by Warhammer
‘Behold,’ said Gromrund. It was the first time he had spoken in over an hour. ‘The southern gate of Karak Varn.’ The hammerer seemed to straighten as he said it, and was made impossibly tall by the mighty warhelm that sat upon his brow, the two great horns spiralling from it almost touching the roof of the tunnel. The helmet incorporated a half mask, too, that concealed much of the hammerer’s face, but still his moods were easy to discern.
The gate was impressive. Tall and wide, it was set into a vaulted antechamber that ended the narrow tunnel. Etched with gilded spiral designs and elaborate crosshatching, it was the height of the fully helmeted hammerer five times over. With the intricate gold framing and knot work the past histories of the karak were described in painstaking mosaic. Truly, it was a stunning piece of craft and a testament to the dwarfs’ mastery of metal, displayed ever proudly, for what was merely a side entrance into the hold. To Hakem, it was little more than an ornate door, plain and austere – nothing like the bejewelled entryways of Barak Varr.
‘There is something wrong here,’ Hakem said suddenly, his mood darkening quickly.
‘If you remark of the lustre of the gilded gates of Barak Varr, once more…’ Gromrund warned, brandishing his great hammer meaningfully.
‘No, it’s not that.’ The seriousness in Hakem’s tone demanded attention as he gripped his rune hammer.
‘Yes, I see it,’ Gromrund said, facing the southern gate, gripping his hammer haft a little tighter.
‘Where are the guards?’
Gromrund led the way through the gate. Deciding against hailing for it to be opened or even knocking, the dwarfs had to push hard against it to force an opening. Worryingly, it was neither locked nor barred. Once inside, a long and lofty hall stretched before them. It was lined with stone statues; thanes and kings of Karak Varn and lit by flickering braziers mounted in sconces. One of the statues was toppled over. Its fall had shattered the terracotta slabs beneath and removed its head. Rubble was strewn all about. On the left wall, a huge tapestry depicting a great battle fought against the elves during the War of Vengeance was torn. Shreds of material hung down like strips of flayed skin.
‘This was not the welcome I had envisaged,’ Hakem said humourlessly, gaze ever watchful in the deepening shadows of the hall. ‘Where are our clan brothers?’
‘Karak Varn is invaded,’ Gromrund hissed, fear edging his voice. ‘These halls should be the dominion of Kadrin Redmane, lord of this hold.’
‘Yet they seem abandoned.’ Hakem finished for him, saying what the hammerer was thinking.
‘Indeed,’ Gromrund concurred, noting the absence of any dwarfs at the south entrance, even dead ones.
‘Is it possible that Redmane and his kin merely moved on, following another seam of ore? It is the way of our people,’ Hakem reasoned, stepping carefully, every footfall a clattering din in the abject silence.
The two dwarfs advanced slowly and cautiously, and spoke in low tones. Something was desperately wrong here. Both knew that this was no dwarf migration; no pursuit of a more promising vein of ore. Some terrible fate had befallen the karak. It appeared empty – in a place where guards at least should be present – and utterly bereft of life; even the hammer falls of the forges, usually an ever-present and reassuring clamour, were silent.
The long hall soon gave way to another area of the hold, perhaps a merchant quarter – it was wide and dark, shadows cast from the illuminated entryway suggesting another hall with associated galleries and antechambers. Unlit braziers, growing cold, were set in the walls and the detritus of trade lay all about: ruined casks, broken carts and broad barrels, wrecked wooden stalls and racks.
‘I thought the hold had been resettled,’ Hakem remarked, biting his tongue about the great merchant halls of Barak Varr. ‘If it was recently contested, where are the signs of battle? What in the name of Grungni happened here?’
‘I know not,’ Gromrund breathed. ‘Karak Varn was wrested back from the rat-kin and the grobi years ago. The entire upper deeps were conquered by dawi, though much of the lower levels are ruined and flooded still from the Time of Woes.’
‘It is as I read it,’ agreed Hakem. ‘Though this place looks dead, as if…’
‘Hsst!’ Gromrund motioned for quiet, raising a clenched fist. With the same hand he pointed towards a runty-looking figure, swathed in shadows and crouched with its back to them, in the middle of the hall.
