that the firelight played across it. ‘When the last days come, the dwarfs will stand and weather the storm, as we have always done. Though the world dies, we shall not be broken.’
Felix could sense the black mood that had its claws in Gotrek’s mind. The Slayer had a face like a lump of stone, but he radiated his moods like a lantern. Felix could tell how the dwarf was feeling just from the way he hunched forwards. He cleared his throat and said, ‘You mentioned earlier that you’d faced those creatures before.’
‘Aye,’ Gotrek grunted. ‘What of it?’
‘I was thinking it might make for an interesting aside, in your death-poem,’ Felix said. Nothing cheered Gotrek up like talking about his perennially imminent death. ‘It’d be just a line or three, about your previous adventures. A bit of colour, you might say.’
‘Colour,’ Gotrek said suspiciously. ‘The only proper colours are gold, grey and brown. Or possibly blue and red. And all the permutations of gold, of course… Red-gold, brown-gold, blue-gold, gold-gold…’
‘Not that sort of colour,’ Felix said. He blew into his cupped hands. ‘Narrative colour, I mean. A bit of descriptive allusion to adventures unseen, in order to show the audience that you existed outside of the story of your death. I want to show them that you lived, before you died.’
Gotrek frowned. ‘None of that matters, manling.’ He waved a hand dismissively. ‘My death is the only important story.’
‘To you, maybe, but to me and to those who will read about you – about us – it’s just the end. There’s more to a story than just the climax,’ Felix said. He extended his palms towards the fire. He tried to rub some life back into his fingers. ‘Detlef Sierck had a saying – “context is the mortar of legend”.’
Gotrek snorted. He thrust a finger beneath his eye-patch and rubbed at the empty socket. Then he said, ‘It was the Seventh War of the Hammer. The throng of Karak Azul was marching for the fourth time upon Mahrak, and I was new to my oath.’ He ran his fingers along the edge of his crest. If he didn’t know better, Felix would have said that the Slayer was self-conscious. ‘We had blindfolded ourselves, of course, as was tradition, since the First War, and the Unworthy Doom of Drong Sternbeater.’
‘Wait, Seventh War? As in, there were six wars before that?’ Felix said.
Gotrek looked at him as if he were an idiot. ‘Obviously, manling, otherwise we wouldn’t have recorded it as such.’
‘And you were marching for the fourth time, which implies that in the Sixth War, Mahrak marched on Karak Azul?’ Felix said, wonderingly.
‘Yes, and the Second and Fourth Wars as well,’ Gotrek said. ‘Keep up, manling.’ He sniffed. ‘As ever, the treacherous dead unleashed their slithering basilisk-eyed guardians on us, as we exited the hills around the Charnel Valley. Blindfolded as we were, the Stalkers were little challenge, though many Slayers fell.’
‘Due to being blindfolded, perchance?’ Felix said.
‘Stop interrupting, manling, you wanted to hear this,’ Gotrek said.
‘Antar remembers that battle,’ Antar said, suddenly. He was sharpening his khopesh and as he slid the stone along the blade’s inner curve, he said, ‘King Alkharad had reclaimed his property.’
‘Our property, you mean,’ Gotrek snapped.
‘Antar, Brilliant Master of a Thousand Stratagems, means what he says,’ Antar said, thrusting his bony jaw pugnaciously at Gotrek. ‘Just because thieving monkeys claim a thing does not mean it is theirs.’
‘What property was that,’ Felix said, trying desperately to bring the conversation back on track. Gotrek glanced at him.
‘It was a holy relic of the Iron Peak, the Hammer of Algrim, first king of that hold, which he used to cr
ush the skull of the dragon Falandraugr, the Death-in-Jade,’ Gotrek said, somewhat wistfully. He stroked his axe. His face hardened. ‘It was stolen, by the greedy dead.’
‘Stolen? Stolen,’ Antar barked. ‘We are not thieves! The hammer was borne to our walls by a greenskin rabble! King Alkharad took it as spoils of war, as was his right!’
‘Just because the greenskins stole it first doesn’t make you not thieves,’ Gotrek said. Felix tried to parse the logic of that statement, but as usual with dwarfs, and Gotrek in particular, it seemed to only make sense to them.
‘Perhaps it was a simple misunderstanding,’ Felix said.
‘Perhaps the monkey should apologise to Antar, who is affronted,’ Antar said.
‘The Hammer of Algrim was a relic of my people before your rat-warren of a city built its first wall out of mud and dung,’ Gotrek said. He got to his feet, gripping his axe tightly, his good eye blazing. ‘If any should apologise, it should be you.’
Antar rose, and swept out his khopesh in a practice swing. ‘And the disc of bronze which now decorates its head to commemorate his victory belongs to King Alkharad, He who is Antar’s Beloved Cousin. When you took it, you stole from us.’
‘Are you accusing my folk of thievery now?’ Gotrek snarled.
Before Antar could reply, and the situation could escalate further, Felix said, ‘Why didn’t you simply ask for it back? The bronze disc, I mean.’
Both Gotrek and Antar looked at him. ‘What do you mean, manling?’ Gotrek said.
‘Well, if the disc of bronze belongs to them, why not just give it back?’ Felix said. He began to wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
‘Give it back?’ Gotrek said incredulously. ‘It’s no fault of ours if they attached some worthless gee-gaw to our relic.’
‘Then maybe you could take the disc off and give the hammer back?’ Felix said desperately, looking at Antar.
Gotrek and Felix: The Serpent Queen Page 18
