Grudgebearer

by Gav Thorpe

  Barundin did not reply immediately, but looked around. Skavenslaves were cowardly creatures, herded into battle by the goads and whips of their masters. He knew what little there was to know about the foe, having read several of the old journals of his predecessors and accounts from other holds. If the skaven had intended to break through into the upper reaches, slaves were a poor choice of vanguard, no matter how expendable they were.

  Barundin stopped suddenly, the hammerer behind him cannoning into his back and causing him to stumble.

  ‘Halt!’ Barundin called out over the apologies of the bodyguard. The king turned to Tharonin with a scowl. ‘They’re drawing us out. The fools have followed them into the tunnels.’

  Tharonin glanced over his shoulder with sudden concern, as if expecting a horde of ratmen to burst upon them from the rear. He tapped his hornblower on the shoulder.

  ‘Sound the retreat,’ he told the musician. ‘Get them to fall back.’

  The hornblower raised his instrument to his lips and blew three short blasts. He repeated the note three more times. After a few moments, it was answered by another call from ahead, repeating the order. Barundin gave a satisfied nod and ordered the small force to turn around and head back to the Fourth Deeping Hall.

  As they passed back into the hall, Barundin peeled away from his hammerers and waved them on, stopping to admire the sight. The Fourth Deeping Hall was packed with dwarf warriors from each clan and family, standing shoulder to shoulder, gathered about their standards, drummers and hornblowers arrayed along the line. Fierce axe dwarfs of the Grogstoks with their golden dragon icon above them stood beside Okrhunkhaz clansdwarfs, their green shields emblazoned with silver runes. On and on, from one end of the hall to the other they stretched.

  Beyond them waited ranks of thunderers with their handguns and quarreller regiments loading their crossbows. Five deep they stood along three steps of the hall, their weapons directed down towards the north arches.

  Beyond them the engineers now had five cannons, and beside them the bulky, menacing shape of the flame cannon. To each flank, five-barrelled organ guns were set close to the walls, their crews tinkering with firing locks, inspecting the piles of cannonballs and stacking parchments bags of black powder charges.

  Arbrek had arrived and now stood in the centre of the front line, where the hammerers and other battle-hardened fighters of the clans were assembled. Barundin walked over to the runelord, and as he crossed the gap between the passage and the dwarf line he saw the staffs of several lesser runesmiths amongst the throng.

  The aged Arbrek stood stiff-backed, his iron and gold runestaff held in both hands across his thighs, his piercing eyes peering at the approaching king from under the brim of a battered helm glowing with flickering golden runes.

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Barundin, stopping beside Arbrek and turning to face the north passages.

  ‘A damned unwelcome sight you are,’ growled Arbrek. ‘In the name of Valaya, what an uncivilised time for a battle. Truly, these creatures are vile beyond reckoning.’

  ‘It’s more than their manners that leaves a lot to be desired,’ said Barundin. ‘But it is truly shocking that they have no respect for your sleep.’

  ‘Are you mocking me?’ said Arbrek with a curled lip. ‘I have laboured many long years and I have earned the right to a full night’s sleep. I used to miss bed for a whole week when I was casting the Rune of Potency upon this staff. Your forefathers would wag their beards to hear such flippancy, Barundin.’

  ‘No offence was meant,’ said Barundin, quickly contrite.

  ‘I should think not,’ muttered Arbrek.

  Barundin waited in silence, and a quiet descended upon the hall, broken by the shuffling of feet, the clink of armour, the rasp of a whetstone and scatters of conversation. Barundin began to fidget with the leather binding of his axe haft as he waited, teasing at stray threads. From his left, a deep voice started to sing. It was Thane Ungrik, descended from the ancient rulers of Karak Varn, and soon the hall was filled with the ancient dwarf verse resounding from the mouths of his clan.

