Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  The High King turned to her, incredulous at the interruption.

  Many of the longbeards on the council grumbled loudly about the impetuousness of youth and their lack of respect. Even the matriarch turned to scowl at her attendant.

  ‘My king,’ she repeated, determined to be heard, ‘with Karak Varn in ruins, surely Everpeak must act.’

  The High King fixed the maiden with his gimlet gaze and, noting the courage in her eyes, breathed deeply.

  ‘With war to the north beckoning and the retaking of Karak Ungor, I can spare but a handful of warriors to this cause, my clan daughter,’ said the High King, content to relent and indulge her for now, before turning to regard Uthor once more. ‘Sixty warriors is my pledge and that is a generous offer.’

  ‘My liege,’ the attendant continued, ‘I must protest–’

  The High King cut her off.

  ‘Sixty warriors and no more,’ he roared. ‘And I will hear no more of it, Emelda Skorrisdottir. The High King of Everpeak has spoken!’ The High King’s glowering gaze went to Uthor and the others, ignoring his clan daughter’s indignation.

  ‘Take these dwarfs back to the audience chamber,’ he growled. ‘There they shall await my warriors, but I warn them…’ the High King stared at Uthor sternly, ‘…this is a foolhardy mission and one that I do not condone; they would fail it at their peril. Now…’ he said, leaning back in his throne, breathing in deeply as he puffed up his mighty chest, ‘Dismissed!’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘He is reckless,’ growled Gromrund. ‘A reckless fool,’ he said. ‘Sixty dwarfs to retake a hold full of skaven… It is madness.’

  Three months they’d been at Everpeak as the warriors were gathered and prepared. Careful note had been taken of the cost of weapons and armour afforded to the clans and made in the reckoner’s log, so that it might be levelled against the coffers of Karak Kadrin, Norn, Hirn, Izor and Barak Varr. With everything in order, at last they had made for Karak Varn once more. The throng was bolstered by forty warriors of the Firehand, Stonebreaker and Furrowbrow clans, and a coterie of twenty ironbreakers led by the ironbeard Thundin, son of Bardin, and the king’s emissary in the mission to reclaim the karak. He walked alongside Uthor, clad in thick gromril, his ironbreakers keeping measured step behind him. Thundin was possessed of a warlike spirit and had been eager to join the throng to recapture Karak Varn. His helmet device, a miniature hammer striking an anvil, rocked up and down vigorously in time with the great wings on Uthor’s warhelm as the dwarfs forged on in search of glory.

  ‘Doubtless he will add Gunbad next to his list of conquests,’ Gromrund grumbled, as they were led west along the Silver Road.

  Mount Gunbad was a pale shadow on the northern horizon and the dwarfs were keen to avoid it on their journey back to Karak Varn. The great and prosperous gold mine there had fallen over three hundred years ago, sacked by grobi, and no attempt had yet been made to retake it – at least none that was in any part successful. The richest mine in all of the Worlds Edge Mountains and the sole repository of brynduraz, the rare ‘brightstone’ sought by miners and kings with equal fervour, and it was lost to the greenskins.

  ‘And what of his plan?’ the hammerer continued. ‘We know nothing of that.’

  ‘You would not renege on your oath?’ said Hakem, who had been travelling with Gromrund since Everpeak. Ill-suited as they were, Gromrund at least felt he had an ally in the ufdi, despite his garish sensibilities and boastfulness. In truth, since Karaz-a-Karak, the dwarf had said little of the ‘wealth and glory of Barak Varr,’ and it meant the hammerer could stomach his presence.

  ‘I am no unbaraki,’ hissed Gromrund, keeping his voice low as he said the word. To be an ‘oathbreaker’ was the worst insult to any dwarf and to even say it in company was frowned upon. ‘But I seek neither personal glory, nor to settle my own account before I stand in front of the gates to the Halls of the Ancestors… It is for Lokki we do this deed,’ Gromrund added solemnly with a glance at Halgar.

  The longbeard walked alone, a few feet away. No one spoke to him, none dared for he wore a scowl the likes of which might be forever ingrained onto his face and a deep burden that fell like an eclipsing moon across his eyes.

  ‘For Lokki then,’ said Hakem – he too was looking at Halgar – full of honourable bluster. ‘By the Honnakin Hammer it is sworn.’

  ‘For Lokki,’ murmured Gromrund, as the throng left the Silver Road, following a tributary of Black Water and, once they’d reached that great pool of jet, back to the hold once more.

