by David Guymer
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Warhammer
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About The Author
Legal
eBook license
This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.
At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it isa land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forestsand vast cities. And from his throne in Altdorf reignsthe Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of thefounder of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.
But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north, come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern lands ofthe Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the Empire needs heroes like never before.
Prologue
It had been a good trap.
Despite the simplicity of its conception – which was only to be expected from simple minds – it had not lacked a certain ham-fisted elegance in its execution, and now the grand Feasting Hall of Karak Azul was transformed into an arena of death. Blood slicked the roughly worked basalt tiles like warm mead. Trophies of war and peace had been torn from their wall mounts and lay strewn about. Some were spattered with blood, ancient weapons and wooden plaques still embedded in the shattered skulls of the dwarfs they had slain. Others lay chipped and broken, battered by orcish hands into the carved reliefs that ringed the hall until they all fell shattered about the dead.
The screams of dying dwarfs mingled with the cries of their vengeful kin, those few still battling to be heard above the animalistic grunts of the encircling orcs. The struggling torchlight threw the brutish warriors in and out of darkness and cast skeletal shadows of the upturned and sundered remains of wooden furnishings onto the carved walls. From those same walls looked back the broken faces of grim ancestors, patterned with wavering stripes of dark and light like the strokes of a lash.
‘For Kazrik!’ bawled one of the dwarfs, crushing an orc skull with a swing of his improvised weapon, a wooden pin more suited to rolling pastry than battling greenskins. ‘For Karak Azul!’ he cried again, as an orc scimitar impaled him through his unarmoured, flour-dusted chest.
The dwindling circle of dwarfs tightened still further, as hard and resolute as rocks before the remorselessly rising green tide. The orcs bellowed with bellicose joy, every grunt and shout edged with their impatience to hurl themselves against the faltering dwarfs. Those in the front ranks laughed as they threw themselves into the fray. They continued to grin, even as repurposed kitchen knives and blacksmiths’ hammers stove in heads and ribs and hacked limbs from powerfully muscled bodies, all while those caught behind hollered and roared, desperate for their turn. The din rang through the vast hall, circling the one-sided contest like a jackal, harrying at the scrap of shadow that clung to the extinguished torches of the north wall.
It was as if it could smell the skaven that trembled there.
Sleek watched the bloodletting, his upper lip twitching with every fractured bone and bloodied hammer. The scent of death was appalling and heady: spilled blood and warm meat, voided bowels and sweat. His tail swept the basalt flags of its own accord as it was wont to do when he was anxious. And, by the cruel grace of the Horned Rat, was he anxious!
The stupidity of these dwarfs!
He stamped his paw, trying to funnel his helpless panic towards anger, claws scraping pale tracks in the dark rock.
It was common knowledge that the dwarf-things were a race of limited intelligence, possessed of a rudimentary cunning perhaps, a base instinct with metals and stone, but lacking true intellect, and here was the proof of it. No skaven would ever have been duped by such a blatant ploy. He had wisely hidden himself at the first scent of the green-things. He had watched as they dragged in kettle drums made from beaten breastplates before setting about them with bronze-headed mallets and a bestial enthusiasm to create an unholy din from which his ears were yet to recover.
He didn’t know what the dwarfs had been thinking, or whether thoughts had ever intruded into their flat, stubby heads, but in they had charged with scarcely a weapon between them. They had even had the temerity to look surprised as a horde of green-things spilled from behind pillars and vandalised statues to smash into their rear.
Yes, he thought bitterly, it had been a good trap.
Another dwarf fell, turning a graceless pirouette as a black-fletched arrow ripped through his leather skullcap.
Sleek shuffled anxiously on the spot, torn between the desire to flee and the need to hide. Why couldn’t the selfish dwarf-things just hurry up and die, and then the green-things would move on? They were beaten. He knew it. They knew it, yet on they fought, as though their own lives meant nothing. Sleek knew this was yet more evidence of the turgid thinking of the dwarfs, their inability to feel such decent skaven emotions as fear or its drive to honest self-interest. He knew this, yet part of him couldn’t help but admire them for their stalwart refusal to panic and die as they should.
A particularly barbaric roar assaulted his still-tender ears, followed by the metallic crunch of a dwarf breastplate crumpling beneath an orc mace.
Sleek winced. Time to move.
‘Hurry-scurry, quick-quick,’ he squeaked, comforted by the sound of his own voice as he sidled along the length of wall. Sleek pressed close to the wall, as if by proximity and effort alone he might force his way into the mortar and between the hard dark stones. His wet snout misted the stone with each panicked breath, a visual reminder, if any were needed, of the heart that pounded within his chest. It raced a little faster as he spotted the bulging cloth sack that lay undisturbed at the edge of the battle.
Good. He would not want to survive the green-things, only to return to the City of Pillars without the warlord’s treasures.
