by Warhammer
The dwarfs were moved into single file, first Uthor then Emelda followed by Rorek, Henkil and finally Bulrik. Slowly, with Uthor taking the lead, they worked their way towards the rushing waterfall.
As Uthor touched the narrowed ledge he instantly felt the slickness beneath his boots. It would be easy to slip and fall into the endless depths below, with a forest of razor-sharp rocks at journey’s end. The thane of Kadrin resolved not to look down. Instead, he dug around in a leather pouch Rorek had given to him and pulled out two broad spikes of iron. He put one in his mouth – the taste of metal was reassuring – and reached over to drive the other into the sheer rock. At first he faltered – unaccustomed to the battering force of the water, and recoiled – breathing hard, his beard, face and arm drenched. Then he gathered himself and tried again, taking an extra step as he did so.
Icy water smashed Uthor, robbing him of breath and setting his teeth chattering as he fought against the thunderous swell. Taking a small hammer from his belt, the thane drove the spike into the wall, where it held fast. Using the spike as a handhold, he eased himself further across the ledge and drove in another. Then came a third and a fourth, and Uthor reached the centre of the ledge, where a small crevice in the rock wall allowed him a moment’s respite from the onrushing deluge.
Catching his breath, acutely aware that the others were following slowly in his wake, he was about to continue when he felt a sharp tug against the rope cinctured at his waist. The thane turned, his boots slipping on the drenched rock, and saw Emelda losing purchase on one of the spikes and falling backward. She was but an arm length away and Uthor quickly reached out to her, grabbing her by the wrist as she flailed, and heaved her towards him. The royal clan daughter thumped into Uthor’s body with the momentum of her rescue and the two of them fell back against the narrow crevice in the rock wall, breathing hard.
‘My thanks,’ said Emelda, her long plaits dripping wet as she blinked away water droplets from her eyes. A smile starting to form in the corners of her mouth changed dramatically to a grimace as Uthor felt her pulled back again. He held her fast, gripping a wall spike with all his strength as he tried to see what was happening. Beyond the foaming, white veil of water blurred shadows presented themselves and dulled cries carried through the raging downpour.
Rorek watched, powerless, as Bulrik fell. The Ironfinger dwarf stumbled against a jutting rock and slipped. His death-scream was swallowed by the roar of the waterfall, his tumbling body lost from view in the churning mists.
Wisely, the dwarfs had left several feet of rope between each fastening around the waist but even so, Henkil only had a few seconds to untether himself or he too would be lost to the darkness. The leader of the Furrowbrows pulled frantically at the knot he had made. His clan were rope makers, he had boasted as much to Rorek before they had descended the stairway, and as such knew much of knot work, so much so that he had congratulated himself when he’d tied this particular binding, unthinking that he might have to untie it in haste.
Henkil’s fingers slipped, the slack of the rope pulling taut and he looked up at the engineer when he realised all was lost. The Furrowbrow was yanked violently off the ledge to his doom, Bulrik an unwitting anchor. The rope started gathering again. Rorek was tugged forward at first, some of the slack piled at his boot, but then he stepped free of it. He pressed his back against the rock wall and braced his legs – no way could he bear the weight of two fully-armoured dawi. Like most of the throng, Rorek carried several throwing axes and with the trailing rope tightening before his very eyes, he pulled one free. With an oath to Grungni that his aim might this once be true he cast the blade, which span end over end scything through the water and smacking into the ledge, cutting the rope with no more time to spare. There it remained, firmly embedded, as the severed trail disappeared into the gloom following Bulrik and Henkil.
‘Is it much farther?’ groaned Hakem as he climbed down another few feet through the cramped confines of Dibna’s Drop.
The dwarfs had entered the shaft via the mines and were descending gradually to the underdeep and from there to the overflow tunnel – thanks to Thalgrim’s rope, secured safely above – which resided a long way below. The going had been hard; much of the shaft was collapsed and in places, sharp rocks jutted out where adjoining tunnels had broken through the shaft wall like stone battering rams. Mercifully, the ancestors of Karak Varn had built a series of short ledges at intervals down the long shaft. Gromrund took advantage of this piece of engineering ingenuity gladly, setting his boots onto the stone outcrop for a breather.
‘Not sure. I think we are about halfway,’ the hammerer reckoned, peering into the gloom below between his legs.
‘In the halls of Barak Varr, gilded lifts allow passage up and down the deeps,’ Hakem moaned, struggling to untether his hook from the rope as he too found one of the ledges.
‘You must be feeling like your old self again,’ Gromrund remarked with a wry smile in the merchant thane’s direction, ‘to boast of your hold’s magnificence. Or do you seek to outdo Halgar with your grumbling?’ he added.
Hakem gave a half-hearted and ephemeral laugh. The loss of the Honakinn Hammer still dogged his thoughts. The memory of it vanishing into the darkness beyond his grasp and the subsequent death of Dunrik was like a sudden knife-blade in his heart and his expression darkened.
Gromrund saw it and averted his gaze upward to where Ralkan, Thalgrim and the three Sootbeards descended. Each of them found purchase on the ledges in short order; the relief of Ralkan though was almost palpable.