With unspoken understanding, Hakem ranged wide of the figure, moving silently to catch him at his flank. Gromrund headed straight ahead, low and quiet as he stalked his prey.
As the hammerer drew close, he saw more of his prey’s appearance. Its clothes were ragged: coarse and filth-stained garments, the stink of which rankled at his nostrils. Gromrund could not keep the sneer of contempt from his face – if it was a grobi swine his hammer would crack its wretched skull, though as he got closer he realised it was too big for a mere goblin. The creature wore a helmet upon its head, too, dented and tarnished. Doubtless the foul greenskin, whatever its breed, had stolen it from some noble dwarf’s corpse.
Anger swelled in Gromrund’s breast and a red rage overlaid his vision, before he saw Hakem ready to strike at the creature’s flank.
‘Turn, filth!’ Gromrund bellowed, all thoughts of caution gone. He wanted to see the fear in the greenskin’s eyes before he smote it. ‘Turn and feel the wrath of Karak Hirn!’
The runt-like shadow figure seemed to leap up in sudden shock and whirled around to face the hammerer.
‘Hold!’ it cried in Khazalid. Gromrund’s hammer stalled a few inches from stoving its skull in. Hakem, frozen momentarily, held his rune hammer aloft and ready to strike. ‘Hold!’
It was no goblin. The bedraggled swine before them was a dwarf. Gromrund, now facing him, recognised the dwarf’s garb as belonging to that of the Grey Mountains. Known as ‘Grey dwarfs’, they were the poorer cousins of the Worlds Edge Mountains, the Black Mountains and the Vaults. The hammerer then noticed a large pack behind the dwarf, who held up his hands plaintively. Some of the contents had spilled out: spoons, a silver ancestor idol and even a dented firkin were amongst the booty. It was unlikely that these trinkets were the Grey dwarf’s belongings.
Gromrund’s lip curled up with distaste as he saw the scattered treasure, but he lowered his hammer.
The Grey dwarf exhaled in relief, shaking slightly at almost being sent to his ancestors prematurely, and nodded his thanks.
‘I didn’t hear you approach,’ he said, voice quivering a little as he extended a grubby hand. ‘Drimbold Grum,’ he offered, ‘of Karak Norn, in the Grey–’
‘Doubtless you were too intent on whatever it was you were doing,’ Gromrund grumbled, staring from Drimbold’s hand to the bulging pack. ‘And I already know of your heritage, dawi,’ the hammerer growled, keeping his hands firmly at his side, ‘and of your name. The Grums are well recorded in the Tallhelm Clan’s Book of Grudges. One hundred years ago, you supplied us with a stable of shoddy lode ponies, weak of back and bowel. Recompense for which is yet to be made by the reckoners,’ he added through gritted teeth.
‘Ah, no, that was the Sournose Grum’s,’ said the Grey dwarf. ‘I am one of the Sourtooth Grums,’ he added, smiling.
Gromrund glowered.
Drimbold lowered his hand and his eyes, and quickly set about replacing the items that had spilled from his pack.
‘He smells worse than a narwangli,’ hissed Hakem behind his hand, not entirely convinced the Grey dwarf hadn’t soiled himself when they’d surprised him.
Gromrund ignored him.
‘What do you know of the fate of Kadrin Redmane and his kin?’ the hammerer demanded, once Drimbold had turned back around to face them and was on his feet. Even the dwarf’s mail was rusted and ill kept, and his beard was infested with gibil.
‘I do not know, my kinsdwarf. I only just arrived myself. I was adjusting the items in my pack when you found me. I noticed one of the straps was loose,’ he added by way
of explanation.
‘Indeed,’ muttered Gromrund, not bothering to disguise his suspicion.
‘Has Karak Norn made a pledge to Karak Varn, also, in ridding the Black Mountains of the urk tribes gathered there?’ Hakem asked, wrinkling his nose at the Grey dwarf’s stink.
‘Precisely that,’ Drimbold confirmed brightly.
‘Then, Grum or no, you had best come with us,’ Gromrund returned. ‘Perhaps the Grey dwarfs have something to contribute if they are willing to send an emissary across the mountains. Besides, I have an ill feeling about this place,’ the hammerer added, looking around the large hall of the merchant’s quarter again, before returning his gaze to Drimbold. ‘It smells foul.’
