by Warhammer
Uthor wiped a swathe of orc blood from his face and beard, chest heaving painfully so that his voice was barely a whisper. ‘Thank Grungni.’
‘Borri, son of Sven,’ the beardling replied gruffly and over-deep. Uthor suspected the dwarf was compensating for his youth. The beardling wore a full face helmet, metal eyebrows and a beard fashioned into the design all supplemented by a long studded nose guard. Although the shadows cast by the mighty helm shrouded Borri’s eyes they flashed with fire and pride.
Small wonder he fought with such vigour, thought Uthor at the steel in the beardling’s expression.
With the battle over, the dwarfs were gathering up the wounded and burying their dead. A careful watch was maintained by the slayers, with whom Halgar had much to say, throughout. An early count by Ralkan estimated that the throng had lost almost sixty, the slain mostly amongst the Zhufbar clans, and around another thirty grievously wounded. They’d found Rorek amidst a pile of wooden wreckage, inconsolable at the destruction of Alfdreng but otherwise alive and not badly injured. Gromrund, Hakem and Drimbold had all survived the battle, too.
While the dwarfs made ready, Uthor felt it was his duty to recognise the efforts of his warriors and speak with the mysterious group of slayers whose timely intervention had turned the tide. He resolved to get to them later.
‘Barely fifty winters, eh?’ Uthor said, ‘and yet you fought like a hammerer.’
Borri nodded deeply.
‘As did you,’ Uthor added to Borri’s older cousin, Dunrik of the Bardrakk clan.
This dwarf had clearly seen much of battle, Uthor realised immediately. A patchwork of scars littered his face and his beard was long and black, banded with grudge badges. He wore a number of small throwing axes around a stout, leather belt and shouldered a huge axe with a deadly looking spike on one end. It was much like Lokki’s. Incredibly, given their efforts, both had emerged from the fight almost completely unscathed.
‘Son of Algrim,’ growled the voice of Halgar.
Uthor turned to face the venerable longbeard and bowed his head as always.
‘Meet our ally, Azgar Grobkul.’ Halgar stepped to one side, allowing Azgar to come forward.
The slayer’s bare chest bore numerous tattoos and wards of Grimnir. A spiked crest of flame-red hair jutted from his skull that was otherwise bald, barring a long mane of hair that extended all the way down his muscled back. Across his broad, slab-like shoulders, Azgar wore a trollskin pelt, stitched together by sinew. A belt around his thick waist was cinctured by goblin bones and adorned with a macabre array of grisly trophies. The call to arms he had issued in the throng’s defence was made by a wyvern horn he slung across his body on a strap of leather and he gripped a broad-bladed axe – a chain linking it to his wrist by means of a vambrace – in one meaty fist.
‘Tromm,’ the slayer muttered, his voice like scraping gravel as he met Uthor’s gaze steadily.
The slayer’s eyes were like dark pits, exacerbated by the tattooed black band across them, but Uthor knew them, and knew them well.
‘It is ever the burden of those who take the slayer oath to seek an honourable death in battle, in the hope to atone for their past dishonour,’ Uthor replied, his expression tense.
‘Perhaps I will meet it in the halls of Karak Varn,’ said Azgar dourly. ‘It seems a worthy death.’
Uthor’s fists were clenched. ‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, relaxing, ‘Grimnir willing.’ Uthor nodded once more to Halgar and then stalked away to find Thundin.
‘He bears a dark burden, lad,’ said Halgar, momentarily lost in his own thoughts. ‘Think nothing of it.’
‘Indeed,’ said Azgar, a noble cadence to his voice despite his wild appearance. ‘Indeed he does.’
The slayer watched Uthor walking away. His face betrayed no emotion.
CHAPTER SIX
The dwarf throng reached the outer gate of Karak Varn in confident mood. The greenskins had been put to flight and, though only some two hundred or so strong, the army was now bolstered by a band of ferocious slayers. It also seemed word of the orcs’ defeat had spread, for no such creature opposed them as they made camp in the long shadow of the mountain.
