03 - Thanquol's Doom

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

  “Watch out!” cried Thorlek, pointing to the crazed dwarf gunner. His throwing axe gone, the ranger could only watch as the berserk gunner charged his friends.

  Klarak met the gunner’s attack, driving his fist into the other dwarf’s face. The gunner crumpled, his jaw broken by the powerful blow. Even so, he struggled to rise until Klarak brought both hands smashing down into the gunner’s skull. The gunner slumped to the floor as consciousness fled his body.

  “If this madness does not pass, it would be more merciful to kill him,” Klarak said, turning the gunner over and examining his body. “Please to the gods that I do not have the blood of my kinfolk upon my hands.”

  The engineer stared intently at the belt circling the gunner’s waist. It was the leather workbelt of a cannoneer. Quickly, Klarak’s hands searched the belt, an idea forming in his mind. He cursed when he did not find what he was looking for. Sometime before attacking Klarak, the gunner had battled other foes. One of them had slashed the belt, spilling its contents somewhere on the battlefield.

  “Klarak,” Thorlek said, his voice low with dread. “The daemon is moving again.” The ranger gestured across the hall with his thumb. Skarbrand had recovered from its injuries and was once more moving against King Logan and his warriors. The bloodthirster’s twin axes licked out, butchering brave dwarf soldiers with every sweep of the daemonic blades.

  “Search the battlefield,” Klarak ordered, glancing frantically at the dead bodies strewn all about them. “Find another cannoneer!” Even as he gave the order, his eyes were drawn to the little circle of dwarfs surrounding Thane Arngar and his oathstone. The engineer’s gaze hardened when he saw Guildmaster Thori among Arngar’s dwarfs. Standing beside Thori was a black-bearded dwarf in the soot-stained clothes of a gunner, the broad workbelt of a cannoneer straddling his waist.

  Klarak raced across the battlefield, dodging the small knots of crazed dwarfs and skaven still prowling among the carnage. Again, his eyes kept straying back to the statue of Valaya and the axe she held. He judged the distance between statue and daemon, the murderous progress Skarbrand was making through the ranks of King Logan’s warriors. With every sweep of its axe, the daemon took another thunderous step away from the statue and the one thing that might end its monstrous rampage.

  The adventurer redoubled his efforts. He could hear Thorlek and Horgar behind him, savagely beating back any of the berserkers who took an interest in their master. Klarak could give only scant notice to their efforts, his mind focused upon reaching Thane Arngar’s holdouts and the cannoneer.

  Klarak fought his way through the small cluster of maddened dwarfs and skaven which yet surrounded the oathstone. The warriors within the circle nearly brought him down with their axes until they heard the engineer cry out, until they saw the intense, yet wholly sane, expression in his eyes.

  “Bronzehammer!” Thane Arngar exclaimed, shocked by the engineer’s sudden and dramatic appearance beside the oathstone. “You bring news from the king?” the general asked, trying to fathom what could have sent the adventurer rushing across a hall filled with daemons and madmen.

  “I am on my own mission,” Klarak said, turning from the perplexed general and dashing to an equally confused Guildmaster Thori.

  Mistaking the engineer’s intensity and excitement as a threat, Guildmaster Thori drew away at Klarak’s approach, his hands clenched about the haft of a warhammer. “Don’t even think about touching me!” Thori threatened.

  Klarak gave the Guildmaster a withering look. “I’m not thinking about you at all,” he growled. He turned his back to the indignant Thori and set upon the gunner beside him. Quickly, Klarak ripped the workbelt from the dwarf’s waist, his fingers deftly probing its many pockets and pouches for what he needed.

  “This is all your fault!” Thori raged as Klarak spun around, eyes locked on the distant figures of Skarbrand and Valaya’s statue. “If not for your recklessness, the ratkin would never have besieged our halls with such viciousness!” The Guildmaster shook his fist in rage as Klarak sprinted back towards the battlefield. “You are expelled from the Engineers’ Guild!” Thori bellowed. “You are finished! Through!”

  Klarak ignored Thori’s threats. He did not have the time to worry about such trifles, not when the very existence of Karak Angkul depended upon him. As he again charged through the ring of deranged attackers laying siege to Thane Arngar, the engineer’s face broke into a grim smile. Fighting their way through the crazed dwarfs and amok skaven, Horgar and Thorlek shouted a hurried greeting to their master.

