by Warhammer
‘Feel better?’ said the Barak Varr dwarf.
‘Yes,’ Ralkan replied. His face and beard were flecked with blood, the book of grudges drenched in gore.
‘Good, because there are more…’
Lokki beheaded a skaven warrior before impaling another on the great spike at the top of his axe blade. Halgar was at his side, battling furiously, the two dwarfs fighting the rearguard as always. Looking down at the massing horde, Lokki thought he saw something nearby – nothing more than a fleeting scrap of shadow – dart into the darkness at the edge of the stair. He wondered on it no further, his attention diverted to a diminutive skaven, wearing robes daubed in wretched symbols and bedecked in foul charms. In its greying paw it clutched a bizarre, arcane-looking device. It was like a staff but almost mechanical in nature. The creature raised the staff high and devoured a chunk of glowing rock, swallowing it labouredly, throat bulging.
A strange charge suddenly filled the air as Lokki’s beard spiked.
‘Sorcery,’ he breathed, making the rune of Valaya in the air.
Greenish lightning arced from the skaven’s staff, zigzagging wildly until it struck the stairway roof, earthing into the stone. There was a low rumble and a tremor rippled across the ground, great chunks of masonry plunging downward, shattering as they struck the stair.
Halgar staggered and nearly fell.
Lokki looked up. A great slab of granite dislodged itself from above and was plummeting down, about to crush the longbeard.
Lokki smashed him aside, rolling furiously as the massive rock missed him by inches. It splattered several skaven and began rolling slowly down the stair. It granted the dwarfs a brief reprieve as the skaven wailed, fleeing in all directions.
Wiping a swathe of sweat from his face, Lokki got up and helped Halgar to his feet. The thane didn’t see the scrap of shadow creep up behind him. At first he didn’t feel the blade sink into his back.
‘That was close, lad, Grungni be–’ Halgar stopped as he saw Lokki’s wide eyes and the blood seeping from his mouth.
The longbeard was paralysed as a skaven thing bound in black cloth – its eyes blindfolded with a filthy, reddish rag – snarled from beneath a long hood revealing a stump of flesh for a tongue. It emerged slowly, tauntingly from behind the thane and ripped out its dark-stained dagger.
Lokki lurched, spitting blood, and fell backwards down the stair, his armour clattering.
Disbelief then rage filled Halgar and he roared.
His anguished cry was crushed by the screeching retort of another bolt of lightning surging from the robed skaven’s staff. The eldritch energy exploded against the archway, which shuddered and started to collapse completely. The violent quake that accompanied it threw Halgar down as the skaven assassin bled away into the darkness, Lokki lost from view.
A sound like pealing thunder echoed menacingly above him and Halgar prepared to meet his doom with grief in his heart.
Hakem crushed a skaven skull, his rune hammer exacting a fearsome tally, and looked back from the threshold of the outer gateway hall to see Lokki fall. He watched as a black scrap of shadow seemed to withdraw from the dwarf and shaded his eyes as harsh, green light flared below in the stairway tunnel. He staggered, but kept his feet as the archway to the outer gateway hall started to crumble, Halgar beneath it.
Hakem raced back through the arch, and hauled the longbeard backwards with all his might.
‘Nooo!’ Halgar bellowed, as the archway and part of the roof collapsed downward, smashing into the stair and crushing any skaven in its path. The route down to the audience hall was blocked. The dwarfs had become separated from the ratman hordes.
Rivulets of dust and grit flowed readily from the ceiling cracks and the small chunks of dislocated rock that crashed down to the ground added to the imagined peril that the outer gateway hall was about to cave-in.
Eventually though, the tremors subsided and only dust motes remained, clinging to the air like a thick fog.
Uthor coughed in the dust-clogged atmosphere and beheld the huge slabs of granite that effectively sealed off the route to the first deep. He knew that Lokki’s body was behind it. In the end, just ahead of Hakem, he had witnessed their leader fall. He watched the other dwarfs stunned by their own grief, silently regarding the mass of fallen stone. Drimbold too was lost it seemed, to Grungni only knew what fate. They had the book of grudges, but at what price?
‘Old one,’ said Uthor, his voice low and reverent. ‘We must not linger here.’
