by Warhammer
‘O-Okrinok?’ stuttered Grimli, letting his hammer drop from limp fingers as shock ran through him. He staggered for a moment before falling backwards, sitting down on the goblin mound with a thump.
‘Aye, lad, it is,’ Dammaz smiled warmly.
‘B-but, how?’ was all Grimli could ask. Pushing himself to his feet, he tottered over to stand in front of Okrinok. The Slayer proffered a gnarled hand, the short fingers splayed. Grimli hesitated for a moment, but Okrinok nodded reassuringly and he grasped the hand, wrist-to-wrist in warriors’ greeting. At the touch of the Slayer, Grimli felt a surge of power flood through him, suffusing him from his toes to the tips of his hair.
Grimli felt like he had just woken up, and his senses were befuddled. As they cleared he realised he was once again in the mine chamber, witnessing the fight with the goblins. But this time it was different – he was somehow inside the fight, the goblins were attacking him! Panic fluttered in his heart for a moment before he realised that this was just a dream or vision too. He was seeing the battle through Okrinok’s eyes. He saw Frammi and Gorgnir once more fall to the blades of the goblins and felt the surge of unparalleled shame and rage explode within his ancestor. He felt the burning strength of hatred fuelling every blow as Okrinok hurled himself at the goblins. There were no thoughts of safety, no desire to escape. All Grimli could feel was an incandescent need to crush the grobi, to slaughter each and every one of them for what they had done that day.
Okrinok bellowed with rage as he swung his hammer, no hint of fatigue in his powerful arms. One goblin was smashed clear from his feet and slammed against the wall. The backswing bludgeoned the head of a second; the third blow snapped the neck of yet another. And so Okrinok’s advance continued, his hammer cutting a swathe of pulped and bloodied destruction through the goblins. It was with a shock that Okrinok realised he had no more foes to fight, and looking about him he found himself in an unfamiliar tunnel, scraped from the rock by goblin hands. He had a choice; he could return up the tunnel to Karak Azgal and face the shame of having failed in his sacred duty. Or he could keep going down, into the lair of the goblins, to slay those who had done this to him. His anger and loathing surged again as he remembered the knives plunging into Gorgnir and he set off down the tunnel, heading deeper into the mountain.
Several times he ran into parties of goblins, and every time he threw himself at them with righteous fury, exacting vengeance with every blow of his hammer. Soon his wanderings took him into a gigantic cavern, the same one where he now stood again. Ahead of him the darkness was filled with glittering red eyes, the goblins mustered in their hundreds. He stood alone, his hammer in his hands, waiting for them. The goblins were bold at first, rushing him with spears and short swords, but when ten of their number lay dead at Okrinok’s feet within the space of a dozen heartbeats, they became more cautious. But Okrinok was too clever to allow that and sprang at the grobi, plunging into the thick of his foes, his hammer rising and falling with near perfect strokes, every attack crushing the life from a murderous greenskin.
To Okrinok the battle seemed to rage for an eternity, until it seemed he’d done nothing but slaughter goblins since the day was born. The dead were beyond counting, and he stood upon a mound of his foes, caked head-to-foot in their blood. His helmet had been knocked loose by an arrow, and several others now pierced his stomach and back, but still he fought on. Then, from out of the bodies behind him rose a goblin. He heard a scrape of metal and turned, but too slowly, the goblin’s spearshaft punching into him. With blood bubbling into his breath, Okrinok spat his final words of defiance and brought his hammer down onto his killer’s head.
‘I am a dwarf! My honour is my life! Without it I am nothing!’ bellowed Okrinok, before death took him.
Tears streamed down Grimli’s face as he looked at Okrinok, his expression grim.
‘And so I swore in death, and in death I have fulfilled that oath,’ Okrinok told Grimli. ‘Many centuries have the Skrundigor been blamed for my act, and I have allowed it to happen. The shame for the deaths of Gorgnir and Frammi was real, and the High King was owed his curse. But no longer shall we be remembered as cowards and oathbreakers. The goblin king was so impressed that he ordered his shamans to draw great magic and create this monument to my last battle. But in trapping my flesh they freed my soul. For many years my spirit wandered these tunnels and halls and brought death to any grobi I met, but I am weary and wish to die finally. Thus, I sought you out, last of the Skrundigor, who must be father to our new line, in honour and in life.’
