by Warhammer
At last, Fangrak reached the end of the chamber. Flickering torches clasped in crude iron sconces threw slashes of light on scattered bones that lay in abundance there. Orc, dwarf and skaven were all picked clean, even the marrow sucked dry by Skartooth’s ‘pet’. The beast was ever hungry and it was unwise to let him starve for too long.
Ungul was the first thing that Fangrak noticed as he approached the seat of his warlord with shoulders slumped, his defeated warriors in tow. The troll languished on a cot of straw and flayed skin – brown and coarse like leather, and curled at the edges. Chewing on a bloodstained, meaty rib bone, the beast grunted at the orc chieftain, the chains that shackled it to the ground rattling agitatedly.
Fangrak kept far enough away from Ungul so that it couldn’t reach for him with its long, gangling arms, relieved as the beast went back to chewing at the bone. The orc chieftain bowed down on one knee before his warlord.
Skartooth was seated upon his ‘throne’, as the goblin warlord liked to call it. Wrought from bone, divested of flesh and meat by Ungul, the ‘throne’ took on a macabre aspect. A skull rack served as a back rest, crested by the heads of dwarfs and skaven, and any greenskins who displeased the agitated goblin. Rib, thigh and shin bones fashioned the seat, while the arms, legs and feet were made from an assortment of other parts, each surmounted by more skulls. Skartooth liked skulls; he had one on top of his great black hood, a mere rat skull – else the towering peak would collapse into his eyes. Around his neck he wore an iron collar, infested with spikes. It was a grotesque talisman. As Fangrak stooped he imagined tightening it around the goblin warlord’s neck until his eyes burst from his tiny head and his thin tongue lolled from his simpering little mouth. The orc chieftain allowed himself a grin at that, careful to conceal it from Skartooth as the warlord spoke.
‘So, you is back then,’ sneered the goblin, enveloped in his voluminous black robes, stained with the symbol of the blood fist – his tribe. ‘’Ave you killed them stinking stunties yet?’
‘No,’ growled Fangrak, keeping his head bowed.
‘Useless filth!’ Skartooth spat, lobbing a handful of rotten meat he’d been playing with, rather than eating, straight at Fangrak. The wretched meat struck the orc chief in the head, knocking his helmet askew. Fangrak went to right it without thinking.
‘Leave it,’ Skartooth screeched, getting to his feet and yanking hard on Ungul’s chain. The troll, who had been busying himself picking scabs from his stony flesh, grunted in annoyance, but the goblin warlord held the creature’s gaze and it became placid.
‘You want to feel the insides of Ungul, do ya?’ Skartooth snarled.
Fangrak looked up at the goblin warlord, but betrayed no emotion.
Skartooth took a step forward. Fangrak could see the goblin’s dung staining the furs laid out on the seat of his throne.
‘You want to get in ’is belly where ’is juices will melt ya away to nuthin’, eh? You worthless scum, you dung-eating swine.’
Fangrak responded levelly, his voice deep and unmoved.
‘We ’ave found a way through the gate.’
Skartooth halted in his menacing tirade to listen intently.
‘But there’s a rock fall in the way,’ Fangrak said calmly. ‘I reckon we can get in, but I’ll need a few lads to clear it.’
Skartooth looked Fangrak in the eye, scrutinising him carefully to try and detect if he was lying. Satisfied, the goblin warlord sat back down.
‘You’ll ’ave what you need,’ he whined, squeakily. ‘But Ungul is still ’ungry.
Fangrak got back to his feet and pointed to one of his warriors. It was Ograk – he’d been the lookout at the gate, sprawled on a rock, snoring loudly when the dwarfs had attacked.
‘Oi!’ said Fangrak, gesturing Ograk towards him. ‘Come ’ere.’
Ograk pointed dumbly to his chest, to make sure it was him that his chieftain meant. Fangrak nodded once, very slowly. The orc shuffled forward, one eye on Ungul, who was licking his lips.
Fangrak got up close, eye-to-eye with Ograk, then took a knife slowly and quietly from a sheath at his thick waist and slit the backs of Ograk’s legs with two fiercely powerful swipes. The orc howled in pain and rage, collapsing to his knees. He ripped his cleaver from its sheath, spitting fury, but Fangrak swatted it from his grasp with a heavy backhand blow.