Halgar had his hand on the wall of stone. He bowed his head and listened carefully. Muttering something under his breath – it sounded like a short pledge – he turned and looked Uthor in the eye. His face was like chiselled stone for all the emotion it betrayed.
‘Let it be known,’ he said aloud for all the throng to hear, ‘on this day did Lokki, son of Kragg, thane of the royal clan of Karak Izor fall in battle, stabbed in the back by skaven. May Grungni take him to his breast. He will be remembered.’
‘He will be remembered,’ the other dwarfs uttered.
‘The skaven still gather at the other side of the rock fall,’ said Halgar, stalking toward the great gate. ‘They will seek a way to get through to us,’ he added, turning to Uthor. ‘You are right, son of Algrim. We should not linger.’
‘I think we might not have to traverse the latrine tunnels to escape the hold,’ Rorek said, his back to the others as he examined the great gate, its antediluvian mechanism wreathed in a fine white patina of dust. ‘The five of us may be able to open the gate from inside.’
‘Push!’ Rorek cried and the dwarfs heaved with all their collective might. The engineer had disengaged the massive locking teeth on the gate by means of six circular cranks. With the aid of Uthor, Hakem and Halgar he then released the three huge, metal braces barring it. It was then just a matter of opening the gate itself. Two large, thick chains hung from the ceiling. As each was dragged downward, by means of an immense circular reel set flat into the stone – ten broad handles on each – a series of interlocking cogs and pulleys would go to work, hitching each gate, inch by laborious inch, along an arc carved into the rock. Slowly but surely the gateway would open. The throng only needed to work one gate – that would be enough to allow them egress – but with only six dwarfs, instead of ten, gathering in one of the chains it was extremely hard going.
‘Enough!’ shouted Rorek again. The left-hand gate was open a shallow crack – just three feet wide but enough for them all to squeeze through. Hazy light was spilling onto the open courtyard.
‘Follow me,’ said Uthor, taking the lead.
As he emerged into the harsh, late afternoon sunlight of the outer world, he covered his eyes against the glare. When he saw what lay beyond, he quickly lowered his hand and bellowed, ‘Grobi!’
A small horde of orcs and goblins gathered in the crags outside Karak Varn. They appeared to be making camp – seated around crude fires and the debased totems of their heathen gods – eating, squabbling and sleeping.
The first orc died with Uthor’s flung axe in its chest. The beast stared down stupidly at the ruin of its torso – at first stupefied – then it let out a low gurgle and slumped dead.
A goblin fell, its skull crushed by Hakem, before it could let out a warning. A third, then a fourth was killed by Halgar, holding his axe two-handed, meting out death with silent determination.
Gromrund killed another, smashing an orc in the back, brutally collapsing its spine and crushing its neck.
Rorek put his crossbow to work and pitched several goblins off their feet, their torsos pinioned by tightly bunched quarrels.
Before the greenskins even realised what was happening, eight of their number were dead. The thirty or so that still lived roared and snorted in anger, frantically taking up weapons. A host of snarling green faces all turned in the direction of the onrushing dwarfs, drawing up into a ramshackle picket line of bristling spears and curved blades.
‘Charge through them!’ Uthor cried, wrenc
hing his thrown axe free of the orc carcass before sheathing it and drawing the blade of Ulfgan. The dwarf of Kadrin surged into the masses, the undeniable spike of the throng’s attack. Gromrund and Halgar were at his heels. Hakem followed with Rorek, the two of them keeping the lorekeeper safe as he was carried along by the charge.
A flurry of arrows came at the dwarfs as they ran, the hooded goblins loosing short bows and screeching madly. Uthor took one in his pauldron, two more struck his shield but he did not slow, ducking an overhead cleaver swipe and, as he rose, hacking off his attacker’s arm.
In the end, it was over quickly. The dwarfs smashed through the camp like an irresistible hammer, leaving the greenskins bloodied and bewildered in their wake. They didn’t stop running until they could no longer hear the bestial calls and cries of the orcs and goblins. They weren’t followed. Foolishly, they had left a way in to the karak and doubtless the greenskins were exploiting that mistake.
The dwarfs had made camp in an enclosed crag, a fitful fire at the centre. There were only two ways in and out. Gromrund stood ready at one, hammer held across his chest; Hakem was at the other, watching the road ahead.
