[Thanquol & Boneripper 03] - Thanquol's Doom

by C. L. Werner - (ebook by Undead)

  Thanquol scrambled past a knot of fighting dwarfs, retreating into the shelter between a statue’s immense legs. The dark shadow beneath the dwarf ancestor god seemed to welcome him, enveloping him in the protective embrace of darkness. The grey seer rested his paws against the cold stone ankle, sucking breath back into his panting lungs. If he could just concentrate, just recover his strength…

  As the grey seer began to think about the escape spell he would use to elude the daemon, his body was wracked by a searing pain. He cowered against the foot of the statue, blood oozing from his nose. He forced himself to keep his eyes focused upon the floor, resisting the almost overwhelming urge to gaze up at the manifesting daemon.

  No, you shall not escape me so easily. You will burn, mage-rat, and then you will scream. And scream. And scream.

  Thanquol’s will faltered. Slowly, he lifted his horned head, gazing up towards the roof of the dwarfhold. Staring into the face of Skarbrand.

  Klarak Bronzehammer watched in mounting horror as the daemon conjured by Thanquol’s sorcery seeped through the rupture between worlds. The entity’s evil swiftly flooded the hall, flowing like a river of malignance into every heart and mind subjected to its presence. A scum of hoarfrost gathered upon the ceiling, streams of blood bubbled from bare stone walls. The light of torch and lantern flickered, smothered by the clammy clutch of Chaos. Upon the floor, dead bodies twitched, spilled blood began to boil. Steam rose from bloodied blades. Snakes of red lightning sizzled through the air.

  At the core of the manifestation was the shadow. Great and terrible, growing with each heartbeat, becoming more solid, cladding itself in a shape of terror. Klarak had seen such things before, in the infernal workshops of the daemonsmiths, but even the horrors of the dawi-zharr paled before the wickedness of the horror now spilling into Karak Angkul.

  This was the danger Klarak had been warned of, the unspeakable destruction Grey Seer Thanquol represented. They had stopped Ikit Claw’s Doomsphere and saved the greater Karak Ankor from destruction, but now an even more terrible doom stretched forth its claws to visit ruin upon Karak Angkul. The daemon’s taint would spare nothing. Not a man, woman or child would escape its wrath, the very foundations of the dwarfhold would be tortured and corrupted by its malignance.

  There was only one chance. Klarak was no wizard, no scholar of the occult, but he knew daemons required sustenance to materialise. For the daemon to manifest, it needed a focus, an anchor to bind it to reality and keep it from slipping back into the void. If that focus could be broken before the entity’s evil could fully gather itself the dwarfhold might yet be saved.

  With an effort, Klarak pulled his gaze away from the forming daemon, staring out across the ranks of awestruck dwarfs and terrified skaven. Desperately he searched for the individual whose destruction would send the monster back. The engineer bit back a cry of triumph as he saw Thanquol trying to slip away between the stunned dwarfs. “The grey ratkin is the focus! Kill him before the daemon takes form! Kill Thanquol!”

  Klarak just had time to see his words galvanise some of the dwarfs into action before a wave of almost palpable malevolence smashed down upon him. He could feel the daemon’s rage slam into him, crushing him to his knees. The feral howl of a bloodcrazed beast snarled through the corridors of his soul. His body heaved with revulsion. When he looked back at the shadow, a pair of immense eyes glared down at him, blazing like volcanic fires in the gathering blackness.

  Concentrated into the daemon’s eyes was a quality of violence and havoc that made Klarak’s flesh crawl. He could see the fountainhead of all atrocity, the nucleus of all carnage, the cornerstone of all brutality smouldering behind the daemon’s gaze. The lust of blood and destruction began to grow inside him, feeding from his every memory. He saw the goblins who had tortured and murdered his mother. He was there as his father was smashed beneath the claws of a troll. He experienced the lynching of his grandfather by human bandits as though wearing the skin of his long-dead ancestor. Each memory cried out to him with a voice of wrath, urging him to vengeance, demanding blood and slaughter as the price to wash away their pain.

  The dwarf threw back his head, screaming in anguish. In that howl of agony, Klarak embraced his pain. The daemon did not need the subtlety of lies to fan the embers of rage in the engineer’s soul. How easy it would be to listen to its seductive voice, to cast aside reason and to wallow in the mindless joy of wrath! Pain would be forgotten when the world was painted red with the blood of the damned! Cast aside suffering and abandon himself to battle unending!