  “Stay with Thane Arngar,” Klarak told them.

  “Our place is at your side,” Horgar objected.

  “Not this time,” Klarak said.

  Thorlek eyed his friend with suspicion. “You’ve some idea to destroy the daemon?”

  There was no point in lying to them. Both of them knew him too well for that. “Yes, I have a plan,” Klarak said. “And it needs only one dwarf to do it. If this doesn’t work, the daemon is sure to take its revenge.” He raised his hand, silencing any other protests. Staring at Horgar, Klarak made a request of his bodyguard. “I’ll need your hammer, old friend.”

  Horgar looked sadly at the steam hammer, a weapon that had become as close to him as his own skin. Yet he did not hesitate to hand it over to the engineer. “Need the weapon but not the hand that holds it,” he grumbled.

  Klarak looped the heavy weapon’s strap over his shoulder and gripped the former hammerer’s arm. “Not today,” he said.

  Horgar and Thorlek watched as their master rushed away, sprinting across the gory battlefield.

  “Why do I feel like we’re not going to see him again?” the hammerer said.

  “For once,” Thorlek replied, “I think you’re right.”

  Klarak charged across the hall, his heart pounding in his chest. His eyes kept roving between the daemon and the statue, his mind calculating distances and velocities. There was yet a slight window of opportunity, a small chance to put his plan into action. He clenched his teeth against the pained screams of those being butchered by the bloodthirster, tried not to hear the daemon’s murderous bellows. If this didn’t work, then nothing would. The taint of Skarbrand would mark Karak Angkul forever.

  The dwarf raced to the feet of Valaya. Without hesitation, without thinking too much upon the imposing height of the statue above him, Klarak reached to his belt and withdrew a set of spiked crampons. Hurriedly, he tied the spikes to his boots, then produced a similar set of climbing claws which he slipped over his hands. Drawing a deep breath, Klarak started to mount the leg of Valaya’s statue.

  As he started to climb, Klarak did not notice the grey shape huddled behind the statue’s ankle or the spiteful eyes that glared at him as he made his ascent. The dwarf’s thoughts were focused upon the task at hand, upon the terrible act of desecration and destruction which had become the only hope of stopping Skarbrand’s rampage.

  Higher and higher the engineer climbed, his eyes constantly drifting back to the daemon and the mutilated corpses strewn about its feet. The sight urged Klarak to greater effort, forcing him to exact still more speed from his fading strength. Every breath, every heartbeat brought death to another dwarf.

  When he finally reached Valaya’s outstretched arm, Klarak could only sag wearily against the stone sleeve. It was the sound of Skarbrand’s roars that urged him to the final effort. Gazing across the hall, he could see the daemon pressing onwards. Another few steps and it would be beyond reach. If he were to act, it must be now or never.

  Hurrying across the uneven surface of Valaya’s arm, Klarak drew a spike from his belt. The engineer studied the statue’s arm with a practiced eye, judging where he must make his mark if he would bring destruction to the daemon. For an instant, his mind rebelled against the unforgivable vandalism he was contemplating. But the image of crazed dwarf-wives strangling their own children, of daemons and skaven running rampant through Karak Angkul’s desolate halls, fought against his moral objections
.

  Setting the spike against the statue’s elbow, Klarak brought Horgar’s steam hammer smashing down. The stone beneath the spike cracked, a small fissure opening beneath the fang-like length of steel. Klarak cast aside his tools, reaching now for the small packet he had taken from the cannoneer. It was a little square of leather, a length of fuse projecting from one side, a lumpy mass locked between the packet’s folds.

  The thing was a blasting charge, a more specialised and powerful sort than those employed by miners. Dwarf gun crews carried such charges in order to spoil their weapons in the event of defeat and prevent their cannons from falling into enemy hands. Judging the distance between Valaya’s axe and Skarbrand, Klarak cut away most of the fuse, then savagely tamped the blasting charge into the crack he had made.

  With a last prayer to the ancestors for their forgiveness and understanding, Klarak lit the fuse and dived for what shelter Valaya’s shoulder might offer him.

  A roar more violent and thunderous than that of the daemon boomed through the hall as the charge ignited. Chips of granite smashed against wall and ceiling, a cloud of debris pattered to the floor. All eyes turned to the source of the explosion and even Skarbrand’s blood-crazed awareness was distracted. The daemon turned, its glowing eyes glaring at the goddess, its nostrils flaring with challenge.