Night was drawing in, the last vestiges of sunlight bleeding blood-red as they slowly vanished into the horizon. Uthor warmed his hands by the fire. None of them had spoken since the battle with the greenskins.
‘We make for Karaz-a-Karak,’ Uthor muttered darkly across the crackling embers of the fires.
‘It is a fair march from here,’ said Rorek, smoking his pipe. ‘At least two days over rough terrain and our rations are few – the ale has all but run dry.’
‘Then we had best tighten our belts,’ said Uthor.
‘Hsst!’ The warning came from Gromrund. ‘Someone approaches,’ he hissed, just loud enough for the others to hear. The dwarf crouched low, adopting a stalking position. He held his great hammer in one hand, the other raised in a gesture for the rest to wait.
‘It is Drimbold,’ he said aloud in surprise. ‘The Grey dwarf lives!’
Drimbold walked into the camp, his face cut and his already worn attire ripped in several places. Even his pack appeared lighter. The dwarf quickly explained to the others how he had become separated from them, the skaven blocking his path. He had taken another tunnel and wandered in the dark until he’d luckily found another way out – a secret door in the mountain that led to the Old Dwarf Road. He’d watched the dwarfs fight through the orc camp at the gate, but had been too far away to do anything. After that he’d followed their trail, until it led them here.
‘I am lucky to be alive,’ he confessed, ‘by the favour of Grungni.’
He smiled broadly, reunited with his erstwhile companions, and then said, ‘Where is Lokki?’
‘He is dead,’ said Halgar, before any of the others could speak. ‘Slain by skaven treachery.’ The longbeard’s expression was like steel. There was but one thing concerning him now, Uthor could see it in his eyes. Vengeance. And he meant to exact it.
Uthor got to his feet and regarded his kinsdwarfs.
‘A great wrong has been done this day,’ he uttered, with fire in his eyes. ‘But it is one among many. One that began with the death of my kin, Kadrin Redmane and now Lokki, too, rests in a stony tomb. Karak Varn lies in ruins; its once great glory rendered to nought.’
Many of the dwarfs began pulling at their beards and growling in anger.
‘It cannot stand!’ Uthor bellowed, watching the grim faces of his companions alight with the flame of vengeance, the dwarf’s rhetoric emboldening.
‘It will not stand,’ he added solemnly. ‘I Uthor, son of Algrim, lord-regent to the clan of Dunnagal do hereby swear an oath to reclaim Karak Varn in the name of Kadrin Redmane, Lokki Kraggson and all of the dwarfs that gave their lives to defend it.’
‘Aye!’ cried the dwarfs in unison.
Only Halgar kept his silence.
‘Until the end,’ said the longbeard, holding out his open palm.
Uthor met his stony gaze and laid his hand on top of Halgar’s. ‘Until the end,’ he said.
The others followed. The oath was sworn. They would go to Karaz-a-Karak and return with an army. Karak Varn would be retaken or they would die trying.
From atop a lonely crag overlooking the camp a dwarf sat in solitude. The faint flare of a pipe briefly lit his battle-scarred face, his nose pierced by a line of three gold rings, a chain attached to the opposite nostril running to his ear. A huge crest surged from his forehead, appearing like a spike as he was silhouetted against the night.
‘Until the end,’ he muttered, crushing the smouldering pipeweed with his thumb and leaping down off the rocky promontory into the darkness below.
Lokki awoke, not in the halls of his ancestors, his place made ready at Grungni’s table, but coughing and spluttering amidst the ruination of the long stair. He was alive; a terrible, searing pain in his back where the knife had gone in reminded him of that fact. He’d lost his helmet somewhere – there was a large gash on his forehead, the blood was still slick and filled his nose with a copper-like scent.
Rubble lay all about and the air was thick with dust and grit, his once dark brown beard was wretched with it. A brazier still burned from a sconce attached to a nearby wall. Its flickering aura cast long, sharp shadows. The skaven were gone, as were their dead. They must have thought him slain, else he would be dead too.
Lokki tried to look around and found he couldn’t move. A huge slab of granite crushed his legs. With some effort he heaved himself up onto his elbows and pressed both his hands against the rock but it wouldn’t yield. He slumped back down again, gasping for breath. He was weak; the blade that had stabbed him must’ve been coated in poison. Dwarfs were a resilient race though, and could survive all but the most potent venoms – at least for a time.