  Drimbold walked amongst the throng of warriors from Everpeak, with Ralkan beside him. The Grey dwarf didn’t know what had happened to the lorekeeper. He never fought in the final battle to escape the karak; he had long since taken his leave by then. But though he was no longer the shell he had been, he didn’t carry much in the way of gold either, so Drimbold wasn’t interested either way.

  Reclamation, that’s what he was doing and he was determined to return to Karak Varn so he could continue his endeavours, but he’d rather do so with a band of stout warriors than by himself, although alone he could probably enter undetected as he had done previously. For now though, other thoughts occupied his mind.

  For several days the Grey dwarf had kept a close watch on two of the travelling throng, intent on their wares. Both were nobles of Everpeak, a beardling and his older cousin if Drimbold’s memory served, and possessed of a desire to honour their clan by retaking Karak Varn. In a way, he thought, we are all reclamators really.

  As they trod amongst their kinsdwarfs Drimbold eyed the ringed fingers of the elder dwarf, the bands of polished bronze bent around his warhelm and vambraces. Drimbold’s eyes widened as he caught the flash of something bright and shiny around the beardling’s waist. It took but a moment for the Grey dwarf to realise what it was.

  Gold no less! These Everpeak dwarfs are rich indeed, thought Drimbold. He picked up his pace, just a few steps behind them, and reminded himself of something very important: on the road, there’s always a chance that things will get dropped.

  Uthor turned and gave the signal for the throng to leave the Silver Road at last. The tributary that would lead them to Black Water beckoned, and though the terrain would be fraught with crags, clawing bracken and scree underfoot it was the most expedient way to Karak Varn en masse.

  A warhorn resonated down the short marching line of the dwarfs, five abreast, and the column wended north-east following Uthor’s lead, Thundin and the ironbreakers in tow. It wasn’t long before the shadow of Karak Varn loomed large once more, though they faced a different aspect to that which Uthor had confronted on their first foray to the hold. But it was another sight – an altogether more welcome one – that caught his attention this time.

  ‘Behold,’ said Rorek to the thong of dwarfs gathered around him, ‘Alfdreng – Slayer of Elves!’

  A stout, wooden stone thrower sat behind the engineer, lashed to a heavy-looking cart hauled by three lode ponies. Thick metal plates were bolted to its carriage and they in turn attached it to an iron-plated circular platform inset into the base of the cart itself. A crank, wide enough for two dwarfs to work it, was driven into a second plate next to the circular platform and a supply of expertly carved rocks sat in a woven basket at the end of the cart. Each stone bore runic slogans and diatribes directed at the race of elves. During the War of Vengeance, the stone throwers the dwarfs had used to bring down the walls of Tor Alessi had been renamed grudge throwers as the practice of inscribing the ammunition they flung came about, reflecting the deep-seated fury the dwarfs felt against their once-allies during those days.

  There were mumbles of approval as the engineer paraded the ancient grudge thrower before the warriors of Karaz-a-Karak and his companions. The dwarf had also brought with him no less than two-hundred warriors from Zhufbar, a pledge from the king. The Bronzehammer, Sootbeards, Ironfinger and Flintheart clans all plumped up their chests and twiddled their moustaches and beards as they regarded
the appreciative gestures of their Everpeak kinsdwarf.

  ‘Only an engineer would bring a machine to a tunnel fight,’ muttered Gromrund to anyone who was listening. ‘We dwarfs have been fighting battles without such contrivances for thousands of years; I fail to see how it would advantage us to do so now.

  ‘Elf slayer you say,’ Gromrund bellowed.

  Rorek nodded proudly, one foot rested on the side of the cart and striking a dynamic pose.

  ‘We go to kill grobi and rat-kin, not elves,’ the hammerer grumbled.

  ‘Bah,’ said Rorek, taking a long draw on his pipe, ‘it will crush grobi and ratman as well enough as elf. So speaks Rorek of Zhufbar,’ he added, laughing, backed up by a chorus of cheers from his kinsdwarfs.

  The greenskins attacked quickly and without warning, descending down the steep-sided ravine like a bestial tide. Night goblins, hooded and cloaked, poured from hidden mountain burrows and sent black-fletched arrows into the dwarf throng. Three warriors fell in the first volley, before the dwarfs had shields readied. Hulking orcs, led by their black-skinned brethren, surged forwards cleavers upraised, spears outstretched, and crashed into a hastily prepared shield wall of Karaz-a-Karak clan warriors. A horde of trolls, lashed and goaded into battle by a cruel orc beastmaster, fell among the ironbreakers at the head of the group, stamping and goring. A belt of foul-smelling stomach acid wretched from one, engulfing one of the veteran ironbreakers, his stout armour no proof against the foul stuff.