The dwarfs gathered in small groups, heavy armour clanking noisily as they came to a halt and took in the impressive sight of the hold. Mutterings of wonderment and dour lamentations could be heard on the silent breeze that such a jewel in the crown of the Karaz Ankor could have fallen into depredation. Others, those older members of the clan who had seen greater glories, merely sighed in relief that the first part of the journey, at least, was over.
Strangely, the orcs had closed and barred the great gates left open in Uthor and his companions’ flight several months ago, and so, with a day passed since the battle in the ravine and night approaching once more, the dwarfs pitched tents. They were large, communal structures that were used to house some twenty or so dwarfs at a time. Standards of bronze, copper and steel were staked in the ground at the encampments of each individual clan to indicate who lodged there. Warriors removed weapons and helmets as they huddled together, looking for casks of ale to moisten parched throats, and shake the grit from their boots. It had been a long march through the mountains. Tonight they would rest, before making their initial excursion into the karak come the morning.
‘There is but one sure way to secure the hold,’ stated Gromrund. ‘We clear one deep at a time and seal all ways in and out.’
‘There is little time for that, hammerer,’ Uthor argued.
Several of the dwarfs gathered in the largest of the tents, a broad but squat affair made of toughened leather and supported by stout metal poles. So low was the roof that Gromrund’s warhelm would occasionally scrape the ceiling. There were a few muttered comments between dwarfs as to why the hammerer did not remove it, but as of yet no one had asked him. No guide ropes were required to keep the tents up, such was the ingenuity of the design, and each took on the bulky and robust appearance of rock. A shallow flume was cut into the roof and through it the smoky vapours of a modest fire billowed. Red meat on a trio of spits dripped fat and oil into the flames, making them sizzle and hiss sporadically. A large, flat table had been erected and each of the assembled war council sat on small rocks around it, drinking from tankards and firkins, and smoking pipes.
‘According to the lorekeeper,’ Uthor said, gesturing to Ralkan who sat quietly and supped at his ale, ‘there is a great hall in the third deep, big enough to accommodate our forces. It is defensible and a fitting place to stage our reconquest.’
Uthor switched his attention to the rest of the gathered dwarfs. Halgar, Thundin, Rorek and Hakem all sat around the table, watching and listening to the two dwarfs debating.
‘We get to it and secure a bridgehead,’ Uthor continued. ‘From there we can launch further attacks into the hold, striking deep at the skaven warrens, and reclaim Karak Varn for good!’ He thumped his fist down on the table – the assembled throng wary, of such outbursts, astutely raised their tankards a moment before – for emphasis.
‘Delving so deep without knowing the dangers ahead and behind us is folly.’ Gromrund would not be dissuaded. ‘Have you forgotten the battle in the King’s Chamber and how quickly we were surrounded?’
‘We were but a party of eight back then.’ Uthor stole a glance at Halgar. Yes, eight, old one, he thought, when Lokki was still alive. ‘Now we are many.’ A fire glinted in Uthor’s eyes at that remark.
‘I maintain we will stand a better chance if we take the deeps one at a time. We have Thundin’s ironbreakers to consider, far better employed as tunnel fighters than holding a single massive chamber, and let’s not forget the Grim Brotherhood–’
‘The slayers will do as they will, but they seek to die in this mission,’ Uthor snapped, a bellicose demeanour possessing him suddenly. ‘I for one do not want to be honoured posthumously, hammerer.’
Gromrund snorted his breath through his nostrils, and the part of his face that was visible behind hi
s warhelm’s face plate flushed red.
‘A vote then,’ the hammerer growled, through clenched teeth, slamming down his ale to the rapid upraising of tankards around the tent. He held up a coin that shimmered in the firelight. On one side was an ancestor head; the other bore a hammer. ‘Heads, we clear the deeps one by one–’
‘–or hammers, we head for the Great Hall and make our stand there,’ Uthor concluded.
Gromrund slammed his coin down first, head facing upward.
‘Venerable Halgar,’ said Uthor, matching the hammerer but with his coin, hammer upturned, ‘yours is the next vote.’
Halgar snorted derisively, grumbling at some unknown slight and set his coin down upon the table, but left his hand over it to conceal his decision.