With that, the hammerer stalked off into the gloom, Hakem following at his side. Whatever differences were felt by the Karak Hirn and Barak Varr dwarf, they were nothing compared to the mutual distaste they held for a resident of the Grey Mountains. They were poor dwarfs, scratching a living off rocks, without the breeding or heritage of the other holds. Still, a dawi he was and if part of the war council they should travel together. In any event, it was far better that a stern eye was kept upon him, lest he get into trouble and bring it down on all their heads.
‘Where are we going?’ Drimbold asked, adjusting his cumbersome pack, an eye on the way he had come.
‘To the audience chamber,’ Gromrund replied, ‘where the rest of the war council are due to assemble.’
‘What if they’re gone too?’ Drimbold asked again.
‘Then we wait,’ Gromrund snarled, turning briefly to set his steely countenance upon the Grey dwarf, ‘for as long as it takes!’
In truth, Gromrund did not know what else to do. His role here was merely to hear of Lord Redmane’s grievances and commit what forces to staunching the growing grobi hordes that he was permitted. With Redmane absent, and his hold deserted, he was slightly lost and getting steadily more annoyed.
‘An ufdi and a wanaz,’ he muttered, bemoaning his travelling companions as he followed the runic markers that would lead them to the audience chamber. ‘Why, Valaya, do you test me so?’
The great gate of Karak Varn loomed large and imposing – two immense slabs of stone, bound with steel and gold set into the very mountainside.
‘’Tis quite a sight,’ breathed Lokki, arching his head properly to survey the gate’s majesty.
‘Aye lad, an eye opener you might say,’ Halgar agreed.
‘Indeed,’ said Uthor.
Rorek nodded sagely, supping on his pipe.
The four dwarfs were standing on a short but wide road fashioned from stone tiles of ruddy terracotta and grey granite that led up to the massive gate. The walkway, a preamble to the majesty of the entrance proper, was decorated with square spiral devices and inset by a band of runes on either edge. Shallow stone steps met the short road and ended in a wide plateau of smoothed rock, similarly inscribed with gold intaglio.
The main gate itself was a full two hundred feet at its highest point and framed by a stout arch of fashioned bronze, inlaid with intricate copper filigree. A cross-hammers device encompassed both sides of the gate, the stone haft of each inset with large gemstones. Judging by the crude scratch marks around the jewels, efforts had been made to remove them but to no avail. On either side of the gate was a symbolic rendering of a dwarf face, each wearing helmets, but one with an eye patch, the other bearing horns, and forged from bronze. At the gate’s apex was a carved stone anvil.
At each end of the immense structure there stood an eighty-foot statue, set proudly upon a rounded stone dais, banded with runic script. On the left there was Grungni, clad in long mail, a forge hammer in his hand. On the right, the imposing figure of Grimnir, war-like with his noble crest standing sternly from his shaven skull, the mighty axes forged by his brother god gripped in both hands. Other, smaller statues gave way to the ancestor gods – kings and thanes of Karak Varn all – set in mighty alcoves carved into the mountain rock. Harsh weathering had worn the statues down, some were even toppled over.
‘Praise Grungni for his skill and wisdom that we humble dawi might fashion such beauty,’ Uthor breathed reverently.
‘For his hand guides all things, and is felt in the hammer blow of every forge,’ Rorek completed the litany.
Uthor clapped the engineer heartily on the shoulder then turned towards Lokki, his expression serious.
‘We had best keep word of their liege-lord’s death to ourselves until we are admitted,’ the dwarf suggested.
Lokki nodded. ‘Agreed,’ he said and cast his gaze up to an empty parapet carved out of the rock and above the gate itself. It was a watch station, yet strangely there were no quarrellers in evidence to garrison it. Still, Lokki noted the crossbow slits and murder holes warily.
‘Ho there!’ he bellowed. ‘The emissaries of Izor, Kadrin and Zhufbar seek an audience with the lord of Karak Varn.’ The last part nearly stuck in the thane’s throat, given his foreknowledge of Kadrin Redmane’s demise. It was likely, given the condition of the bones they’d found, that the dwarfs of the hold already knew of it, but then a successor would have been chosen, or at the very least a warden appointed to act in Redmane’s stead. In either case, it did not explain the fact that there were no guards at the main gate.