  In a few, brutally short moments the dwarf army was embattled.

  ‘Gather together!’ Uthor bellowed, shielded from the trolls for now by Thundin and his ironbreakers. A nearby warrior, his kinsdwarfs fighting hard against the pressing orc horde, heard the order and blew a long, hard note on his warhorn. A second note from farther up the line responded and the throng began to form up in a thick wedge of steel and iron. Beset to the front and on one flank, it was slow going and some dwarfs got left behind as they fought.

  Goblin wolfriders, howling and hooting as they scampered into view from behind a dense cluster of crags on their lupine steeds, harried the rear of the dwarf column, shooting short bows and making daring lightning raids on the stragglers.

  From atop a viewing tower fixed to the side of the cart, Rorek bellowed furious orders to his crew below. Two dwarfs pumped the crank frantically and Alfdreng was rotated on the circular platform to face the hordes spilling forth from the ravine sides like malicious ants.

  ‘Brace!’ he cried and six metal clamps with broad teeth at the ends swung down from the cart and dug deep into the ground, securing it firmly. The lode ponies snorted and kicked in agitation but Rorek gave them no heed.

  ‘Hoist!’ he bellowed and the giant throwing arm of the grudge thrower was wound back on a stout wooden spindle. The wutroth of which the arm was carved bent and creaked under the strain; Rorek felt it tense even in the watchtower.

  ‘Load!’

  A heavy boulder was rolled into the throwing basket by two sweating crewmen, its grudge runes angled to face the enemy.

  Through his good eye, the engineer fixed his gaze on the rampaging night goblins and a wave of orcs about to hit the dwarf column. The tension of the throwing arm persisted, resonating throughout the wooden structure.

  ‘Wait…’ he said.

  The hordes were thickening into a densely packed mob, goblins and orcs taking up positions with short bows.

  ‘Wait…’

  The greenskins halted at a rocky ridge and began to draw back their bow strings.

  ‘Fire!’ yelled Rorek.

  A belt of air whipped past him and a dark shadow became a blot in the darkening sky before the boulder crashed into the dead centre of the ridge, crushing orc and goblin alike. With the sound of wrenching stone, the ridge collapsed, and several more of the greenskins were buried.

  A terrible aim with a crossbow he might be, but the engineer was a deadeye with any machinery.

  A cheer went up from the crewmen and the Zhufbar dwarfs surrounding the war engine protectively, but Rorek had no time to celebrate as he eyed more greenskins.

  ‘Five degrees to the left,’ he bellowed. ‘Crank!’

  Shoulder to shoulder with warriors from the Firehand clan, Gromrund and Hakem fought a mob of spear-armed urk. A dense forest of sharpened stone tips thrust at them as the orcs pressed. One Firehand dwarf fell, gurgling blood as a spear pierced his mail gorget.

  Hakem smashed one haft in two and parried another away with his shield, a third struck his pauldron and he recoiled but quickly righted himself to fend off a death-blow aimed at his neck.

  Without the room to swing his great hammer, Gromrund used the weapon like a battering ram, making pummelling drives with the hammer head. Wood splintered and bones cracked before his weighty blows but more orcs came on. Nearby, he could hear the battle-dirge of Halgar above the din of clashing steel.

  Uthor stood with Thundin, his axe carving through troll hide as if it were nothing. Every wound left a searing mark, hissing as it struck the hideously pale grey flesh. Trolls were known for their miraculous ability to regenerate from even the most heinous of injuries. Even now, one of the gruesome beasts recovered from a host of axe wounds inflicted by three of Thundin’s ironbreakers. One was battered into the dirt by the creature; a second swatted into his kinsdwarfs before the veterans came at the troll again and proceeded to dismember it. Wherever the blade of Ulfgan fell skin did not reknit or bones reset; where it fell was death and it was the reason the dwarfs were winning.

  ‘You fight with the fire of Grimnir; may his axe be ever sharp,’ Thundin said as he ducked a vicious sweep of a troll club and moved in to open its bloated gut. The beast recoiled in pain, bellowing in fury. The ironbeard rushed passed it, armour clanking, having created the opening he needed.