  Beneath a lonely mountain hold

  There lay a wealth worth more than gold

  In a land with no joy nor mirth

  Far from welcome of the hearth

  In the dark beneath the world

  A place never before beheld

  The wealth of kings awaited there

  Only found by those that dared

  Deep we dug and far we dove

  Digging gromril by the drove

  No light of star, no light of sun

  Hard we toiled, sparing none

  But came upon us, green-skinned foes

  Our joys were ended, came our woes

  No axe nor hammer turned them back

  Their blood-stained lake and turned it black

  King and thanes, a war we spoke

  Upon our fists, their armies broke

  But from the deep, a fear unspoken

  Our fighting had now loudly woken

  Up from darkness, our coming fall

  A terror beneath us, killing all

  With heavy hearts we left our dead

  Our hope now broken, turned to dread

  Driven from our halls and homes

  Forced upon the hills to roam

  Forever gone, a loss so dear

  Left in the dark of fell Crag Mere

  Even as the last verses echoed from the walls and ceiling, noises could be heard from the passage. There was a rush of feet and panicked shouting. Wracking coughs and wet screams could be heard, and an unsettled ripple of muttering spread across the dwarf throng.

  A deep fog began to leak from the tunnel entrance, in thin wisps at first but growing in thickness. It was yellow and green, tinged with patches of rotten blackness; a low cloud that seeped across the floor, its edges dusted with flecks of glittering warpstone.

  ‘Poison wind!’ a voice cried out, and within moments the hall was filled with a cacophony of shouts, some of dismay, many of defiance.

  Barundin could now see shapes in the sickly cloud, floundering shadows of dwarfs running and stumbling. Alone and in twos and threes they burst from the mist, hacking and coughing. Some fell, their bodies twitching, others clasped hands to their faces, howling with pain, falling to their knees and pounding their fists on the stone ground.

  One beardling, his blond hair falling in clumps through his fingers as he clawed at his head, staggered forward and collapsed a few yards in front of Barundin. The king stepped forward and knelt, turning the lad over and resting his head against his knees. The king had to fight back the heaving of his stomach.

  The dwarf’s face was a wretched sight, blistered and red, his eyes bleeding. His lips and beard were stained with blood and vomit, and he flailed his arms blindly, clutching at Barundin’s mailed shirt.

  ‘Steady there,’ said the king, and the beardling’s floundering subsided.

  ‘My king?’ he croaked.

  ‘Aye lad, it is,’ said Barundin, dropping his shield to one side and laying a hand on the dwarf’s head. Arbrek appeared next to them as other dwarfs rushed forward to help their fellows.

  ‘We fought bravely,’ the lad rasped. ‘We heard the retreat, but did not want to run.’

  ‘You did well, lad, you did well,’ said Arbrek.

  ‘They came upon us as our backs were turned,’ the beardling said, his chest rising and falling unsteadily, every breath contorting his face with pain. ‘We tried to fight, but we couldn’t. I choked and ran…’

  ‘You fought with honour,’ said Barundin. ‘Your ancestors will welcome you to their halls.’

  ‘They will?’ the lad said, his desperation replaced with hope. ‘What are the Halls of the Ancestors like?’

  ‘They are the finest place in the world,’ said Arbrek, and as Barundin looked up at the runelord he saw that his gaze was distant, drawn to some place that nobody living had seen. ‘The beer is the finest you will ever taste, better even than
Bugman’s. There is roast fowl on the tables, and the greatest hams you will ever see. And the gold! Every type of gold under the mountains can be found there. Golden cups and plates, and golden knives and spoons. The greatest of us dwell there, and you will hear their stories, of fell deeds and brave acts, of foul foes and courageous warriors. Every dwarf lives better than a king in the Halls of the Ancestors. You shall want for nothing, and you can rest with no more burden upon your shoulders.’

  The beardling did not reply, and when Barundin looked down he saw that he was dead. He hefted the boy over his shoulder and picked up his shield. Carrying him back to the dwarf line, he handed the corpse over to one of his warriors.

  ‘See that they are interred with the honoured dead,’ said Barundin. ‘All of them.’

  As he turned back, Barundin saw that the poison wind was dispersing into the hall. It stung his eyes and caused his skin to itch and every breath felt heavy in his chest, but it was thinning now and not so potent as it had been in the confines of the mine tunnels.

