But he wouldn’t do that. To do so would shame his ancestors and offend the gods of the Karak Ankor. It had been an act of Grimnir himself that had brought him to this place and at this time. Among all the millions of ratmen who infested the world, he’d again crossed paths with the one skaven he wanted to kill more than anything.
Mordin Grimstone had come far since casting off the chains of a slave. By rights, the ratkin’s spell should have killed him, and whatever life the skaven magic left in him should have been smothered by the river. The dwarf ran his hand along the ugly burn-mark where Thanquol’s spell had struck him, then touched the scarred flesh where his back had been ripped raw by the rocky banks of the river. He had survived both foes. The river had even colluded with him once it tired of trying to drown him, its swift current bearing him through the darkness until finally washing his battered body onto a dilapidated stone pier.
Mordin had spent several days nursing his wounds before straying very far from the pier. That the river had brought him to some abandoned stretch of the great dwarf Underway was apparent, but it took locating an intact guidestone for him to fully gain his bearings.
The dwarf clenched his fist as he remembered the long journey alone in the dark, surviving on a few blind fish from the river and what mushrooms he could gather from the ruined tunnel. Only the thought of his dead brother and the awful shame of watching him die kept him going. It was in his mind to journey to Karak Kadrin and present himself before the Slayer Shrine. He would shave his head and take the Slayer Oath in memory of his brother and the death Mordin felt he could have prevented.
Grimnir, however, didn’t seem patient enough to await Mordin’s arrival at his shrine. Mordin discovered a horde of skaven prowling through the Ungdrin Ankor. At first he had hidden himself, determined not to fall into the cruel paws of the skaven again, determined not to die until he had atoned for his shame before the Slayer Shrine. Then, against all odds, Mordin had made an amazing discovery. The skaven who had killed his brother, the one who had cast him into the river, was among the ratmen. There was no mistaking that scratchy voice and the distinct curl of his horns. Any chance he was wrong was eliminated when the other skaven referred to the creature as Grey Seer Thanquol. Mordin fell to his knees and thanked Grimnir for granting him such an opportunity for revenge.
Since then, Mordin had followed the skaven, shadowing them through the tunnels. Having been caught by the ratmen before, having spent months as their prisoner, he knew what mistakes would alert the vermin to his presence. Though it plagued him to do so, he kept his distance, forcing himself to watch and wait. He did not care about dying, he had resigned himself to that fate the moment he saw his brother murdered. But to die without accomplishing his revenge was something the dwarf would not countenance.
So he followed, waiting for any opportunity to catch Thanquol alone and gut the grey seer with the rusty goblin knife Mordin had found in the tunnels. It wouldn’t matter if the entire horde came screaming down upon him after that. His brother would be avenged and his honour satisfied.
Unfortunately, Thanquol had proven as wary as he was cowardly. The grey seer was never alone, always keeping well within the middle of the skaven horde. Mordin was just about resigned to mounting some crazed berserk charge in the hope of getting through the skaven and coming to grips with his enemy when a second horde of ratmen attacked the first.
It took every ounce of willpower to remain a spectator to the ensuing carnage. Mordin watched the fight with a sense of nausea at the back of his throat, terrified that some slinking ratman would kill Thanquol and cheat him of his chance at revenge. The dwarf was actually relieved when the battle ended and the second pack of skaven absorbed Thanquol into their ranks.
His relief was soon squelched, however. From his hiding place, Mordin was able to overhear Thanquol and the other skaven leader plotting their campaign against Karak Angkul. The dwarf had spent long enough as the slave of the ratmen to understand something of their chitter-spit language. He couldn’t mistake the scheme he heard. Suddenly the dream of vengeance that was so close began to slip through his fingers. Even if the chance presented itself, he couldn’t attack Thanquol now. A greater duty had been placed upon his shoulders, one the vengeful dwarf found as heavy as a millstone.