  Between blows, Uthor watched as Thundin came face-to-face with the orc beastmaster. The snarling creature sent out its barbed whip, hoping to tear chunks off the ironbeard, but Thundin caught the lash around his armoured wrist and yanked the orc towards him. The beastmaster was nearly barrelled over. Thundin beheaded it, a gout of crimson gore erupting from its ruined neck as it fell. With the rest of the ironbreakers pressing and Uthor’s axe blade carving ruination, the trolls broke, their long, gangly legs taking them back into the hills.

  ‘It seems I am not the only one,’ Uthor replied, having fought his way to Thundin’s side.

  The ironbeard followed his gaze to the two nobles from Everpeak.

  They fought like slayers at the head of the Stonebreaker clan, hewing greenskins with controlled fury. Several goblins had already lost heart and were scampering away from their flashing axe blades.

  All across the line the dwarfs fought. Some had fallen and their names would not be forgotten, recorded in Ralkan’s book of remembering, which the lorekeeper still carried, strapped onto his back. Though they were tightly packed, and the orcs assailed them on two sides, the greenskin dead were tenfold that of the dwarfs. They piled in great stinking heaps, the brethren who still possessed the will to fight clambering over the rotting corpses. With a stout row of mountain crags at their backs, and shields locked to the front and sides, the dwarf formation was virtually impenetrable. The greenskins would not break it.

  We will win this fight, Uthor thought.

  An ululating war cry broke suddenly above the roaring battle-din, echoing through the narrow pass. Uthor’s gaze swept west to the crags at the dwarfs’ backs.

  ‘Valaya’s golden cups,’ he breathed.

  ‘May they be ever bountiful,’ Thundin concluded, having followed Uthor’s gaze.

  A second horde of greenskins, vastly outnumbering the first, barrelled down the opposite slope howling like daemons.

  Uthor saw the chieftain Lokki had fought at Black Water riding a snorting, thick-hided boar. He was surrounded by a guard of stoutly armoured orc warriors, also riding boars who were much bigger and darker-skinned than the rest. One carried a ragged banner adorned with skulls and
black chains, the symbol of a clenched and bloodied greenskin fist daubed upon it. The glint of massive spear-tips twinkled in the moonlight like ragged stars and Uthor realised the greenskins had brought machineries of their own.

  Rorek saw the goblin bolt throwers, ramshackle war engines hammered together with crude greenskin craft and carrying a massive spear of thick, black iron. Too late, he bellowed, ‘Turn!’

  The whipping retort of six bolt throwers loosing in quick succession found Rorek’s ears on the fitful breeze. The sound of splintering wood followed quickly and the engineer gaped in horror as he realised he was crashing to the ground, one of the watchtower’s supports brutally severed. Another bolt pierced the throwing arm of Alfdreng just as it was being frantically rotated into position and its arm tautened. A crewman was flung into the air screaming as the wutroth snapped and flipped backwards. A second dwarf was killed by the rope wound on the spindle as it lashed out and garrotted him.

  Three more bolts buried themselves in the Zhufbar ranks, piercing armour as if it were parchment, pinioning three and four dwarfs at a time.

  Night was near as the orcs from the western slope fell upon them, the sun dipping beneath the mountain peak, washing the sky with blood. It fell swiftly as the dwarfs fought, the last diffuse vestiges of day giving way to twilight and then dusk. The orcs became primeval in it, the false light casting them in an eldritch aspect.

  The orcs and goblins swarmed, Rorek was lost from sight and many of the Zhufbar dwarfs would now be dining in the Halls of the Ancestors – this was not how Uthor had envisaged his glorious return journey to Karak Varn.

  With the onset of darkness the greenskins became further emboldened, until a discordant note rang out, resonating around the high peaks.

  The greenskins at the back of the western horde were turning, their screams rending the air. An urk in the fighting ranks noticed it too and turned for but a moment. Uthor cut it down contemptuously. He was about to press his attack when the front rankers started to waver and fall back, distracted by the events unfolding behind them. Then Uthor saw them, a band of at least thirty slayers, axes sweeping left and right, their blazing orange crests like a raging firewall even in the darkness. The orcs quailed before them and trapped between two determined foes their will broke. The chieftain’s guttural cry split the air again, but this time it was to signal retreat. Dwarfs on both sides redoubled their efforts until both the east and west greenskin hordes were repulsed and the few that remained were cut down.