  Other figures appeared in the mist, hunched and swift. As they came into sight, Barundin saw that they were skaven, clad in robes of thick leather, their faces covered with heavy masks pierced with dark goggles. As they scuttled forward they threw glass orbs high into the air, which shattered upon the ground, releasing new clouds of poison wind. As the dwarfs pushed and pulled at each other get away from this attack, more skaven marched through the dank cloud. Some succumbed to the poison and fell twitching to the ground, but those that survived pressed on without regard for their dead. They wore heavy armour, made from scraps of metal and rigid hide, painted with markings like claw scratches, and tattered triangular red banners were carried at their fore.

  There was a bellowed shout from behind Barundin as one of the thanes gave an order, and a moment later the chamber rang with the thunder of handguns. Metal bullets whirred over the king’s head, plucking the skaven from their feet, smashing through their armour.

  The rippling salvo continued from east to west, punctuated by the twang and swish of crossbow bolts from the quarrellers. A hundred dead skaven littered the floor around the passage entrance and still they pressed forward. From behind them, a nightmarish host spread out into the hall, running swiftly.

  The skaven swarm advanced, chittering and screeching, the rat warriors bounding forward with crude blades and clubs in their clawed hands. A cannon roar drowned out their noise for a moment and the iron ball, wreathed in magical blue flame, tore through them, smashing bodies asunder and hurling dismembered corpses into the air. As more cannonballs crashed into the press of bodies, the skaven advance slowed and some tried to turn back. Another solid fusillade of handgun fire tore a swathe through the swarming horde as some skaven attempted to retreat, others pushed forwards, and even more tried to advance out of the confines of the tunnel, clambering over the corpse-piles.

  The crossfire of thunderers and quarrellers turned the mouth of the tunnel into a killing ground, forcing those skaven that managed to scuttle through the opening to dart to the left and right, circling around the devastation. Barundin watched warily as they began to gather in numbers again, clinging to the shadows in the northern corners of the Deeping Hall. From amongst them, weapon teams began to advance on the dwarf line, partially obscured from attack by the ranks of clanrat warriors around them.

  Consisting of a gunner and a loader, the weapon teams sported a variety of arcane and obscene armaments. Hidden behind shield bearers, engineers fired long, wide-bored jezzails into the dwarf throng, their warpstone-laced bullets smashing through chainmail and steel plates with ease. The thundering fusillade smashed aside a rank of quarrellers on the third step, killing and wounding over a dozen dwarfs in one salvo.

  Ahead of the jezzails, gun teams worked their way forward. One pair stopped just a couple dozen feet from Barundin. The gunner lowered a multi-barrelled gun towards the dwarf line and began to crank a handle on the side of the mechanism. A belt carried in a barrel on the back of the loader was dragged into the breach and a moment later the gun erupted with a torrent of flame and whizzing bullets, ripping into the hammerer. Small shells screamed and clattered around Barundin, and beside him Arbrek gave a grunt as a bullet buried itself in his left shoulder, knocking the runelord to one knee. Wisps of dark energy dribbled from the wound.

  The skaven was turning the handle faster and faster with growing excitement, the rate of fire increasing as it did so. Green-tinged steam leaked from the heavy gun and oil spattered the creature’s fur from the spinning gears, chains and belts.

  With a detonation that flung green flames ten feet in every direction, the gun jammed and exploded, hurling chunks of scorched, furred flesh into the air and scything through the skaven with shrapnel and pieces of exploding ammunition. As they moved away from the explosion, the skaven strayed into range of the flame cannon on the east flank of the hall.

  Helping Arbrek to his feet, Barundin watched as the engineers pumped bellows, wound gears, adjusted the elevations of the war machine and twirled with valves and nozzles to balance the pressure building inside the fire-thrower. At a signal from the master engineer standing on the footplate of the war machine, one of the apprentices threw down a lever and unleashed the might of the flame cannon.