Mordin Grimstone had uncovered a new and terrible threat against an entire dwarfhold. The life of every dwarf in Karak Angkul might depend on learning what he had overheard. If he could reach the stronghold ahead of the skaven, there was just a chance his warning could make the difference between victory and disaster. The skaven would follow the Underway as far as they could, but they would be slowed by their numbers and their ravenous metabolisms. More, it was doubtful if any of the ratmen could read the ancient Khazalid runes on the guidestones. They wouldn’t know the secret ways by which a traveller could trim days from his journey by making his way to the surface and travelling overland.
Vengeance would have to wait. It was a decision that made Mordin sick to his stomach, but it was the only decision he could make. Thanquol would have to wait.
Though there was one consoling thought the dwarf took with him as he slipped unseen into the darkness.
At least he knew where his enemy was going.
“I do not understand why an engineer is so interested in these ancient tomes. I seem to recall that a certain engineer is always extolling the necessity for looking forwards and not clinging slavishly to the past.”
The statement was made by a stern-faced old dwarf with a snow-white beard that fell nearly to his ankles. He wore a voluminous robe of rich purple trimmed in silver thread. About his neck he wore a small stone anvil upon which was etched a single rune like a lightning bolt.
The white-bearded dwarf was Morag Frostbeard, Runelord of Karak Angkul. The chambers were his own, located several halls from the librarium within which the Guild of Runesmiths kept their tomes of lore and craftsmanship. Morag was old enough to remember Karak Angkul at its glory, though he had been a very young beardling in those days. It had been that nostalgia which King Logan had exploited to elicit the runemaster’s complicity in what was certainly a breach of custom and tradition.
Morag’s chambers were not extravagant, but there was a sense of opulence about them. Several copper etchings of extraordinary skill were bolted to the smooth stone walls, a collection of polished geodes rested upon a richly carved set of limestone shelves, an elaborate fresco depicted the family of the ancestor god Grungni, and the floor was covered in the pelts of bears and wolves. In one corner stood a small shrine to Thungni, the son of Grungni and patron god of the runesmiths.
In the centre of the room stood a large table with legs of deeply etched bronze and a surface of ancient wutroth wood richly carved with a map of the Worlds Edge Mountains and the once vast domains of the dwarf kingdoms. Much of the table’s surface was covered with voluminous tomes bound in steel, their copper pages polished to a bright sheen by the tireless efforts of the Guild’s librarians. Even so, each page bore a patina of decay about it, for the tireless march of time could not be wholly thwarted even by the most attentive of care.
A lone dwarf sat behind the table, scrutinising the open page set before him with such intense concentration that he might have been carved from stone. He wore the deep red robe of a journeyman runesmith, its edges picked out in a trim of golden thread, forming into intricate whorls as they converged upon the hem of the garment. A heavy stone pectoral was looped about the dwarf’s neck, depicting the anvil and lightning bolt symbol of the Guild of Runesmiths. His long blond beard fell only to his waist and only the first streaks of grey had started to appear within it. The runesmith’s face was broad and full, his brows knitted in their customary attitude of deliberation. Kurgaz Brightfinger never did anything without the most careful consideration. It was why the Brightfinger family had despaired of ever making him a first-rate jewelsmith, for he would spend weeks before making the first cut upon a stone. They had been quite relieved when the Guild o
f Runesmiths had accepted Kurgaz into their company.
Kurgaz’s mind had been a natural fit to the work of a runesmith and he had excelled within the Guild. His time as an apprentice had been the shortest ever recorded in the lore of Karak Angkul, and only decorum and tradition had kept him from achieving the rank of journeyman decades sooner than he had. It was the thought of these lost years and what he might have done with them had he been allowed the opportunity that had planted a seed of discontent in the breast of Kurgaz Brightfinger, a seed that had eventually lead him to the friendship and patronage of Klarak Bronzehammer, the daring genius and nonconformist pariah of the Engineers’ Guild.
Klarak himself stood behind Kurgaz’s chair, watching his friend labour over the ancient pages of the Rhun Kron. It was forbidden for any but a runesmith to consult the great tomes within which the ancient runes of power were recorded, and the engineer was careful to keep his eyes averted from the subject of Kurgaz’s studies. That Runelord Morag had allowed him to even set foot within the chamber while the books were unlocked and open was a mark of how unusual the king’s request had been and how deeply—albeit grudgingly—Morag respected the bold Klarak.