‘How long can we rest?’ gasped the lorekeeper, unused to such physical exertion, casting his gaze skyward and scarce believing he had come such a distance.
‘Not long,’ said Gromrund, ‘a few minutes, no more.’
Thalgrim was in his element, as were his clan brothers. They chatted freely, taking the opportunity to eat what rations they had in their packs. One of the miners even dangled his feet over the edge, dropping a small piece of rock into the gloom. Thalgrim turned his ear towards it as it struck the bottom with a shallow and faraway plink.
‘One hundred and thirty-one feet,’ said the lodefinder to the rest of the group, ‘give or take a few inches.’
‘There,’ said Gromrund, looking back at Hakem. ‘You have your answer.’
Hakem scowled.
‘Definitely more like the longbeard,’ Gromrund muttered beneath his breath.
Thalgrim led the rest of the way down Dibna’s Drop. The darkness was particularly thick here it seemed and he and the rest of the Sootbeards lit candles stuck to their mining helmets to help light the way for the other dwarfs. There were no more stops and after what felt like several more hours to some, they reached the end of the shaft and the ancient rock of the underdeep.
The lodefinder landed with a dull splash, water coming up to his ankles and wetting the mail skirt of his armour. The underdeep was partially flooded. Tramping through the water to make way for the others he gazed in wonder at the vast subterranean halls at the lowest habitable levels of Karak Varn. Massive archways ran down the curved ceiling at precise intervals and stout columns, carved with runic script and the images of fabulous beasts, held the roof aloft. A fizzle of flame got his attention as the rest of the group made landfall. He realised it was his candle and craned his neck to regard the ceiling directly above. Liquid dripped intermittently from a shallow crack, an isolated pocket of flood water obviously trapped beyond it and trying to force its way through. Thalgrim was possessed by the sudden urge to hurry.
‘Which way, lorekeeper?’ he asked, turning back to the group, all of whom had now exited the mineshaft.
They were standing at a confluence of four tunnels, the crossroads stretching off into the distance seemingly without discerning features.
Ralkan regarded each avenue in turn, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember.
‘I thought you knew how to get to the overflow,’ said Hakem, with a furtive glance at Gromrund.
‘We go north,’ he said at last, pointing towards one of the tunnels.
‘That way lies south,’ said Thalgrim, his expression perplexed.
‘South then,’ replied the lorekeeper, a little uncertainly. ‘Come on, the grate is not far,’ he added and started tramping down the tunnel, the bottom of his robes waterlogged.
‘South it is,’ muttered Hakem, exchanging a worried look with Gromrund as the dwarfs followed.
The foul stink of skaven was overpowering as they reached the entrance to the warrens; even Azgar and the others did not need the nose of the longbeard to smell it.
Halgar slowly and quietly pulled his axe from his belt as he approached the ratman chamber. Azgar was beside the longbeard and he turned to the slayer, first putting his finger to his lips and then showing the slayer his palm in a gesture to wait. The longbeard crept forward to the threshold of the room, his stealth incredible for a dwarf of his age and so armoured, and peered into it.
The skaven warren was made in a large, roughly-hewn cavern around three hundred beard lengths in each direction. Structurally, there were a number of raised stone platforms and Halgar also noticed the edge of several deep pits in the centre of the chamber. Rat-kin guards stood around them, wearing cracked, black-leather hauberks and carrying broad-bladed spears – they must be the birthing pens, where the bloated skaven females gorged upon the flesh of the dead and spawned litters of the mutated ratmen. The thought turned the longbeard’s stomach and he gripped his axe haft for reassurance. Two more guards sat near the entrance, noses twitching but otherwise oblivious to Halgar’s presence.
Slumbering slaves took up most of the rest of the floor space, heaped on top of one another in clots of fur and cloth, partially obscured by a low-lying, sulphurous fug. Halgar noticed it came from the birthing pens.
A languid, almost comatose, atmosphere persisted. Piles of excreta lay everywhere, along with bones and other debris. Urine stained the walls and sweat clung to the air, on top of the nostril-prickling stench of the sulphur fog. Halgar had seen enough and backtracked to his awaiting kinsdwarfs.
The longbeard beckoned Thorig forward and the Zhufbar dwarf did so quickly. Halgar nodded to him and Thorig unclasped the satchel he’d been carrying since they’d left the foundry. Delving deep, he produced a fist-sized ball of copper and iron. A faint seam was visible in the flickering torch light that ran across the ball’s circumference, a hinge at one end and what appeared to be a spring-loaded catch at the other. A spout protruded from one hemisphere with a short length of twine sticking out of it.
Halgar took the ball in his hand and tipped it; the tinny sound of liquid sloshing inside could be heard very faintly. The longbeard raised an eyebrow at the Zhufbar dwarf.
‘Zharrum,’ whispered Thorig with a glint in his eyes. ‘The mixture of soot and oil is particularly volatile when exposed to a flame,’ he added, echoing the words of Rorek.
‘Your clansdwarf will be for a quaffing,’ Halgar grumbled quietly.