The sack lay unattended in the middle of the floor, exactly where he had dropped it in his fright. He sniffed nervously at the battle that raged around it. He would have felt better about reaching out to lay his paws on the Chaos moon. Gripping hold of the wall with both trembling paws behind him, Sleek sank to the floor, lying flat on his back and stretching out a leg towards the bag, but it was just out of reach. His snaking tail strained to coil itself about the shoulder strap but to no avail.
Thwarted, he scrambled back against the wall. He stared longingly at the heavy sack, willing it closer. Sleek started as the nearest green-thing received a crossbow bolt between the eyes. He gave a short scream, ducking from cover as the orc-thing’s heavy body crashed against the wall where he had just been, squealing agai
n as he looked beyond its fallen bulk at the bloody-bearded dwarf sighting right for him down the track of his crossbow. His claws skittered horrifyingly loudly on the hard floor as he scurried through the fray to his treasure’s side. He heaved the sack over his shoulders, swaying unsteadily under the sudden weight. Nose twitching in the thick fug, he glanced about, but the dwarf he had spotted had disappeared into the riot of bodies and nobody else seemed to be paying any attention to the dark-furred skulker in their midst. He risked a nervous titter.
He had always been a lucky rat.
Keeping on all fours, he scrambled for the great colonnaded hallway he had arrived by. The entry was not far, he could see it behind the hulking shoulders of the crazed orc-things. He paid no heed to stealth now, escape was his only desire, the taste of freedom like nectar on his whiskers. Heart in his mouth, Sleek abandoned the charnel chamber at a sprint. Closing his eyes, he fled the hall as though a pack of howling daemons were on his tail. Broken columns and vandalised statues passed in a blur. Screams pursued him as if they blamed him personally, their death cries seeming to issue from the very walls themselves.
Throughout Karak Azul, the dwarf-things were dying.
He scrambled to a halt at a junction marked by a towering stature of a dwarf-thing queen. Frantically, Sleek commanded his memory into some kind of order.
Left at the breeder-thing.
He stared at the statue. Was this the one he had passed? It looked different; its sceptre was missing, its eyes crudely gouged from an impassive face, its limestone crown riddled with holes.
Curse these orc-things. They are like children. They can leave nothing alone!
Still cursing he hurried left, on down a widening corridor. The statuary was becoming larger and ever more ornate, sculpted from finer rock with eyes picked out in precious stones and very real rune-encrusted axes in their stony grips. Sleek cringed impulsively, feeling the weight of their combined stares on his back. Instinctively, he gravitated towards one wing of the passage, weaving between the giant pillar-like legs of the colossal statues as he ran.
He scampered towards a doorway. Like everything else here, it was vast, towering upward in reach of a ceiling he could not even see. The gate was ajar and firelight flickered intermittently on the other side, throwing wavering shafts of light that grasped at the marble flags like a tortured soul. Foam flecking his lips from exhaustion and terror, he crashed bodily into the wooden frame. His claws scrambled at the reassuringly solid thing as he wheezed. Pressing his muzzle close, he smelt red paint and rich pine, his claws seeking solace in the strong bands of iron that crossed it.
The door shook with a violent tremor and Sleek squealed softly. He didn’t even want to be warlord of Eight Peaks. It was a foolish ambition. He just wanted to go home. He’d even give the warlord all of the treasure instead of keeping the best for himself.
He recoiled from a sudden uproar as the chamber beyond erupted with brutish snorts and cries, a hundred orcs or more howling in approval and stamping their heavy feet into the stone floor. Sleek sank to the floor with paws clutched to his ears as the din grew impossibly louder. The orcs were working themselves into some kind of frenzy, brutal cheers working their way through coarse, animal throats accompanied by the pounding of weapons on shields.
A single dwarf screamed, the sound of his agony rising above the din like a struck bell pealing above an angry crowd.
Unable to resist a look, Sleek poked his snout around the gate, blinking in the sudden glare. The vision that greeted him almost made him choke and he jerked back. The afterglow left purple stars swimming before his eyes. Numbly, he blinked them away as his heart, unheeded, threatened to leap from his throat and skitter across the floor.
No way out that way.
‘Away-run!’
Without a backward glance, he hurtled back the way he had come, trying not to think of what he had seen. Hulking orcs in thick black armour with weeping red fangs daubed in blood. A throne and… Sleek shook the vision from his head. The very memory made his paws quiver and his pace unsteady. The image returned. He couldn’t help himself. It had been, quite simply, the largest orc he had ever seen, and easily the most terrifying. The monster had had his back to him, fixated on the throne and whatever broken dwarf-thing he had glimpsed upon it. Another scream sounded. It echoed through the cavernous passage as the giant beings of stone took up the call as their own. Sleek picked up his pace. Flattening his ears against the rising screams, he hastened on, returning at last to the ruined breeder-thing.
That left only one way.
He took the last passage that was open to him, hoping against hope that his luck still held and that it might lead him to a way out.
He accelerated into a terrified gallop, not noticing until far too late the pale, worm-like thing that snaked out from behind one of the massive grey pillars. It wrapped around his ankle and, with a deft tug, yanked his flying feet from the ground. He fell heavily, his pack tearing open as his snout ploughed into the ground, haemorrhaging coins and jewels and the looted treasures of Karak Azul as he skidded and rolled across the flags. His back slammed into a pillar, forcing a moan of pain.