“We should not cling slavishly to the past,” Klarak said. “To do so is the doom of our people. But neither can we ignore the wisdom and pride of our ancestors. If we do that, then we are no longer dwarfs and no better than grobi.”
Morag huffed and grumbled at the remark. “Yet you flout tradition and custom at every bend in the tunnel.” He gestured with his calloused hands at the diligent Kurgaz bent over the copper pages of his book. “This, for instance, is a terrible breach of precedence and propriety. The books young Kurgaz is being allowed to examine are the exclusive province of only the most learned within the Guild. Why, perhaps if he was a runemaster with a hundred more years under his chin he might be capable of understanding a fraction of what he is reading, but to think he can possibly accomplish what you intend…” Morag threw up his hands in a hopeless gesture.
Klarak shook his head. “Yet you agreed to let him try,” he pointed out, a touch of reprimand in his voice.
“It was King Logan’s request,” Morag said. “I was faced with the choice of permitting this foolishness or having my name entered in the king’s Book of Grudges. I’ve lived a long life and know I’m close to meeting the ancestors. I don’t intend to do so with a king’s grudgestone tied about my neck.”
“There was a very important reason I asked King Logan to make this request,” apologised Klarak.
The runelord allowed a flicker of smile to pull at his white beard. “I know that,” he said. “If it were not so, then I would have refused the king, grudgestone or no. But I still cannot see the purpose of this. A Master Rune is something even a runelord’s wisdom finds difficult to understand. And without the proper understanding, they become dangerous. How many glory-hungry fools have taken the sacred Anvils of Doom out into battle, boldly thinking they can command the vast powers of such scared relics? And how many of these precious artefacts have been lost forever because they broke beneath the hammers of these same fools?”
“I know the danger,” Klarak said solemnly. “But I have faith in Kurgaz Brightfinger. Even you will acknowledge he is the most brilliant dwarf to ever study under one of your runemasters.”
“Yes,” conceded Morag, “but intelligence is only half the alloy that makes up wisdom. The other half is experience, and no amount of brilliance can make up for young Kurgaz’s lack of years.”
“We will have to agree to disagree,” Klarak said.
Morag fixed him with a stern look. “It would help if I knew what you intended to do. Allowing of course that trying to forge a Master Rune doesn’t shatter the brain of Runesmith Kurgaz.”
Klarak frowned and shook his head. “That, I fear, is something I must keep to myself. But know that if it works, then you will have helped save Karak Angkul from destruction.” The flake-gold eyes closed for a moment and Klarak pictured again the strange mystical writing on the message he had received.
“More than that,” he said as he made his way to the door, leaving Kurgaz to his study. “You may help save the whole of the Karak Ankor.”
There was urgency in Klarak Bronzehammer’s step as he made his way through the vast halls of Karak Angkul’s Third Deep. Excavated by miners long ago, the old workings had been expanded into broad galleries and gigantic corridors. Monolithic pillars supported the vaulted ceilings far overhead, many of them etched with scenes from the dwarfhold’s long history. A steady throng of dwarfs travelled along the passageways, hurrying about the business of the hold. Goatherds bringing milk and cheese to the larders of their patrons from the pastures far above the hold. Apprentice ironsmiths and weaponsmiths pushing trolleys of ingots to the forges and workshops of their masters. Wranglers leading lode ponies down to the stables of the various miner clans. Wiry young runebearers hurrying through the crowds to deliver the messages they had been entrusted with.
Among the normal traffic of the dwarfhold, there was an added air of tension. Armoured warriors moved among the crowds in greater numbers than was commonly seen. King Logan had dispatched a great number of troops into the lower deeps, trying to drive out the skaven from their stubborn foothold in the mines. The entire household of Thane Tarbrak was armed and assembled in the Sixth Deep, charged with the duty of maintaining the sanctity of the dwarfhold against any further encroachment by the ratkin. Thane Tarbrak’s cousin had been among the ironbreakers overwhelmed by the first attack, so success in this new duty would allow him a chance to atone for the failure of his kinsman and wipe out the grudge charged against his clan.