  No! It took all of Klarak’s willpower to manage that single word, that single spark of defiance. He was a dwarf! A dwarf was nothing without his past, without his traditions and his ancestors, without the glories and the sorrows of his race! The very pain which the daemon had evoked to seduce him, to drag his mind down into a wallow of violence and massacre, now became the dwarf’s strength. What his kin had endured, what his race had endured, these became like a sword in Klarak’s fist, driving back the daemon’s call to carnage.

  Blood streamed from Klarak’s eyes as he fought free of the daemon’s influence. All about him, he could see other dwarfs shaking their heads, wiping gore from their faces. There was a haunted expression in their eyes, but they had managed to cling to their sanity. By drawing the focus of the daemon’s ire, Klarak had preserved his companions from the worst of the entity’s malevolence.

  Skarbrand Rage Feaster, Bloodthirster of Khorne. In that brief moment when the daemon’s gaze had pierced his soul, Klarak discovered its name and its purpose. Karak Angkul would drown in blood. Every living thing within its walls would be butchered, an offering for Bloody Khorne upon his throne of skulls. And if the offering was great enough, if the slaughter pleased Skarbrand’s god, then the entire hold would be consumed, ripped from the face of the earth and dragged into the Blood God’s realm of rampage and barbarity.

  “What… is…” Horgar’s voice trembled as he tried to speak.

  “Death for Karak Angkul unless we can send it back,” Klarak told him. He raised his voice so that the other dwarfs could hear him. “We have to kill Thanquol before the daemon can manifest itself fully.”

  The dwarfs nodded grimly, moving to engage the skaven once more. A large body of the ratmen were pushing their way back to the lower deeps. Klarak could see the trophy rack of the hated Queek Headtaker rising above the mass of armoured skaven. The Headtaker had many a grudge recorded against him. It would mean glory and honour to any dwarf who could bring about the ratman’s destruction.

  “Stop!” The command rang out above the cries of skaven and the crash of blades. Runelord Morag stood at the mouth of the tunnel, his hammer raised above his head. The venerable dwarf seemed bathed in a soft blue radiance and there was a feeling of unquestionable authority in his voice. “Let the vermin pass! Do not touch them!”

  Reluctantly, the dwarfs started to pull back. The skaven, however, took their retreat as weakness. Instinctively they lunged after the warriors, cutting several down with their rusty halberds. Roaring with indignation, the dwarfs surged back, their axes felling many of the ratkin.

  “Let them pass!” Morag shouted once more. This time, Klarak could see the reason behind the Runelord’s order. Every drop of blood that was shed, be it from dwarf or ratkin, bubbled and steamed as it struck the floor, vanishing in a crimson mist. Dread gripped Klarak as he turned his eyes to the bloodthirster’s black shadow. There was no mistaking it, the daemon’s shape was more distinct now and becoming even more so with each wisp of red vapour rushing into it.

  “The daemon draws strength from death!” Klarak cried out. “Let the skaven run! It’s the daemon we must stop!”

  The threat posed by ignoring Klarak’s words was not lost on the dwarfs. Sheltering behind their shields, they withdrew for the second time, leaving a path open for Queek and his bodyguards. The dwarfs cursed the skaven warlord as he scurried off into the darkness with his retinue. Many vengeful oaths were swo
rn before the last of the stormvermin scurried away. It was a hard thing for any dwarf to suffer such an infamous enemy to escape justice.

  If Thanquol had been among Queek’s retinue, the dwarfs could have risked engaging them in battle, but to do so when every drop of blood fed the daemon was suicide.

  Klarak turned away from the retreating skaven, drawn by the clamour of battle. All across the hall, Thane Arngar’s defenders were locked in battle once more with the skaven Queek had left behind. There were still hundreds of the dark-furred vermin scattered about the hall, trapped between the two dwarf throngs. Klarak cried out to his kinsfolk, urging them to disengage, hoping against hope that the cowardice of the ratmen would lead them to quit the battlefield.

