Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  ‘A simple seed, some might think,’ he continued, gazing up above the crowd to the mountains beyond. ‘But not us, not those that know the real secrets of beer-making. These simple seeds contain within them the essence of beer, and in that the essence of ourselves. It is in beer that we might judge our finest qualities, for it requires knowledge, skill and patience. Beer is more than a drink, more than something to quench a thirst. It is our right, its making passed down to us from our oldest ancestors. It is the lifeblood of our people, our hold. The ale that we shall drink will have been long in the making, tested for its qualities, proven in the taverns.’

  Barundin flicked the last few grains from his hand and turned his gaze to the assembled dwarfs, his expression fierce.

  ‘And just as an ale must pass the test for it to prove its qualities, so too must our warriors,’ Barundin told them. ‘The skaven have been crushed, their menace to us passed. Our brewery is rebuilt and this very day the first pints of fine ale shall begin their lives. These tasks are done, but there is one great task that yet remains unfulfilled, an oath yet to be met.’

  Barundin turned to the east and waved his hand across the view, his gesture encompassing the rising peaks of the Worlds Edge mountains and the clear blue sky.

  ‘These are my lands,’ he said, his voice rising. ‘These are your lands! From ages past we have lived upon and within these peaks, and unto the ending of the world itself, here we shall remain, as steady as the mountains from which our spirits were hewn. But we shall never know peace again, not while there is a vile taint upon our lands that we dare not face. East of here, the vile, disgusting grobi have plundered our mines, stolen our halls, desecrated our tunnels with their presence. For a score of generations they have been interlopers upon our realms, their stench filling the taverns and drinking dens of our forefathers, their black throats breathing the air once breathed by our kin.’

  Again Barundin turned his gaze back to the throng, who were murmuring loudly now, their anger roused by his words.

  ‘No more!’ bellowed Barundin. ‘No more will we stand idly by while these pieces of filth live and breed in our homes. No more shall we whisper the name of Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan. No more shall we stare into our ale and ignore the creatures that knock upon our door. No more will the grobi feel themselves safe from our wrath.’

  ‘Kill the grobi!’ someone shouted from the crowd, and the chant was taken up by many dozens of throats.

  ‘Yes!’ shouted Barundin. ‘We shall march forth and slay them in their lair. Once more we shall build Grungankor Stokril, and it will be filled with the light of our lanterns, not the darkness of the grobi; it will resound to the hearty laughs of our warriors and not the snickering cackles of greenskins.’

  Barundin began to pace up and down the stage, spittle flying from his lips as he ranted. He pointed south across across Black Water.

  ‘Within two days’ march of here, they lie in their rags and filth,’ he said. ‘Karak Varn, taken by them scant years after Karak Ungor fell to the wicked-eyed thieves. Then, to the east, Mount Gunbad was taken, and from there came the creatures that invaded our lands. There they looted the wonderful brynduraz from Gunbad and spoiled it with their pawing hands, destroying the most beautiful stones to be found beneath the world. Not content, they assailed Mount Silverspear, and it is now a dark place filled with their grime, a toilet for grobi! Where once a king sat, a hateful greenskin now squats! In this way, the east was taken from us.’

  Barundin’s roaring now could be barely heard above the tumult of the throng, their angry chanting resounding from the mountainside.

  ‘South, far south, the greenskins came for our gold,’ he continued. ‘In Karak Eight Peaks, they slew our kin, in wretched alliance with the ratmen. Not content, their invasions continued, until Karak Azgal and Karak Drazh were swarming with their litters. They even tried to beat upon the gates of Karaz-a-Karak!

  ‘Well, no more! Now only seven holds remain. Seven fortresses against this horde. But we shall make them know that there is still strength left in the arms of the dwarfs. Though we might not reclaim the holds of our ancestors from their clutches, we can yet show them that our lands are our own still, and that trespassers are not welcome. The grobi may have forgotten to fear dwarf steel and gromril, but they shall come to dread it again. We shall drive them forth, cleanse the old tunnels of their disgusting spoor, and hound them back to the halls of Gunbad itself. Though it might take a generation, I swear upon my father’s tomb and upon the spirits of my ancestors that I shall not rest while one greenskins still treads upon the flagstones of Grungankor Stokril!’