Dizzily, he sat upright, clutching his empty pack to his ribs like a salve. His vision swam, coalescing around a leering brown-furred face, a rusted dirk held perilously close to Sleek’s throat.
‘Sneaky-Sleek. Thought you lost-dead.’
‘Fast-quick you run-flee from orc-things, Tiklisp. You make a terrible-poor sentry-rat.’
Tiklisp looked unrepentant. ‘You know the old saying. The rat who runs away…’
‘Calm-still, Tiklisp,’ squeaked another voice. ‘Warlord say-squeak no kill-kill. Dwarf-things not to know we come-steal.’
Fangleader Ratklett stole from the shadows with a paranoid gait, freezing and looking over his shoulder with every distant scream.
‘Warlord not need know. Think-think. More reward for us, yes?’
‘No-no!’ hissed Ratklett, planting a heavy, black-furred paw on the slighter skaven’s shoulder and dragging him firmly back. ‘Warlord says no kill-kill.’
Tiklisp bared his fangs in annoyance, toying with the dagger in his paws before evidently realising the foolishness of challenging two skaven twice his size. He lowered the knife and treated Ratklett to his most contrite expression before turning to grovel at Sleek’s feet. ‘Tiklisp did not mean for Sleek to get lost. Tiklisp simply try-make a distraction for scary orc-things. Lucky Sleek-sneak always Tiklisp’s favourite.’
Sleek growled, too anxious even for the flattery of his lessers to soothe his nerves. He shoved the whining ratman off him and hauled himself to his feet. ‘Just help-help gather gold-treasure, or I tell-squeak the warlord that coward-meat Tiklisp lost it.’
The wiry skaven leapt to obey. Even Ratklett momentarily dropped his guard to help gather dwarfish riches in his paws and speed them on their way. In no time, Sleek’s pack was bulging once again and the three of them were padding through desolate hallways. The screams came infrequently now, ringing hollowly from distant halls. Sleek hoped this was a good sign. Articles of clothing lay where they had been dropped, ledgers sat open in creeping puddles of ink, bowls of steaming broth rested untouched on abandoned trestles.
The dwarfs had rushed to the defence of their kin. They had dropped everything to go to their deaths.
Sleek looked about nervously. Karak Azul was a veritable labyrinth and he was assuredly lost. Only the confidence of Ratklett reassured him as the larger skaven hurried down the darkened corridor, tapping his claws periodically against the walls while silently counting off paw-steps under his breath. Sleek suffered a pang of searing jealousy. Ratklett was always much deeper in the warlord’s confidence. It was so unfair, particularly when Sleek was evidently the more loyal and trustworthy skaven. Yet another reason why he deserved to be warlord.
Ratklett paused at a section of wall, pressing his ear against the stone as he tapped out a fractured melody with his claws. A smug look lit up
his eyes as he felt around the stretch of wall. Evidently finding what he sought, Ratklett slammed his fist into the wall, and the block beneath his paw depressed. There was a mechanical whir and Sleek jolted back as the whole section of wall suddenly recessed. A grinding of ancient gears followed as the secret door rose unsteadily up into the wall.
Sleek breathed deeply of the stale air that gusted from the opening.
Home.
He glanced at Ratklett, who glared back, challenging, ‘You first-first.’
He bobbed his head, indicating subservience, and turned to Tiklisp, shoving him in ahead. Sleek followed as Ratklett claimed the place of honour at the rear. Sleek sensed Ratklett hanging back, striking the wall with a different routine to bring the door crashing back down.
The passage angled downward into the heart of the mountain. The darkness was absolute, not even a glimmer of illumination escaping the seals of the door to Karak Azul. Sleek followed Tiklisp’s colour-bleached outline as the smaller skaven scurried ahead. These tunnels were unfamiliar, and the dwarfish a klinkarhun markings that were carved with a precise regularity into the stone walls were of no use whatsoever to one who could not read them.
The dwarfs had abandoned this tunnel long ago; that much was plain. It was unfinished, and he knew that no dwarf-thing would ever leave their works in such disrepair. No matter. The rock beneath Karak Azul was a veritable ant’s nest of tunnel-ways, not to mention the ancient dragon caves that sprawled even deeper still. They all connected somewhere, if a skaven was clever enough to find his way. Somewhere down here was the trail to Black Crag, and then home.
Already, Sleek found himself breathing more easily.
‘Tiklisp. Hold-wait.’
The brown-furred clanrat turned and then gasped, looking down in mute surprise at a dwarfish short sword buried in his chest, angular runes pulsing with a baleful blue light in time to the skaven’s fading heartbeat. He looked up, his mouth working frantically to frame words. ‘But, the warlord says–’
Sleek twisted the hilt, enjoying the lesser rat’s piteous moans. ‘We are not in Azul-Place any more.’