‘The vote is secret, as it was in the old days,’ he snarled, ‘until all parties have made their choice.’
Hakem nodded, placing his coin down and covering it. In turn the process repeated, until each and every dwarf present had placed his voting coin.
‘Let us see, then, who has the support of this council,’ Uthor intoned, eyeing the table with the concealed coins upon it eagerly.
As one, the assembled dwarfs revealed their decisions.
Gromrund left the tent muttering heatedly under his breath and went off in search of his own lodgings for the night. Drimbold, who was sitting a short distance from the tent, watched him as he ladled a stew over a low fire. Gromrund stalked right through the Grey dwarf’s encampment, tripping on the stones surrounding the fire and accidentally kicking over a steaming pot of kuri.
‘Be mindful!’ Drimbold said as his meal was unceremoniously splattered over the ground.
Gromrund barely broke his stride as he snarled, ‘Be mindful yourself, Grey dwarf.’
‘Grumbaki,’ Drimbold muttered. If the hammerer heard him, he did not show it. Must be that warhelm clogging up his ears, he thought with a wry smile. Looking down at his spoilt food he scowled but then dipped his finger into a portion of the kuri he’d made with troll flesh, before putting it in his mouth. He chewed the cured flesh for a moment, the fire putting paid to any regenerative qualities the meat might have once possessed, then sucked at the juices, grinding the added dirt and grit in his teeth. ‘Still good,’ he said to himself and dipped his finger in the spilled stew again.
Drimbold ate with a small group of Zhufbar dwarf miners of the Sootbeard clan, sitting around a fitful fire. Not all of the dwarfs were sleeping in tents tonight and, as none had wished to share with him on account of the fact that several personal items from around the camp had already gone missing with a fairly strong suspicion as to who the culprit was, he was amongst those unlucky few. The Grey dwarf didn’t mind, and neither, it seemed, did the Sootbeards, one particularly enthusiastic and slightly boss-eyed dwarf by the name of Thalgrim regaling them with tales of how he could ‘talk’ to rocks and the subtleties of gold. The latter subject interested Drimbold greatly, but Thalgrim was currently entrenched in matters of geology, so the Grey dwarf paid little attention to the conversation and instead contemplated his evening beneath the stars.
In truth, Drimbold was as at home looking up at the sky as he was beneath the earth at Karak Norn. He came from a family of kruti and had worked the overground farms of his hold since birth. His father had taught him much of fending for oneself in the wild and the art of kulgur was one such lesson.
Chewing on a particularly tough piece of troll flesh, Drimbold noticed another fire, higher up, on a flat rock set apart from the closely pitched tents. He could see the slayer, Azgar, up there in the light of a flickering fire sitting with his Grim Brotherhood as they were known. They ate, drank and smoked in silence, their gazes seemingly lost in remembrance at whatever fell deed had meant they’d had to take up the slayer oath.
Bored of watching the slayers, Drimbold decided to observe the Everpeak nobles instead. They were close by, just north of his encampment and farthest from the gate. Typically aloof, they sat in their own company and spoke in low tones so that none could hear them. Both wore short cloaks, etched with gilded trim, and finely wrought armour. Even their cutlery looked like it was made from silver. He had yet to catch a second glimpse of the belt the beardling wore around his waist, but he was certain it was valuable. They even possessed their own tent, which had an ornate lantern hanging from the apex of its entrance. The Grey dwarf watched as the beardling retired for the night and his cousin dragged the rock he was sitting on over by the entrance flap, sat back down and lit up a pipe. Drimbold had seen it earlier, as they were setting up camp. It was made of ivory and banded with copper. The Grey dwarf was wondering what other objects of worth they might own when the conversation with the Zhufbar miners turned to gold again and his attention went back to Thalgrim.
Uthor sat alone outside one of the dwarfen tents in darkness, deliberately apart from the fires of his kinsdwarfs, and found some solace in it. He stared into the distance, absently polishing his shield. The night formed shapes before his eyes, the long shadows cast by the flickering light of faraway fires resolving themselves into a familiar vista in his mind’s eye…
The trading mission at Zhufbar had gone well and Uthor was full of boastful pride as he entered his clan’s halls at Karak Kadrin in search of his father to tell him the good news. His hauteur was abruptly quashed, however, when he saw the grave expression of Igrik, his father’s longest-serving retainer.