  Barundin stormed to the front of the stage and raised his hands above his head, his fists trembling mightily.

  ‘Who shall swear with me?’ he called out.

  The bellow from the crowd was such that the clanking of the waterwheels, the hissing of the brewery pipes and even the steam hammers of the forges were drowned out by the wall of noise.

  ‘We swear!’

  The tramping of feet, hornblows and drums kept a steady rhythm as the Zhufbar army marched eastwards. The steel-clad host passed out through the eastern deep gates into the mighty underground highway that once led eastwards to Mount Gunbad. Part of the Ungdrim Ankor, the massive network of tunnels that once linked all the dwarf holds together, the highway was wide enough for ten dwarfs to march abreast. Above the clinking of mail and the clump of boots, Barundin led the several thousands warriors in a marching song, their deep voices echoing ahead of them along the tunnel.

  Let no warrior mine now refuse

  To march out and reclaim his dues,

  For now he’s one of mine to pay

  Under the Hills and far away.

  Under the Hills and o’er the moor,

  To Azul, Gunbad and bright Ungor,

  The king commands and we’ll obey

  Under the hills and far away.

  I shall keep more happy tracks

  With gleaming armour and shining axe

  That cut and cleave both night and day

  Under the Hills and far away.

  Under the Hills and o’er the moor,

  To Azul, Gunbad and bright Ungor,

  The king commands and we’ll obey

  Under the hills and far away.

  Courage, lads, ‘tis one to a tun,

  But we’ll stay the fight til it is done

  All warriors bold on every day,

  Under the Hills and far away.

  Under the Hills and o’er the moor,

  To Azul, Gunbad and bright Ungor,

  The king commands and we’ll obey

  Under the hills and far away.

  In the vanguard of the host marched the ironbreakers, whose regular duties included patrolling the Ungdrin to hunt down interloping grobi and other creatures. The going was slow at times, for the walls and sometimes the ceiling had collapsed in places. Teams of miners worked hard to clear piles of debris, toiling ceaselessly for hours on end until there was room to pass. In this way, their hundreds of lanterns lighting the ancient flagstones and statues that lined the highway, the dwarfs travelled eastwards towards their long-lost outpost.

  It was after two days of travel and much backbreaking labour by the caravan that they came upon the tunnels beneath Grungankor Stokril. There was grobi-sign everywhere. Old stairwells were choked with filth and debris, bones littered amongst them and dried dung piled in heaps.

  Barundin felt his ire rising once more as he looked upon the scars left by the goblins. Statues of the ancestors lay ruined and defaced with blood and grime, and the ornate mosaics that had once decorated the walls had been torn down in many places, the bright squares of stone taken as baubles by the greenskins. Here and there they found the body of a dwarf; ages-dead carcasses that were little more than piles of dust and rust, identified only by the odd scrap of cloth. Anything of value had been looted long ago and not a shred of steel, silver or gold remained. Barundin ordered these remains to be gathered up
in sealed boxes and sent back to Zhufbar for a proper burial.

  Though it was dark both night and day, it was in the shadow-shrouded early hours of one morning, when the dwarfs had doused most of their lanterns to get some sleep, that the first grobi foray attacked. The assault was short-lived, for the ironbreakers were swift in their response and the sentries wary, so close to the lair of the enemy. Shrieking and crying, the grobi were sent fleeing back into the depths.

  The next morning, Barundin met with many of the thanes and his best advisors. They decided to launch an expeditionary attack into the south vaults, a series of mines and halls less than a mile from where they were camped. In an effort to establish some form of presence in the tunnels away from the Ungdrin, Barundin would lead half the army south and try to take one of the larger halls. From here he could make more raids on the grobi holes, while Hengrid Dragonfoe would lead a third of the army north the next day and attempt to cut the grobi off from the much larger settlement of Mount Gunbad, which lay some two hundred miles to the east. Hengrid, once gatewarden and leader of the hammerers, had proved himself an able general in the fighting against the skaven and, upon the death of his uncle had become Thane of his clan. They were counted amongst the fiercest fighters in the hold now, and if anyone would be able to stop more grobi coming from the east, it would be Hengrid and his warriors.