  A new horror gripped Klarak when he saw that his words went unheeded. Studying the battle more closely, he could see that it was not a simple matter of ratkin versus dwarf, but a confused melee that pit ratkin against ratkin and dwarf against dwarf. The fighters slashed away, uncaring of who they came against, cutting down their own as happily as they did their enemies. The engineer remembered the horrible madness that had done its utmost to overwhelm him. Nearer to the daemon, those he now watched had been unable to resist the bloodthirster’s call to battle. Only a small cluster of dwarfs gathered about Thane Arngar and his oathstone appeared to still be in possession of their faculties. They did their utmost to fend off their crazed attackers without harming them, a restraint that went unreciprocated.

  Red fog rose from the battle, streaking above the heads of the dead and dying, rushing across the hall to lend their substance to the malignancy taking shape. From shadow, the daemon became a thing of solidity, a goliath monstrosity of tattered pinions and leathery flesh. Massive thews rippled beneath the daemon’s scarred skin, strings of gore swayed from the tips of its black horns. Plates of brass were bolted to the daemon’s crimson skin, each segment of armour scored with the Skull Rune of Skarbrand’s fearsome lord and master. In each of its mighty claws, the bloodthirster bore an immense axe of dark, lustreless metal that seemed to writhe and howl beneath its gripping talons, eager to taste mortal blood upon their sharp blades.

  Skarbrand’s hound-like face split in a baleful grin, its eyes blazing with unbridled savagery. The bloodthirster’s cloven hoof smashed against the floor, cracking the flagstones and causing the very mountain to shiver. The daemon’s laughter thundered through the dwarfhold, blood trickling from the ears of all who heard it.

  The daemon exulted in the stench of blood and terror that its laughter provoked. Lustily, the bloodthirster swept its axes down across the crazed ranks of the little creatures that fed him with their maddened fury. Scores of skaven, dozens of dwarfs were massacred in the blink of an eye, Skarbrand’s axes tearing them asunder. The daemon blades wailed in ecstasy as the blood of their victims was absorbed into their metal skins.

  Klarak could watch no more. “It has to be stopped,” he snarled, feeling again the murderous fingers of the daemon probing his mind. Glutting itself upon its bloody harvest, Skarbrand would soon grow powerful enough to sustain itself without the focus of Thanquol’s lifeforce. If that happened, the daemon would only fade back into the world of phantoms when it ran out of victims to slaughter.

  “By Grungni, it will be stopped,” Runelord Morag vowed. Moving with surprising speed for a dwarf of his age, he hurried back to the mouth of the tunnel where King Logan and his hammerers were bringing forth the stronghold’s Anvil of Doom. The Runelord scrambled onto the litter, taking his place behind the ancient relic. Hurriedly, he brought his magic hammer smashing down onto the black surface of the anvil. Blue sparks of lightning erupted from the pounding hammer, crackling across the hall to strike the rampaging daemon.

  “Khazuk! Khazuk! Khazuk!” Morag roared, foam flecking his beard as he uttered the famed dwarfish war-cry. The shout was taken up by the warriors around him. Sternly, the armoured dwarfs formed ranks before the Runelord, King Logan taking his place among the vanguard. The daemon might bring destruction to their homes, but it would not do so without knowing it had been in a fight.

  As the magic lightning sizzled against its crimson flesh, Skarbrand turned about. The bloodthirster’s face spread in a gruesome snarl. Rearing to its full height, spreading its torn wings, the daemon bellowed its challenge to the dwarfs. Clashing its wailing axes together, Skarbrand stormed across the hall, heedless of the crazed warriors it trampled beneath its hooves.

  Gunfire cracked from the muzzles of a hundred thunderers, the barrage smashing into the charging daemon’s body. The daemon roared onwards, unfazed by the bullets that tore at its flesh. A sheet of lightning danced from Morag’s hammer, scorching the bloodthirster’s face. Skarbrand’s nostrils flared as it snorted in amusement. It enjoyed destruction so much more when its prey tried to fight back.

  Seeing the uselessness of their bullets, the thunderers clubbed their guns and rushed at the daemon, determined to drive the beast back by simple force of arms. Many of the warriors broke ranks, charging forwards alongside their comrades. This day they might walk the halls of their ancestors, but they would not do so knowing they had spent their final moments as cowards.

  Klarak rushed alongside King Logan’s bodyguard. If he would die, then it would be alongside his sovereign. Thorlek and Horgar accompanied their master, relishing the chance to fight beside him in one last battle.