‘My noble thane,’ uttered Igrik. ‘I bear grim tidings.’
As the retainer spoke, Uthor realised that something fell indeed had transpired in his absence.
‘This way,’ Igrik bade him and the two headed down for his father’s chambers.
Uthor could not help notice the dark expressions of his kinsdwarfs as he passed them in the clan hall and by the time he reached the door to Lord Algrim’s rooms, the two warriors stood outside wearing grim faces, his heart was thumping so loudly in his chest he thought he might spit it from his mouth.
The doors opened slowly and there was Uthor’s father lying on his bed, a deathly pallor infecting his usually ruddy complexion.
Uthor went to him quickly, uncertainty gnawing at him at whatever fell deeds had transpired in his absence. Igrik stepped inside after him and closed the doors quietly.
‘My lord, what has happened here?’ Uthor asked, placing a hand upon his father’s brow that was damp with a feverish sweat.
Algrim did not answer. His eyes were closed and his breathing fitful.
Uthor whirled around to face Igrik. ‘Who did this?’ he demanded, anger rising.
‘He was poisoned by rat-kin,’ Igrik explained dourly. ‘A small group of their black-clad assassins entered through the Cragbound Gate and attacked your father and his warriors as they toured the lower clan holdings. We killed three of their number once the alarm was raised but not before they slew four of our warriors and got to your father.
‘As Algrim’s oldest son, you are to act as lord-regent of the clan in his stead.’
Uthor was incensed, his gaze fixed to the floor as he tried to master his rage. His mind reeled at this trespass – there would be a reckoning! Then a thought occurred to him and he looked up.
‘The Cragbound Gate,’ he said, seeing the wound to Igrik’s face for the first time, partially hidden by his thick beard. ‘It is guarded at all times. How did the assassins get by the door warden?’
Igrik’s face darkened further. ‘I’m afraid there is more…’
Uthor’s reverie was broken by the hacking cough of Halgar. The longbeard also sat alone on a shallow ridge overlooking the camp, and despite hawking most of his guts up drew deeply of his pipe and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. The venerable dwarf had insisted he take first watch, and who was there to argue with him.
Uthor’s thoughts returned to his past. He gritted his teeth as he recalled his hatred for the one that put his father on his deathbed. ‘Never forgive, never forget,’ he muttered and went back to staring down the darkness.
&n
bsp; From a high promontory, away from where dwarfish eyes might find them, Skartooth watched his enemies in the deep valley below, a malicious sneer crawling across his thin features. Greenskins needed no fires to see and so the warlord waited in the thickest shadows, weapon sheathed should an errant shaft of moonlight catch on his blade and give his position away. A small bodyguard of orcs and goblins was arrayed around him, including the troll, Ungul, and his chieftain, Fangrak.
‘We could kill ’em in their sleep,’ growled the orc chieftain, nursing the stump of his missing ear as he peered downward at the resting dwarfs.
‘No, we wait,’ said Skartooth.
‘But they is ’elpless,’ Fangrak replied.
‘The timin’ ain’t right,’ Skartooth countered, backing away from the ridge, not wanting to be discovered.
‘You zoggin’ what?’ Fangrak’s face screwed up into a scowl as he regarded his warlord.
‘You ’urd and if you don’t want to lose that other ear you’ll shut your meat-ole,’ he screeched.
‘Hur, hur, meat-ole,’ Ungul parodied, the troll’s hulking shoulders shrugging up and down as he laughed.
‘We wait until the stunties get inside…’ Skartooth added, striking Ungul hard on the nose with the flat of his small sword to stop him laughing. The troll rubbed the sore extremity but fell silent, glowering for a moment.
‘We wait,’ Skartooth began again, ‘and then we attack from secret tunnels only greenskins know about,’ he added, his mouth splitting into a wicked grin.