‘You’ll not be needin’ that,’ he said, grabbing Ograk by the scruff of the neck and growling in his ears, ‘and you’ll not be runnin’ away, ’iver.’ With a grunt of effort, Fangrak hurled Ograk into the reach of the troll. Ograk screamed as Ungul battered him down with a meaty fist, the splintering retort of bone echoing around the cavern.
‘Are we done?’ he said to Skartooth, belligerently.
‘Go clear that rock fall,’ Skartooth said, ‘or it’ll be you in its belly next time.’
Fangrak turned, snarling harsh, clipped commands at his warriors before going off into the cave to press-gang others for his work crews. In his wake, he heard the wet tearing sound of rending flesh and the dull crunch of slowly mashed bone. He didn’t stay long enough to hear the sucking of juices or the swallowing of innards; he was hungry enough as it was.
Uthor led the procession of dwarfs as they approached the Great Hall of Everpeak, Seat of the High Kings, behind Bromgar, one of the High King’s hammerers and bearer of the key to the King’s Chamber. It was a great honour indeed and Bromgar bore it with stoic fortitude and irresolute dourness.
The gatekeeper had met them at the mighty entrance to the hold – an impregnable bastion of flat stone that defied the ravages of the ages. He’d been waiting there as they’d approached from the Everpeak road – a lone dwarf made seemingly insignificant before the edifice of rock and iron.
The dwarfs of Everpeak had been expecting them.
A series of secret watchtowers set into the highest crags offered a view of many miles and were a ready early warning of approach. Quarrellers had stood at sombre guard from a final pair of watchtowers, flanking the outer gate. They were wrought with massive statues of the ancestors and the High Kings of old, the imposing sentinels glaring down at all-comers. The venerable image of Gotrek Starbreaker was amongst them, holding aloft the Phoenix Crown of the elves, a trophy won at Tor Alessi and which still resided in Everpeak as a reminder of the dwarfen victory.
At the loftiest upper wall the glint of armoured warriors could just be seen, patrolling diligently. The gate itself was a colossal structure. Some four hundred feet tall, its zenith seemingly disappeared into sky and cloud. So solid, so formidable was the great gate to Karaz-a-Karak it was as if it was carved from the very mountainside itself. Valaya’s rune was inscribed upon it in massive script, a sure sign of the protection of hearth and hold.
They had been granted entry mainly due to Halgar’s presence and the fact that they bore dire news and the Karak Varn Book of Grudges as proof of it. Bromgar had turned then, rapping five times with his ancient runic hammer on the immense barrier of stone and tracing a symbol with a gauntleted hand. Uthor had stared, enrapt, as a thin silver seam appeared and a portal no larger than four feet tall opened and allowed them all admittance.
‘Ever since High King Morgrim Blackbeard ordered them shut during the Time of Woes, the great gates to Everpeak have not been opened,’ the gatekeeper had said dourly, by way of explanation.
Having been received by an honour guard of Bromgar’s hammerers in the audience chamber, the dwarfs now walked down a vast gallery, flanked by the royal warriors in silent vigil, their great hammers held unmoving at their armoured shoulders.
Never had Uthor witnessed such beauty and such immensity. The audience hall rose up into a vast and vaulted roof, banded by gold and bronze arcs. Columns of stone, so thick and massive it would take a dwarf several minutes to walk around them, surged into that roof, resplendent with the bejewelled images of kings and ancestors. A mighty bridge, a thousand beard-spans across and covered in a mosaic representing the past deeds of Everpeak, stretc
hed across a gaping chasm that fell away into the heart of the world. It led to a broad gallery lined by a veritable army of gold statues, each one a perfect rendition of the royal ancestors of the hold. So wondrous was Karaz-a-Karak that even Hakem was stunned into abject silence.
Of their company, only six now remained for an audience with the High King himself. Rorek had parted ways with the throng at the edge of Black Water. He would take the long road back to Zhufbar, taking care to avoid the greenskins lurking in the mountains and petition his king to grant troops for the mission into Karak Varn and the reclamation of the hold. Lokki, of course, had fallen. It was a bitter blow, felt by all, but none so keenly as Halgar who had said little since they’d made their oaths.