‘But how do I get the High King to lift the curse, to strike our name from the Dammaz Kron?’ asked Grimli.
‘If you can’t bring the king under the mountain, lad, bring the mountain over the king, as we used to say,’ Okrinok told him. He pointed to his preserved body. ‘Take my hammer, take it to the High King and tell him what you have seen here. He will know, lad, for that hammer is famed and shall become more so when my tale is told.’
‘I will do as you say,’ swore Grimli solemnly. Turning, he took the haft of the weapon in both hands and pulled. Grimli’s tired muscles protested but after heaving with all his strength, the dwarf managed to pull the hammer clear.
He turned to thank Okrinok, but the ghost was gone. Clambering awkwardly down the mound of bodies, Grimli’s thoughts were clear. He would return to Karaz-a-Karak and present the hammer and his service to the current High King, to serve him as Okrinok once did. It was then up to the High King whether honour was restored or not. As he planted his feet onto the rock floor once more, with no small amount of relief, Grimli felt a change in the air. Turning, he saw the mound was being enveloped by a shimmering green glow. Before his eyes, the mound began to shudder, and saw flesh stripping from bones and the bones crumble to dust as the centuries finally did their work. Soon there was nothing left except a greenish-tinged haze.
Hefting Okrinok’s hammer, Grimli turned to leave. Out in the darkness dozens of red eyes regarded him balefully. Grimli grinned viciously to himself. He strode towards the waiting goblins, his heart hammering in his chest, his advance quickening until he was running at full charge.
‘For Frammi and Gorgnir!’ he bellowed.
GRUDGE BEARER
Gav Thorpe
GRUDGE ONE
HARD AS STONE
The twisted, baying creatures came on in a great mass, howling and screaming at the darkening sky. Some shambled forwards on all fours like dogs and bears, others ran upright with long, loping strides. Each was an unholy hybrid of man and beast, some with canine faces and human bodies, others with the hindquarters of a goat or cat. Bird-faced creatures with bat-like wings sprouting from their backs swept forwards in swooping leaps alongside gigantic monstrosities made of flailing limbs and screeching faces.
As the sun glittered off the peaks of the mountains around them, the host of elves and dwarfs stood grimly watching the fresh wave of warped horrors sweep down the valley. For five long days they had stood against the horde pouring from the north. The sky seethed with magical energy above them, pulsing with unnatural vigour. Storm clouds tinged with blue and purple roiled in the air above the dark host.
At the head of the dwarf army stood the high king, Snorri Whitebeard. His beard was stained with dirt and blood, and he held his glimmering rune axe heavily in his hand. Around him his guards picked up their shields, axes and hammers and closed around the king, preparing to face the fresh onslaught. It was the dwarf standing to Snorri’s left, Godri Stonehewer, who broke the grim silence.
‘Do you think there’ll be many more of them?’ he asked, hefting his hammer in his right hand. ‘Only, I haven’t had a beer in three days.’
Snorri chuckled and looked across towards Godri. ‘Where did you find beer three days ago?’ the high king said. ‘I haven’t had a drop since the first day.’
‘Well,’ replied Godri, avoiding the king’s gaze, ‘there may have been a barrel or two that were missed when we were doling out the rations.’
‘Godri!’ snapped Snorri, genuinely angry. ‘There’s good fighters back there with blood in their mouths that have had to put up with that elf-spit for three days, and you had your own beer? If I survive this we’ll be having words!’
Godri didn’t reply, but shuffled his feet and kept his gaze firmly on the ground.
‘Heads up,’ someone called from further down the line, and Snorri turned to see four dark shapes in the sky above, barely visible amongst the clouds. One detached itself from the group and spiralled downwards.
As it came closer, the shape was revealed to be a dragon, its large white scales glinting in the magical storm. Perched at the base of its long, serpentine neck was a figure swathed in a light blue cloak, his silvered armour shining through the flapping folds. His face was hidden behind a tall helm decorated with two golden wings that arched into the air.