  The remaining part of the force was to stay in the Ungdrin to act as a rearguard or a reserve as necessary. The youngest and quickest warriors were designated as runners, and they spent several hours with the ironbreakers, learning the quickest routes around the Ungdrin and nearby tunnels. It would be dangerous work, travelling alone and in the dark, but Barundin gave the beardlings a stirring speech to bolster their courage, and impressed upon them the necessity of the messengers’ task; the dwarfs were massively outnumbered, and if they were to prevail they would need to be disciplined, resolute and, most of all, coordinated.

  The plan thus devised, Barundin gave the command for the army to march forth just before noon. Afraid of the bright light of the sun, the grobi would be in their holes during the day, which had earned them the name of night goblins over the many centuries of enmity between their kind and the dwarfs. Barundin hoped that by attacking during daylight hours he would have a better idea of the enemy’s numbers. With luck, he chuckled to his hammerers, many of them would be asleep and easy targets.

  The initial advance went well, with the ironbreakers in the fore, leading the way and meeting little resistance. As the army wound its way up a large staircase into the halls above, the grobi were waking to the threat. Gongs and bells began to clamour, echoing down to the dwarfs. Here and there, small bands of greenskins were trying to organise themselves, but they were little match for the stout dwarf warriors that fell upon them, and most of the grobi fled deeper into their lair.

  Splitting his force into three, Barundin spread out his army, herding the grobi eastwards and southwards. Through the corridors, the dwarfs pushed on. In the close confines, the diminutive greenskins were outclassed by the skill and weapons of the dwarfs, and unable to bring their numbers to bear.

  After three hours of fighting, Barundin was on the second level of the mine-workings, only one level down from the main hall of the south vaults. He was taking a brief rest and wiping the dark goblin blood from the blade of his axe. He stared with contempt at the pile of bodies that littered the floor. The grobi were scrawny creatures, a head shorter than a dwarf and far skinnier. They wore ragged robes of black and dark blue, trimmed with stones and bits of bone, and with long hoods to shield themselves from the light that occasionally trickled through the millennia-old grime that stained the high windows of their lair.

  The green of their skin was pallid and sickly, even lighter along their pointed ears and thin, grasping fingers. Shards of sharp, small fangs and broken claws were scattered across the bodies from the blows of Barundin’s hammerers, stained and filthy. Barundin kicked at one of the corpses, smashing it against the wall, feeling that death was not near enough punishment for the thieving little fiends that had despoiled the fine halls of his ancestors.

  Giving a satisfied grunt, he turned to his hammerers, who were resting further along the corridor, some munching on food they had brought with them and swigging from their flasks. Barundin saw Durak, once stonebearer to the dead king and now the new gatekeeper. The weathered face of Durak looked back at him and the veteran gave his king a thumbs up. Barundin nodded in return.

  ‘Been a while, eh?’ said Durak, reaching into his belt and pulling out a pipe.

  ‘Since what?’ asked Barundin, declining the gatekeeper’s offer of pipe weed with a shake of his head.

  ‘Since I carried your father’s stone to the battle where he fell,’ said Durak. ‘Who could have guessed then that it would lead us here, eh?’

  ‘Aye,’ said Barundin. ‘It’s been a while, for sure.’

  ‘Worth it, though, I reckon,’ said Durak. ‘All the fighting, I mean. Always feels good to smash a grobi skull, eh?’

  ‘Let’s smash some more, shall we?’ suggested Barundin.

  ‘Aye, let’s,’ said Durak with a grin.

  Onwards the dwarf host advanced, until they reached a wide stairway leading up to the gates of the Great South Hall. From the end of the tunnel the steps fanned outwards onto a wide platform, easily large enough for several hundred dwarfs to stand upon at the same time. Dirt and mould slicked the stairs, obscuring the veins of the marble with filth. The huge gates themselves had been torn off their hinges long ago and the remains lay across the upper steps. The great bands of iron were rusted and looted in places, the nails torn from the thick oak beams that made up the doors. Scraps of torn cloth were caught on rusted rivets, and the goblin spoor was heaped around the gateway in piles taller than a dwarf. The stench that wafted from the hall beyond stuck in Barundin’s throat.