After a bewildering journey, they stood at last before the doorway to the Great Hall, resplendent with runes, etched in gold and gromril and bedecked with a host of jewels. Uthor quailed within, humbled to be at such a place. It even banished the dark spectre that haunted the edges of his mind – the memories back at Karak Kadrin – if only for a moment.
Horns bellowed throughout Karaz-a-Karak, their notes deep and resonant, heralding the arrival of the visitors to the king’s court. The great stone doors opened slowly, grinding with the weight of ages. Another hallway stretched before the dwarfs, so long and wide it could have held several small overground settlements. Its vaulted ceiling seemed to disappear into an endless firmament of stars as an infinite array of sapphires and diamonds sparkled high above. Light cast from huge iron braziers, forged into the dour faces of high kings and ancestors, inlaid with huge fist-sized rubies, created the glittering vista and made it seem as if the hold was open to the very heavens.
The awesome planetarium made Uthor feel insignificant, as did the hundreds of beautifully carved columns stretching away in the shadows, much further than he could see. They were etched with the deeds and histories of the clans of Everpeak. Bare rock was visible on some, where a clan’s line had been wiped out. Even now, high up in the lofty space, artisans were at work dutifully engraving with chisel and pick.
Like the thick tongue of some immense beast of myth, a mile-long red carpet swept down the centre of the massive hall. As the dwarfs made their way along it, treading down the mighty crimson causeway in awestruck silence, Uthor noticed the great deeds of his forebears etched onto the walls. These vistas were much, much larger than those of Karak Varn, over a hundred feet tall: the ancestor gods, Grungni and Valaya, teaching their children the ways of stone and steel; mighty Grimnir slaying the dark denizens of the world and his long trek into the unknown north; the coronation of Gotrek Starbreaker and finally the great deeds of High King Morgrim Blackbeard and his son, the current lord of Everpeak, Skorri Morgrimson. Uthor wiped away a tear at their magnificence.
At the edge of a vast circular dais of stone, Bromgar bade the dwarfs stop. Around the far side, the ancient faces of the Karaz-a-Karak council of elders regarded them. Every one of them sat upon a seat of stone, the high backs decorated with ancestor badges wrought of bronze, copper and gold. Each seat bore its own particular device to reflect the status and position of the incumbent. A gruff-looking dwarf, his long black beard flecked with metal shavings, bound in plain iron ingots and with tan skin that shone like oil, could only have been the king’s master engineer; his chair was decorated with tongs crossed with a hefty wrench. The high priestess of Valaya, a wise old matriarch wearing long purple robes, was seated in a chair that bore the image of a great dwarfen hearth, the rune of the ancestor goddess above it. There were others too; the head victualer had a tankard, the longbeards of the warrior brotherhoods bore axes and hammers, and the chief lorekeeper an open book.
In the centre of this venerable gathering, atop a set of black marble steps and sat upon a further dais was the High King himself, Skorri Morgrimson.
He wore a doublet of white and royal blue, edged in silver thread over a broad, slab-like chest. Thick and rugged, his black beard – the namesake of his father – was bound up in ingots of gold. Dappled with grey hair, it hinted at his age and wisdom. Thick, heavily muscled arms, banded with rings of bronze, copper and gold, and inscribed with swirling tattoos were folded across his chest. On one arm, the various devices of the ancestors were depicted; on the other, a rampant red dragon, its coiling serpentine tail made into a runic spiral.
The seat of the High King broke the semicircle of elders into two smaller, but equal, arcs and was altogether more grandiose.
Backed with a bronze motif of a hammer striking an anvil, the face of Grungni wrought above it in a triangular apex of gold, the Throne of Power was a mighty symbol of Karaz-a-Karak and all the dwarf people. It bore the Rune of Azamar, forged by Grungni and the only one of its kind, and was said to be all but indestructible. For if the rune’s power was ever broken, it was believed that it would signal the doom of the dwarfs and an end to all things.
Stood just behind the king, two at either side, their gromril armour resplendent in the light from the roaring braziers, were Skorri’s throne bearers. During times of war, and at the king’s command, they would bear the mighty throne of power into battle, with the High King sat upon it reading from the Great Book of Grudges. They were the finest of all Karaz-a-Karak’s warriors. Uthor would have bowed to them alone and yet here they all were before the High King himself!
‘Noble Bromgar, whom do you bring before this council?’ asked the high priestess of Valaya.