The dragon landed in front of Snorri and folded its wings. A tall, lean figure leapt gracefully to the ground from its saddle and strode towards Snorri, his long cloak flowing just above the muddy ground. As he approached, he removed his helm, revealing a slender face and wide, bright eyes. His skin was fair and dark hair fell loosely around his shoulders.
‘Made it back then?’ said Snorri as the elf stopped in front of him.
‘Of course,’ the elf replied with a distasteful look. ‘Were you expecting me to perish?’
‘Hey now, Malekith, don’t take on so,’ said Snorri with a growl. ‘It was a simple greeting.’
The elf prince did not reply. He surveyed the oncoming horde. When he spoke, his gaze was still fixed to the north.
‘This is the last of them for many, many leagues,’ said Malekith. “When they are all destroyed, we shall turn westwards to the hordes that threaten the cities of my people.’
‘That was the deal, yes,’ said Snorri, pulling off his helmet and dragging a hand through his knotted, sweat-soaked hair. ‘We swore oaths, remember?’
Malekith turned and looked at Snorri. ‘Yes, oaths,’ the elf prince said. ‘Your word is your bond, that is how it is with you dwarfs, is it not?’
‘As it should be with all civilised folk,’ said Snorri, ramming his helmet back on. ‘You’ve kept your word, we’ll keep ours.‘
The elf nodded and walked away. With a graceful leap he was in the dragon’s saddle, and a moment later, with a thunderous flapping of wings, the beast soared into the air and was soon lost against the clouds.
‘They’re a funny folk, those elves,’ remarked Godri. ‘Speak odd, too.’
‘They’re a strange breed, right enough,’ agreed the dwarf king. ‘Living with dragons, can’t take their ale, and I’m sure they spend too much time in the sun. Still, anyone who can swing a sword and will stand beside me is friend enough in these dark times.’
‘Right enough,’ said Godri with a nod.
The dwarf throng was silent as the beasts of Chaos approached, and above the baying and howling of the twisted monsters, the clear trumpet calls of the elves could be heard, marshalling their line.
The unnatural tide of mutated flesh was now only some five hundred yards away and Snorri could smell their disgusting stench. In the dim light, a storm of white-shafted arrows lifted into the air from the elves and fell down amongst the horde, punching through furred hide and leathery skin. Another volley followed swiftly after, then another and another. The ground of the valley was littered with the dead and the dying, dozens of arrow-pierced corpses strewn across the slope in front of Snorri and his army. Still the beasts rushed on, heedless of their casualties. They were now only two hundred yards away.
Three arrows burning with blue fire arced high into the air.
‘Right, that’s us,’ said Snorri. He gave a nod to Thundir to his right. The dwarf lifted his curling horn to his lips and blew a long blast that resounded off the valley walls.
The noise gradually increased as the dwarfs marched forwards, the echoes of the horn call and the roaring of the Chaos beasts now drowned out by the tramp of iron-shod feet, the clinking of chainmail and the thump of hammers and axes on shields.
Like a wall of iron, the dwarf line advanced down the slope as another salvo of arrows whistled over their heads. The scattered groups of fanged, clawed monsters crashed into the shieldwall. Growling, howling and screeching, their wordless challenges met with gruff battle cries and shouted oaths.
‘Grungni guide my hand!’ bellowed Snorri as a creature with the head of a wolf, the body of a man and the legs of a lizard jumped at him, slashing with long talons. Snorri swept his axe from right to left in a low arc, the gleaming blade shearing off the beast’s legs just below the waist.
As the dismembered corpse tumbled down the hill, Snorri stepped forward and brought his axe back in a return blow, ripping the head from a bear-like creature with a lashing snake for a tail. Thick blood that stank of rotten fish fountained over the king, sticking to the plates of his iron armour. Gobbets caught in his matted beard, making him gag.
It was going to be a long day.