  A gout of burning oil and naphtha arced high over the heads of the dwarfs in front, dripping fiery rain onto them. Splashing like waves against a cliff, the flaming concoction burst over the nearest skaven, setting fur alight, searing flesh and seeping through armour. Doused in burning oil, the creatures wailed and flailed, rolling on the ground and setting their kin alight with their wild thrashing. Their panicked screams echoed around the hall, along with the cheers of the dwarfs.

  Terrified by this attack, a swathe of skaven broke and fled, fearing another burst of deadly flame. Bullets and crossbow bolts followed them, punching into their backs, ripping at fur and flesh as they ran for the tunnel, accompanied by the jeers of the army of Zhufbar.

  Despite this triumph, the fighting had become hand-to-hand in many places, the steel-clad dwarfs holding the line against a tide of viciously fanged and clawed furry beasts. With pockets of bitter combat breaking out across the hall, the war machines and guns of the skaven were finding fewer and fewer targets to attack, and the sound of black powder igniting and the thwip of crossbow quarrels was replaced with the ringing of rusted iron on gromril and steel biting into flesh.

  Barundin bellowed for the line to push forward in the hope of forcing the skaven back into the tunnels where their numbers would be no advantage. Inch by inch, step by step, the dwarfs advanced, their axes and hammers rising and falling against the brown deluge rushing upon them.

  Barundin turned and cast a glance at the wound in Arbrek’s shoulder. Already the vile poison of the warpstone was hissing and melting the flesh and gromril mail around the puckered hole in his flesh.

  ‘You need to get that cleaned up and taken out,’ the king said.

  ‘Later,’ replied Arbrek, his teeth gritted. He pointed towards the tunnel. ‘I think I shall be needed here for the moment.’

  Barundin looked out across the hall, over the heads of the dwarfs in front battling against the skaven horde. In the gloom of the passage entrance he could see a glow: the unearthly aura of warpstone. In that flickering, dismal light he saw several skaven hunched beneath large backpacks. Their faces were coiled with thick wires, their arms pierced with nails and bolts.

  ‘Warlocks,’ the king murmured.

  As the skaven spellcasters advanced, they gripped long spear-like weapons, connected to the whirling globes and hissing valves of their backpacks with thick, sparking wires. Motes of energy played around the jaggedly pronged tips of the warp-conductors, gathering in tiny lightning storms of magical energy.

  Their grimacing, twisted faces were thrown into stark contrast as they unleashed the energies of their warp-packs; bolts of green and black energy splayed across dwarfs and skaven alike, charring flesh, exploding off armour an
d burning hair. Arcs of warp-lightning leaped from figure to figure, their smouldering corpses contorting with conducted energy, glowing faintly from within, smoke billowing from blackened holes in skin and ruined eye sockets.

  Here and there, the magical assault was countered by the runesmiths harmlessly grounding the arcs of devastating warp energy with their runestaffs. Beside Barundin, Arbrek was muttering under his breath and stroking a hand along his staff, the runes along its length flaring into life at the caress of his gnarled hands.

  Behind the advancing warlocks, another figure appeared, swathed in robes, its hood thrown back to reveal light grey fur and piercing red eyes. Twisted horns curled around its ears as it turned its head from side to side, surveying the carnage being wrought by both sides. A nimbus of dark energy surrounded the Grey Seer as it drew in magical power from the surrounding air and rocks.

  It raised its crooked staff above its head, the bones and skulls hanging from its tip swaying and clattering. A shadow grew in the tunnel behind the skaven wizard and Barundin strained his eyes to see what was within. Brief lulls in the fighting brought a distant noise, a far-off scratching and chittering that grew in volume, echoing along the north passage.

  In a cloud of teeth, claws and beady eyes, hundreds upon hundreds of rats burst into the Deeping Hall, pouring around the Grey Seer. In a packed mass of verminous filth, the rats spewed forth from the passageway, scuttling across the ground and spilling over the skaven. Onwards came the swarm until it reached the dwarf line. Barundin’s warriors struck out with hammers and axes, but against the tide of creatures, there was little they could do.