‘Venerable lady,’ said Bromgar, bowing deeply. ‘An expedition from Karak Varn seeks the wisdom and the ear of the council of Everpeak on a matter of dire import.’
‘Then let them step forward,’ the priestess replied, observing the custom of the High King’s court.
As one, the dwarf throng stepped into the circle as Bromgar stepped back into the shadows, his immediate duty done.
‘Lord Redmane is the master of Karak Varn,’ said the High King. The dwarfs were almost twenty feet away, such was the size of the circle, and yet the king’s voice came across loud and resonant to all. ‘A grudge is scribed in his name in the Dammaz Kron,’ the king continued, ‘for failing to deliver a shipment of gromril as was his oath. What have you to say on this matter? Who speaks for you?’ snarled the king, glowering at each of the dwarfs in turn. Only for Halgar did he hold back his ire.
Uthor stepped forward from the throng.
‘Gnollengrom,’ he said, bowing down on one knee and removing his winged helmet, cradling it under his arm, to observe due deference. ‘I do, sire – Uthor Algrimson of Karak Kadrin.’
‘Then be heard, Uthor, son of Algrim,’ boomed the voice of the king, brow beetling beneath the golden dragon crown of karaz sat upon his head.
‘I bring dire news,’ Uthor began. ‘Kadrin Redmane, my ancestor and lord of Karak Varn, is dead.’
A ripple of shock and despair from across the council greeted this stark revelation. Only the High King remained stoic, shifting in his seat and leaning forward to rest his chin on one fist. His eyes regarded Uthor intently and bade him continue.
‘Slain by urk at the edge of Black Water; his talisman is proof of this fell deed.’ Uthor held it aloft for all to see. Grim faces, etched with grief, looked back at him.
Uthor gestured to the rest of his companions. ‘We ventured deep into his hold and found it abandoned, overrun by skaven.’
The High King scowled at that. Uthor went on.
‘Through death and blood we recovered the book of grudges,’ said Uthor and Ralkan came forward, head bowed low, the Karak Varn Book of Grudges held before him in his outstretched arms. It was still spattered in skaven blood from when he had used it as a bludgeon.
‘Ralkan Geltberg, last survivor of Karak Varn.’ There were tears in the lorekeeper’s eyes as he said it.
‘It tells a sorry tale indeed,’ Uthor interjected. His face fell as he returned to a dark memory. ‘One of our party… Lokki, son of Kragg, royal thane of Karak Izor, died retrieving it.’
Halgar straightened; the mention of h
is charge’s name still felt like a raw wound to the longbeard.
‘Venerable Halgar Halfhand of the Copperhand clan was his kinsdwarf,’ Uthor explained.
Halgar came forward now, removing his helm and bowing in the time-honoured fashion, but with his fist across his chest as was the custom in years gone by.
High King Skorri nodded his respect to the longbeard.
‘Fell deeds to be sure,’ he said. ‘The great holds fall and our enemies grow ever bold. This slight will not be forgiven and will be forever etched in the great kron.’
‘Noble King Morgrimson,’ Uthor said boldly, the entire assembly shocked by his impertinence at speaking before being asked to. ‘We seek vengeance for our kinsdwarfs and the means to take back the hold of Karak Varn from the wretched rat-kin. Each of us has sworn an oath in blood!’
Incensed at this act of disrespect, Bromgar stepped forward but a glance from the High King stayed the gatekeeper’s hand.
Passion blazed in Uthor’s eyes so bright and powerful that none could have helped but be moved by it. Skorri Morgrimson was no exception.
‘Your cause is noble,’ said the High King, levelly, ‘and no oath is ever to be taken lightly, but I cannot help you in this deed if it is the might of my warriors you beseech. There are precious few to spare; our kin have been ever dwindling against the attacks of the grobi and their kind. There are other, more pressing matters that demand the strength of Karaz-a-Karak. Alas, the plight of Karak Varn is dire, but one that will have to wait.’
‘My king,’ said a voice from the council below. It was a female dwarf, one of the attendants of the high priest of Valaya. She had been shrouded in the shadow of the matriarch and Uthor had not noticed her before. Long, golden plaits cascaded from her head and a round stubby nose sat between eyes of azure. She wore a purple sash over simple brown robes, but also bore a talisman bearing the rune of the royal clan.