Klarak knew the need for such precautions. A show of force was the only thing that would keep the scavenging ratmen from rushing up into the dwarfhold itself. But he also knew it would not be enough to keep them there. From bitter experience, he knew the devious ways of the skaven. Even now the ratmen were sniffing for another way into the stronghold, a way past the waiting axes and guns of the dwarfs. He had every reason to suspect the vermin would find that way, even if they had to claw it from the roots of the mountain.
The engineer’s expression became grim. The warning he had received made no bones about what he could expect once the skaven gained access to Karak Angkul. It was up to him to keep that from happening.
Klarak passed through the great gallery overlooking the icy mountain stream that provided the dwarfhold with its water. The workshops and forges of Karak Angkul were arranged about the stream like the spokes of a wheel, a tiny culvert with a little dam providing each smith and armourer with the water he required. The sound of banging hammers filled the air; the flickering glow of forgefires crept out from every tunnel, painting the walls a smouldering crimson.
Klarak’s own workshop was situated here, poised at the very edge of the stronghold. He smiled as he saw teams of lode ponies being lead away by muleskinners. Each team pulled an iron cart laden with beams of reddish-gold metal. As the muleskinners passed him, their eyes were filled with wonder and admiration. It was an expression of esteem the dwarfs were too cautious to give voice to. Here in the forgeworks of Karak Angkul, the ears of the Engineers’ Guild were everywhere.
There was a reason for their admiration. Though concerned with ponies and their care, the muleskinners were still dwarfs and knew a thing or three about metal and its properties. The beams they carted away, destined for the lower deeps and the tunnels recently recovered from the skaven, were of a remarkable nature. They had a flexibility about them that was almost organic, yet a hardness and toughness that was the equal of adamant. Never had these dwarfs seen such an amazing metal.
Of course, there was no way they could have. Until a few months ago, such metal hadn’t existed. It was a new alloy developed by Klarak Bronzehammer. It was stronger than anything short of gromril, yet with the give and flexibility of wood, he had named his metal barazhunk. There was need of his alloy now. The skaven had a villainous reputation for sabotagin
g the tunnels they abandoned, leaving behind sinister traps that would bury their pursuers. With barazhunk, the dwarfs would be able to quickly and safely shore up the passages as they went along, allowing a far speedier pursuit of their foes and preserving the many warriors who would otherwise fall victim to ratkin trickery.
Guildmaster Thori would, of course, pull his beard over such reckless innovation. The Engineer’s Guild would have demanded years, even decades of testing barazhunk before condoning its use by the populace. And in the meantime, dwarfs would perish trying to fight their way through skaven traps using the old tactics their fathers and grandfathers had used against the ratkin and which their scheming enemies knew only too well.
Klarak shook his head. No, there was a time for caution, but there was also a time for boldness. Dwarfs like Thori, while well-meaning, were also restraining the potential of their people. The greater the risk, the greater the reward.
He sighed as he watched the ponies carting their cargo towards the ramp leading to the Fourth Deep. Barazhunk could save many lives by shoring up the mines, but Klarak saw an even more important contribution it could make, one that would depend on Kurgaz Brightfinger and his ability to recreate one of the secret Master Runes.
One that would depend on the loathsome ratkin and what they would do once Grey Seer Thanquol arrived in Karak Angkul.
Chapter VII
“If I catch you sniffing around that tarp again, I’ll have to bite off your nose.”
Thanquol leapt back immediately when he heard Ikit Claw’s metallic growl. The source of the grey seer’s interest was a sledge the Claw’s slaves were dragging through the Underway. At first he had thought it simply contained ammunition or provisions, but the way the warlock-engineers hovered about it left him with serious doubts. The sledge was almost always escorted by a half-dozen skirmishers with another pair of jezzails perched atop the ratskin tarp in an attitude of paranoid vigilance. It didn’t take an intellect of Thanquol’s stature to realise that there was something important hidden away under there. If he could find out what it was, he had a feeling it would explain why the Chief Warlock of Clan Skryre was interested in the pathetic schemes of a two-flea moron like the late and certainly unlamented Kaskitt Steelgrin.
03 - Thanquol's Doom Page 11