  Then the statue’s arm came apart. The explosion had done its work. The forearm snapped clean from Valaya’s elbow, hurtling downwards, tons of stone rocketing towards the floor hundreds of feet below. Standing in the path of the falling arm stood the brutish figure of Skarbrand. The daemon howled wrathfully as the massive stone axe chopped down, sinking between its curled horns and cleaving its bestial skull in half.

  To the dwarfs, it seemed almost as though Valaya herself had struck down the bloodthirster. The carved representation of the Peacebringer cut down the exultant daemon, spilling its steaming ichor in a cataract of boiling blood. The glow in Skarbrand’s eyes died, the malignant power of its spirit faded. Torches flickered back into life, frost faded from the roof and walls. Before the stunned eyes of the dwarfs, the daemon’s body began to wither, to sink into a quickly spreading pool of gore. The daemon’s disintegrating body twisted and writhed, the axe of Valaya slowly sinking with its victim to the floor far below.

  Cries of “Valaya!” and “Peacebringer!” echoed through the hall as the surviving dwarfs began to recognise their deliverance. Soon another name rang through the hall as sharp-eyed dwarfs spotted a lone figure standing upon the statue’s shoulder.

  “Bronzehammer!” the dwarfs roared, extolling the hero who had brought destruction to the daemon. Klarak stood upon the statue’s shattered arm and accepted the adulation of his kin. For the moment, he was their champion, their saviour. It was a moment he knew he would savour all his life.

  Grey Seer Thanquol cringed behind the dwarf goddess’ foot, his mind shivering with the anguished scream of Skarbrand. The daemon was far from happy about its fate, about being banished back to the void before it had glutted itself upon mortal blood. Yet even in its rage, the bloodthirster spared a thought for the skaven sorcerer who had summoned it.

  When you call for me again, I shall be waiting.

  The daemon’s words were far from comforting to Thanquol. Indeed, he found the prospect of crossing paths with Skarbrand again more terrifying than meeting up with Deathmaster Snikch in a dark alley. Somehow, he didn’t think the bloodthirster’s words were just an empty threat.

  Bitterness grew in Thanquol’s throat as the cheers of the dwarfs rang through the hall. He glared balefully from the shadows, wishing the daemon had finished its work before being banished. The filthy fur-faced dwarf-things! They had conspired with his enemies, allowed themselves to be used by Ikit Claw and Queek Headtaker in a craven plot to discredit and destroy the mightiest mind in all skavendom!

  Well, their nefarious scheme had failed! Thanquol lived! He had survived the worst his enemies had thrown at him! Bravely defying even the daemonic malevolence of Skarbrand!

  As Thanquol heard the name of Klarak Bronzehammer being shouted, he crept out from behind the statue’s foot. So, the gold-bearded dwarf had survived and now his people cheered him as a hero. The credulous fools thought the dwarf had somehow vanquished the daemon! He could readily imagine how Klarak would exploit such fame!

  The grey seer reached into the pocket of his robe, withdrawing a sliver of warpstone. He hadn’t dared draw upon such power with Skarbrand’s voice thundering through his head, but now he felt it was safe enough to partake of the stone’s energies. A quick spell, and he’d be beyond the reach of the murderous dwarfs and their treacherous intrigues.

  Thanquol’s fangs ground the sliver into dust, the burning energies of the warpstone rushing through his body. His mind blazed with power, his eyes glowed with a green light. He felt his entire being saturated with the limitless power of the aethyr.

  Yes, he could use his magic to escape. But first he would teach the dwarf-things a lesson. He would remind them of the heavy cost for daring to trifle with Thanquol!

  Emboldened by the warpstone, Thanquol scurried out into the open. He tilted his horned head upwards, glaring at Klarak standing upon the statue’s broken arm. He felt a thrill of excitement as the dwarf spotted him. There was no mistaking the fear in the creature’s eyes.

  “Die-burn, dwarf-thing!” Thanquol shrieked. Raising his staff, he sent a bolt of green lightning searing into the dwarf’s body. Klarak’s vest crackled as it struggled to dissipate the malignant energies, but it could do nothing to prevent his body from being thrown back by the impact. Klarak cried out as he lost his footing and hurtled to the floor far below.