  ‘By Grimnir’s tattooed arse, they’ll pay for this,’ the king muttered.

  ‘Bring up the firepots,’ shouted Durak, waving to some of the engineers that accompanied the army. ‘We’ll burn them out.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Barundin, holding up a hand to halt the dwarfs pushing their way to the front of the line. ‘Enough destruction has been heaped upon our ancient homes here. First we’ll drive them out with axe and hammer, and then we’ll burn the filth.’

  A horde of greenskins awaited them on the stairs, more and more pouring through the ruined doorway as the dwarfs advanced. Barundin led the charge with his hammerers, flanked by ironbreakers and miners. Like a mailed fist crashing into soft flesh, the dwarf warriors battered into the goblins, scattering them quickly and driving them back into the hall.

  Caught up in the fighting, Barundin hewed left and right with his axe, felling a score of goblins before gaining the gateway. Here he paused to catch a breath, as the goblins retreated from his wrathful attack. He stopped in his stride, eyes narrowing in anger as he saw what had become of the Great South Hall.

  The large chamber had once been the focal point of the mine workings, the audience chamber and throne room of the clan that had delved for ore beneath the mountain. Though not as grand as the halls of Zhufbar proper, it was still a large space. Columns as thick as tree trunks supported the vaulted roof, and to Barundin’s right a large area, where once the thane’s throne had sat, was raised up a dozen feet above the rest of the chamber, reached by a sweeping stair.

  The detritus of the grobi was everywhere. Glowing fungal growths sprawled across the floor and walls, with towering toadstools erupting from the fronds and spore clouds. The statues that had once formed a colonnade leading towards the throne had been toppled, daubed in disgusting glyphs with unidentifiable filth. Small fires blazed everywhere, filling the chamber with acrid smoke and a ruddy glow.

  The place was crawling with night goblins, hastily grouping together around crude standards of beaten copper shaped like stars and moons, the shrieking bawls of their masters attempting to instil order upon the chaos. Strang
e creatures, little more than round, fanged faces with legs, gibbered and screeched amongst the throng, held in check with whips and barbed prongs.

  Here and there, leaders bedecked in more ornate robes moved to and fro, carrying wickedly serrated blades or leaning upon staffs hung with bones and fetishes. Upon the dais several rickety war machines had been hastily drawn up; bolt throwers and rock lobbers capable of skewering and crushing a dozen dwarfs at a time.

  As Barundin led his army through the gateway, the goblins responded, streaming forward in a dark wave. Clouds of black-feathered arrows sailed above the onrushing horde, loosed from the short, crude bows of the night goblins. As Barundin and his hammerers worked their way to the right, allowing more dwarfs through the gate, they raised their shields to ward away the iron-tipped volley falling towards them. Thin arrows splintered and ricocheted off the steel wall of shields, although an unlucky dwarf fell, the shaft of an arrow protruding from his exposed cheek, blood spilling into his beard.

  Ahead of Barundin, night goblin herders goaded their charges forward, unleashing a drove of betoothed monstrosities that bounded forward, gnashing and growling. Barundin knew the creatures well: cave squigs. The tanned hide of the creatures worked well as rough bindings, and their guts, suitably treated, made for hardwearing laces.

  From amongst the orange-skinned beasts, riders emerged, haphazardly mounted atop several of the strange creatures, clinging on with little control over their outlandish steeds. Waving spiked clubs and short swords, the riders were carried forwards by the springing hops of their beasts, and one leaped high into the air, over the front of the shieldwall raised by the hammerers.

  The rider brought his club down atop the helmet of a dwarf with a resounding clang, while the squig snapped its massive jaws shut around the poor hammerer’s arm, ripping it from the shoulder. Another beast launched itself straight at the row of shields, it’s unnaturally powerful legs smashing it through the wall of metal and hurling a handful of dwarfs to the ground. It scratched and bit at the fallen until driven away in another bounding leap by the attacks of the other hammerers.