The throne room of Zhufbar echoed gently with the hubbub of the milling dwarfs. A hundred lanterns shone a golden light down onto the throng as King Throndin looked out over his court. Representatives of most of the clans were here, and amongst the crowd he spied the familiar face of his son Barundin. The young dwarf was in conversation with the runelord, Arbrek Silverfingers. Throndin chuckled quietly to himself as he imagined the topic of conversation: undoubtedly his son would be saying something rash and ill-considered, and Arbrek would be cursing him softly with an amused twinkle in his eye.
Movement at the great doors caught the king’s attention. The background noise dropped down as a human emissary entered, escorted by Hengrid Dragonfoe, the hold’s gatewarden. The manling was tall, even for one of his kind, and behind him came two other men carrying a large iron-bound wooden chest. The messenger was clearly taking slow, deliberate strides so as not to outpace his shorter-legged escort, while the two carrying the chest were visibly tiring. A gap opened up in the assembled throng, a pathway to the foot of Throndin’s throne appearing out of the crowd.
He sat with his arms crossed as he watched the small deputation make its way up the thirty steps to the dais on which his throne stood. The messenger bowed low, his left hand extended to the side with a flourish, and then looked up at the king.
‘My lord, King Throndin of Zhufbar, I bring tidings from Baron Silas Vessal of Averland,’ the emissary said. He was speaking slowly, for which Throndin was grateful, as it had been many long years since he had needed to understand the Reikspiel of the Empire.
The king said nothing for a moment, and then noticed the manling’s unease at the ensuing silence. He dredged up the right words from his memory. ‘And you are?’ asked Throndin.
‘I am Marechal Heinlin Kulft, cousin and herald to Baron Vessal,’ the man replied.
‘Cousin, eh?’ said Throndin with an approving nod. At least this manling lord had sent one of his own family to parley with the king. In his three hundred years, Throndin had come to think of humans as rash, flighty and inconsiderate. Almost as bad as elves, he thought to himself.
‘Yes, my lord,’ replied Kulft. ‘On his father’s side,’ he added, feeling perhaps that the explanation would fill the silence that had descended on the wide, long chamber. He was acutely aware of hundreds of dwarfs’ eyes boring into his back and hundreds of dwarfs’ ears listening to his every word.
‘So, you have a message?’ said Throndin, tilting his head slightly to one side.
‘I have two, my lord,’ said Kulft. ‘I bring both grievous news and a request from Baron Vessal.’
‘You want help, then?’ said Throndin. ‘What do you want?’
The herald was momentarily taken aback by the king’s forthright manner, but gathered himself quickly. ‘Orcs, my lord,’ said Kulft, and at the mention of the hated greenskins an angry buzzing filled the chamber. The noise quieted as Throndin waved the assembled court to silence. He gestured for Ku
lft to continue.
‘From north of the baron’s lands, the orcs have come,’ he said. ‘Three farms have been destroyed already, and we believe they are growing in number. The baron’s armies are well equipped but small, and he fears that should we not respond quickly, the orcs will only grow bolder.’
‘Then ask your count or your emperor for more men,’ said Throndin. ‘What concern is it of mine?’
‘The orcs have crossed your lands as well,’ replied Kulft quickly, obviously prepared for such a question. ‘Not only this year, but last year at about the same time.’
‘Have you a description of these creatures?’ demanded Throndin, his eyes narrowing to slits.
‘They are said to carry shields emblazoned with the crude image of a face with two long fangs, and they paint their bodies with strange designs in black paint,’ said Kulft. This time the reaction from the throng was even louder.
Throndin sat in silence, but the knuckles of his clenched fists were white and his beard quivered. Kulft gestured to the two men that had gratefully placed the chest on the throne tier, and they opened it up. The light of a hundred lanterns glittered off the contents – a few gems, many, many silver coins and several bars of gold. The anger in Throndin’s eyes was rapidly replaced with an acquisitive gleam.
‘The baron would not wish you to endure any expense on his account,’ explained Kulft, gesturing to the treasure chest. ‘He would ask that you accept this gesture of his good will in offsetting any cost that your expedition might incur.’
‘Hmm, gift?’ said Throndin, tearing his eyes away from the gold bars. They were of a particular quality, originally dwarf-gold if his experienced eye was not mistaken. ‘For me?’