Mustering his strength Lokki glanced around, hoping to find something he could use to lever the slab off his legs. His axe lay just beyond his reach. He tried desperately, gloved fingers clawing, to touch it but it was too far.
A stench wafted over him on a weak-willed breeze emanating from some unseen source. He knew it well. It was the cloying, rank and musty odour of skaven. The reeking stink was overpowering; Lokki felt bile rising in his throat and his eyes water. Then he heard something, the tiny sound of claws scraping stone.
‘Poor little dwarf-thing,’ said a horrible, rasping voice.
A skaven, clad in thick rust-ridden armour, with black and matted fur, loomed over Lokki. The creature gave a half snarl, half smile revealing yellowed fangs. Lokki noticed a scar beneath its filthy snout; the stitches were still evident in the pinkish flesh. On the fingers of its right paw the ratman wore a golden ring; a rune marked it out as treasure stolen from the vaults of Karak Varn. The other ended in a vicious-looking spike. A crude helmet sat on its head, two small ears poking through roughly sheared holes. Lokki had fought enough rat-kin to realise this was one of their clan leaders – a warlord.
‘This is skaven territory, yes-yes,’ hissed the creature.
Lokki fought the urge to retch against its foetid breath as it crouched down close, beady little eyes scrutinising, mocking.
‘Neither dwarf-thing nor green-thing rule here now. Here, Thratch is king. Thratch will kill, quick-quick, any who set foot in his kingdom, yes. Dwarf hold is mine!’ he snarled, slashing a deep wound in Lokki’s cheek with a filthy spike.
Lokki grimaced and spat a thick gobbet of blood into the skaven warlord’s face. ‘Karak Varn belongs to the dawi,’ he growled, defiantly.
Wiping the dwarf’s blood away with the back of his remaining paw, Thratch stood up, a feral grin splitting his features. Lokki watched as the creature slowly backed away into the darkness, and at exactly the same time another skaven emerged from it as if the shadow were an extension of his very being.
It was clad in black rags, its eyes blindfolded, its gait slightly stooped as it crept towards Lokki menacingly.
‘Tried to cut my throat, Kill-Klaw did, yes…
’ hissed the warlord, who was lost from view. ‘Took his eyes, took his tongue – but Kill-Klaw not need them to stab-stab, quick-quick. Now Thratch is master, and he bids Kill-Klaw… stab… stab… slow… slow.’
The blind skaven assassin loomed over Lokki, dagger in hand. For the first time, the dwarf noticed it wore a necklace of severed ears strung around his neck. Kill-Klaw screeched – a terrible sound emanating from the very gut – and darkness engulfed Lokki utterly. Agonised screams ripped from the dwarf’s mouth, echoing through the ancient halls of Karak Varn and into the uncaring blackness, as Kill-Klaw went to work.
CHAPTER FOUR
Bloody but unbowed, Fangrak trudged through the winding goblin tunnels of the Black Mountains and thought of how he might avoid a grisly demise. The orc chieftain was accompanied by a band of his warriors; the greenskins – orcs and goblins both – that had survived the attack by the dwarfs at the gate.
Twice now, he had been defeated. After the massacre in the foothills at the edge of Black Water he had gathered more warriors. He knew the dwarfs were headed for the old city, but he hadn’t bargained on how long they would be down there. Two days he had waited, his patience thinning with every hour. Even choking the odd goblin hadn’t alleviated his boredom. They’d erected totems, made offerings to Gork and Mork out of dung, and lit fungus pyres – the thick fumes cloying and potent. A stupor had descended from the heady fug exuded by the smouldering pyres, and the dwarfs had surprised them as the greenskins had awaited their return outside the gate of the hold. All of this he would have to explain to Skartooth.
The long tunnel opened out into a wide cavern. Daubed upon the walls in dung and fungus paint were the markings of the orc gods. Fires were scattered throughout the vast room beneath the mountain, goblins clad in thick black robes hunkering together and stealing malicious glances at Fangrak as he passed them by. Some hissed and snarled at him as he went, navigating the clutter discarded by the greenskins and the ubiquitous filth that pervaded everything. Fangrak wasn’t scared of any of them, orc or goblin. He growled back, brandishing his flail meaningfully. The brutal weapon was slick with greenskin gore – he’d had to take his wrath out on someone before they returned…