‘Fellow dawi beseech admittance and the hospitality of Karak Varn,’ Lokki cried again. He was met by silence.
Though it was only late afternoon the sun was dipping in the sky, thick black clouds, pregnant with rain, smothering it. From the north, a fierce wind was blowing, its howling chorus tearing through the peaks.
‘The weather bodes ill,’ grumbled Halgar, casting a look behind him at the deepening shadows.
Uthor stepped forward and hammered on the door with his fist. It only made a dull thud. ‘Teeth of Grimnir,’ he swore, ‘this is hopeless! How are we to attend a council of war if we are unable to enter the very hold at which the council is to take place?’
‘I fear we may already be too late, Uthor, son of Algrim,’ said Lokki. ‘But still we must try to get inside. Perhaps if we were to take the Ungdrin road, there is an entryway a few leagues east, and approach through the southern gate?’ he wondered.
‘A journey of two weeks at the very least and we have no way of knowing that the entryway is still open to us,’ said Halgar, wincing as he sat down upon a rock. The spear wound was still a little raw but the tenacious dwarf had refused any treatment. ‘It’ll take more than an urk blade to finish me off, lad!’ he’d bellowed to Lokki when the thane had expressed his concern. The longbeard mastered the pain quickly and took out a small clay pipe from within his beard. He stuffed it with weed from a pouch on his belt and lit it with a small flint and steel device. Taking a long draw, he blew out a large smoke ring and added, ‘The hour grows late and soon grobi will swarm this mountainside. They are curs, and would likely shoot us in the back from behind a rock,’ he spat, taking another pull on his pipe.
‘Two weeks is too long,’ said Uthor with uncharacteristic urgency. ‘I would gladly fight an army of grobi should circumstances require it, but we need to get inside now and find out what fate has befallen our kinsdwarfs.’
‘There might be another way,’ said Rorek from the back of the group, chewing the end of his pipe as he eyed the lofty watch station a further twenty feet above the two hundred foot gate. He paced forward then stopped a short distance from the entranceway. Raising his left hand in front of him – his right still holding the pipe as he supped on it – he stuck up his thumb and pointed his forefinger. Looking down the extended finger, squinting slightly with his good eye, he mumbled something and took three paces backwards. Then he unslung his crossbow from around his side and detached the metal box attachment filled with quarrels. With the others rapt in silent incredulity, he hung the metal box back onto his tool belt and replaced it with another, except this one harboured a coiled up rope with a hook at one end.
Rorek then crouched down on one knee and aimed the crossbow, compl
ete with new attachment, towards the watch station parapet. Squinting slightly, he flipped up a metal catch on the crossbow’s stock – it was a small steel ring with a cross in it. Trapping the crossbow in his right armpit and against his shoulder, he tucked the pipe back in his belt, stuck the thumb of his left hand in his mouth and raised it up to catch the wind. Satisfied, he aimed down the steel cross and fired.
There was the sudden crack and twang of a heavy spring as the hook exploded from the end of the crossbow, followed by the whirring of rope unwinding from a metal pulley as it was carried with the hook, flying upwards and then arcing in the direction of the parapet. Each of the four dwarfs followed it, mesmerised. The hook sailed over the parapet and into the open watch station, followed by the clang of steel against stone. Rorek wound the crank at the end of the stock furiously, steel scraping stone above them until the hook caught and the rope pulled taut.
‘Grungni’s steel tongs,’ said the engineer.
‘May they ever bend the elements of the earth to his will,’ Uthor finished for him. ‘What now?’ he asked, slightly dumbfounded.
If any guards were present above the gate, they would have come to investigate by now. It seemed the dwarfs had no choice.
‘Now I climb,’ Rorek returned, setting the crossbow against a rock as he strapped a set of shallow spikes to his boots. ‘Look after these for me,’ he added, shrugging off his weapon’s belt and pack. He then proceeded to walk forward slowly, all the time steadily winding up the slack from the rope. Once he reached the gate wall, he attached a small clasp on the crossbow’s stock to his tool belt, and placed a spiked boot against the mountain rock. He wound a little farther, and when he was certain the rope supported his weight, placed a second boot against the rock. Now suspended above the ground, he wound the crank slowly and carefully, one steady step after another as he climbed up the sheer wall.