  Lightning from the Anvil of Doom crackled overhead as Morag continued to draw upon the relic’s magic. The bolts seared the daemon’s hide, leaving behind ugly dripping scars. But instead of weakening, the bloodthirster seemed to draw strength from its injuries, savouring the smell of even its own foul blood.

  A small mob of crazed skaven lingered between the dwarfs and the daemon. The charging warriors smashed into the amok ratmen, cutting them down before the creatures could turn away from their fratricidal mania. Verminous spines shattered beneath the blows of hammers, rodent limbs were hewn beneath the biting steel of axes. One ratman, more crazed then the rest, lunged at Klarak, ending its existence when Horgar’s steam-powered hand squeezed its head into pulp.

  As the dwarfs broke through the ranks of the skaven, they hesitated. Skarbrand glowered down at them, the daemon’s eyes like glowing pits of blood. Nothing now stood between the dwarfs and their ghastly foe. Nothing save the grisly carpet of butchered bodies the bloodthirster trampled beneath its hooves.

  The hound-like muzzle parted in a bark of murderous laughter. Then the daemon’s snarling axes came hurtling downwards.

  Before the daemon’s hellish weapons could reap their harvest of blood, Klarak sprang forwards. The engineer reached to his belt, hurling a small egg-like oval straight into Skarbrand’s bestial visage. The grenade exploded as it smacked against the daemon’s forehead, a bright flare of fire erupting across the bloodthirster’s face. The daemon staggered back, its axes dangling limply from their chains as it pawed at its burning face.

  Klarak knew the grenade had done little damage to the bloodthirster, causing it more surprise than injury. Yet as the beast drew away, its gargantuan body suddenly contorted in agony. Skarbrand’s fanged mouth fell open in a howl, the chemical fire flickering across its snout forgotten as it reeled about with pain. A great swathe of the daemon’s back was torn and bloodied, burned black by some incredible force.

  Klarak ignored the daemon’s wails of rage, his keen eyes seeking out whatever had done such damage to the seemingly invulnerable beast. He considered the way Skarbrand had recoiled from his bomb, the direction in which the daemon had retreated and the location of its grisly wound. The engineer’s gaze rose, staring in wonder at the stone face of one of the statues which flanked the hall. The dour countenance of Valaya stared back at him, the goddess’ granite eyes frozen in an expression of defiant watchfulness.

  From the face of the statue, Klarak turned his attention to the mighty axe clutched in Valaya’s outstretched hand: a masterful representation of Kradskonti, the famed Peacebringer. The engineer could see Skarbrand�
��s boiling ichor dripping from the statue’s weapon.

  The dwarf’s mind raced, stunned by the implication of what he saw. Immune to mortal weapons and unfazed by Morag’s magic, the daemon had proven itself vulnerable to this stone figure, this effigy of the dwarfish goddess of protection and healing. Klarak did not question the source of this power, whether it lay in some enchantment cut into the stone by the statue’s sculptor or whether the power might be a manifestation of Valaya’s divine strength. It was enough that the statue held the power to hurt the daemon.

  “Thorlek! Horgar!” the engineer called out. He did not wait to see if his friends had heard him, instead rushing across the hall, hurdling the dead and dying. The engineer’s eyes kept drifting back to Valaya’s statue, studying the angle of her outstretched arm and the distance between her axe and the enraged Skarbrand.

  A crazed dwarf lurched into Klarak’s path, the heavy iron length of a cannon worm gripped in his bloodied hands. The gunner thrust the corkscrew-shaped head of the worm at Klarak, trying to impale him upon its barbed tip. The engineer twisted aside, driving his fist into his attacker’s throat. The gunner staggered back, gasping for breath, the worm falling from his hands.

  Before Klarak could fully disable his foe, a filthy weight pounced upon him from behind. The sharp nails of a ratman’s claws tore at his neck while chiselled fangs worried at his ear. A second skaven, fully as mad as the first, rushed at Klarak from the side, slashing at him with a notched sword.

  The sword-rat’s blow never landed. An axe whistled through the air, slamming into the beast’s back and sending its broken body rolling across the floor. The skaven on Klarak’s back squealed in agony as powerful hands ripped it from the dwarf’s body and smashed its face into the unyielding stone floor.