  Stunned silence held the Fourth Deep as the dwarfs watched their hero fall, as they saw his body smash upon the flagstones.

  Thanquol chittered in triumph, hopping up and down in glee as he saw his enemy’s body crash to the floor. So perish all who defy Thanquol!

  A bullet whistled past the grey seer’s ear, snapping him from his revelry. Another shattered against the foot of the statue, and a third tore splinters from the side of his staff. Thanquol spun about, his eyes going wide as he saw a vengeful throng of dwarfs charging towards him.

  Of course, it would be a small thing for a sorcerer of his stature and power to annihilate the scruffy villains, but Thanquol was too humble to abandon himself to such gratuitous abuses of his magic. It was better to retire and leave the dwarfs to contemplate the lesson he had taught them.

  Another bullet smacked into the foot of the statue. Frantically, the grey seer focused his mind on the spell that would part the veil between worlds. If he happened to find Skarbrand waiting for him, he hoped the daemon would be grateful that Thanquol had slain the gold-furred dwarf.

  Only foul-smelling smoke met the dwarfs when they reached the feet of Valaya.

  Epilogue

  Silence reigned in the Fourth Deep as the surviving dwarfs gathered their dead. The assault by Queek Headtaker had wrought havoc among Thane Arngar’s defenders, but even these losses paled beside the daemon’s toll. Hundreds of dwarfs had been struck down by the bloodthirster’s axes. Even the slightest wound defied the efforts of Karak Angkul’s physicians and chirurgeons to heal, the injuries refusing to be staunched. Blood drained from the stricken dwarfs until their flesh was white and their breath faded into a ragged gasp. The priestesses of Valaya recited the litanies of mercy over each dying warrior, beseeching the goddess to ease their passing. The sombre priests of Gazul burned sacred incense in the hope that the Lord of the Underearth would guard the spirits of the dead and protect them on their journey to the Halls of the Ancestors.

  Trains of wagons drawn by stout mine ponies carted the skaven dead away. There seemed to be thousands of the butchered ratmen, many of them killed by the claws of their own kind when the madness of Skarbrand conquered their feral minds. The skaven dead would be burned outside the walls of Karak Angkul, where the stench of their foulness would be borne away by the wind and thei
r ashes washed away by the rain.

  Across the hall, the saddest casualties of all sat huddled in blankets, their eyes gazing emptily at the walls, their ears deaf to the soothing voices of the priestesses. These were the survivors of Thane Arngar’s army, those who had not been protected from Skarbrand’s influence by the magic of the oathstone. Though the daemon’s madness had passed, it had left deep scars within the mind of each dwarf. With care and compassion, it was hoped the warriors might recover, but such hopes were tempered by the grim reality etched into the haunted face of each victim. The horrors that had raged through their minds would never heal. However many years the gods saw fit to give them, they would remain mad idiots.

  King Logan watched his subjects labour to remove the broken arm of Valaya. Though the arm of the goddess had smote the daemon and brought about its destruction, Runelord Morag had urged the massive debris be removed from the hold and cast into a deep chasm. The stone axe had touched the vileness of Skarbrand, there was no telling how much of the daemon’s essence had seeped into it through that contact. He recalled the saga of Uzki Ranulfsson, the famed daemonslayer whose axe became a cursed thing eager to taste the blood of friend as well as foe. Uzki’s fame crumbled into infamy and he was remembered in the Book of Grudges as Uzki Kinslayer.

  King Logan’s thoughts turned to another dwarf whose fame would leave debts in the Book of Grudges. He glanced away from the broken arm and stared at the bier where the battered body of Klarak Bronzehammer reposed. Even in death, there was a powerful dignity about the adventurer. Each dwarf bowed his head as he passed the bier, leaving a gold coin at Klarak’s feet as a token of their gratitude for his sacrifice.

  There was no question that Klarak had saved Karak Angkul. His plan had destroyed Ikit Claw’s machine. His boldness and bravery had vanquished Thanquol’s daemon. Yet King Logan could not still the doubt that nagged at his heart. The words of Guildmaster Thori and Runelord Morag stoked the embers of conflict in his mind. True, Klarak had saved the stronghold and perhaps all of the Karak Ankor, but had he not been the one to place it in jeopardy? Thori had always cautioned against Klarak’s impetuous flouting of tradition, his reckless innovation and invention.