Thorig shrugged and passed a ball to each of the other dwarfs. He then took the flaming brand proffered by Azgar, crushing it into the ground until only glowing embers remained. The slayer then led them back to warren entrance.
A shallow gurgling of blood and the two skaven at the cavern entrance were dead with slit throats. Azgar and Halgar laid their kills down almost in perfect unison and began the stealthy advance into the chamber. The dwarfs trod in single file, Halgar at the front marking a path through the slumbering slaves. Should any of them be disturbed and manage to raise the alarm then the dwarfs would be quickly surrounded and fighting for their very lives.
Azgar followed on after the longbeard, sweeping his gaze left and right for any sign of movement, chained axe held low in his grasp. So intent was he on what was in front of him that he didn’t see the rat tail flick beneath his boot. The bulky slayer stepped on it and the slave to whom it belonged would’ve screamed but for Azgar reaching down like lightning, wrapping his chain around the creature’s neck and snapping it with a vicious twist. Like before, he laid the body down carefully and the dwarfs moved on.
As they came close to the birthing pens and the guards that protected them Halgar bade them silently to spread out, using the shadows and the soporific state of the rat-kin to creep up on them. There were six guards in total; a pair for each of the three pits and one each for Halgar, Azgar, Drimbold and the Grim Brotherhood. Thorig stooped out of sight, fearful that the embers of the torch would rouse the skaven.
When they were all in position, Halgar rose up from a crouching stance and cut the first guard down. One of the Grim Brotherhood smothered the second with a meaty palm over the mouth and then broke its neck. Azgar and another of his slayers, looming out of the mist like ancient predators of the deep, dispatched the other two with equal and deadly swiftness. Drimbold and the third slayer finished the remaining guards, one with a well-flighted axe throw; the other with an axe spike to the throat. So silent was Drimbold that the other dwarfs didn’t even see or hear him approach. The assassins shared a nod to acknowledge the task was done and crept over to the birthing pens.
Halgar peered into the deep pit and almost gagged.
Sat on its fat rump, its rolls of fat spilling over each other, was a vile skaven birth mother. The bloated female was mewling faintly with its scrawny legs spread wide in preparation for the expulsion of yet more skaven offspring. She was surrounded by bone carcasses: dwarf, goblin and even ratman were all in evidence. A host of diminutive rat-kin spawn suckled hungrily at a raft of small, pink teats sticking out of the birth mother’s torso. Several of the spawn were dead and some of the stronger babies were devouring them, noisily.
In one corner of the pen there was a crude iron brazier. Thick, billowing mist exuded from it as some foul-smelling skaven concoction was burned down within – doubtless, it was the source of the sulphur fog. Attached to the lip of the brazier cup was a thick tube. It ran all the way to a metal pipe that was affixed to the birthing mother’s spittle-flecked muzzle. Judging by the inert nature of all the skaven in the chamber, Halgar surmised that the gas was used to sedate the disgusting creatures for when they were birthing the rat-kin multitudes.
Skaven slaves were also present in the pits. They carried long wooden poles at the end of which were filthy-looking sponges. As the dwarfs watched, the slaves dolefully patted the birth mothers down with the sodden sponges, presumably in an effort to keep them cool throughout their exertions.
Halgar could barely contain his revulsion and as he sneered contemptuously one of the birth mothers looked up at him with her beady eyes and squeaked a frantic warning. All around the room, the skaven stirred.
Halgar roared and buried a throwing axe in the birth mother’s skull, splitting it open like an over-ripened fruit. The skaven slaves screeched first in horror at the blood fountaining from the birth mother’s ruined skull and then with rage as they saw her murderers above. They dropped their poles and drew rusty blades, rushing towards an earth ramp that would get them out of the pit.
Thorig had already sped from his hiding place and lit Azgar’s zharrum with the torch’s embers. The fuse burned down quickly and the slayer tossed the sphere into the pit where it exploded, the catch releasing on impact and spraying flaming liquid all over the slaves and the birth mother’s corpse. The stink of burning fur and the wrenching scream of dying rat-kin filled the air as Drimbold threw in his zharrum too and the pit became a bowl of raging fire.
Halgar rushed over to the second pit, two of the Grim Brotherhood in tow. One of the slaves was coming off the end of the earth ramp, a wicked barbed spear in hand. The longbeard booted it in the groin and sent the creature back down again before
he threw his zharrum in after it, engulfing the birthing pen in flame. The third and final pit was immolated shortly after, Thorig tossing two of the fire bombs into it before any of the skaven within could react. Through fire, thick with oily black smoke from burning body fat, the writhing shapes of the birth mothers and their slowly cooking offspring could be seen. The rancid stink of roasting rat meat brought tears to Halgar’s eyes.
‘Come on!’ he bellowed. ‘Our work is done. Back to the foundry.’
The dwarfs gathered together, cutting down slaves as they went. From the back of the chamber a cohort of previously unseen clanrats wielding spears and halberds had mustered. They squeaked ferociously and came at the dwarfs with muzzles frothing. Thorig threw a fire bomb into them and the sheet of flame reduced the first rank to flailing torches. But a second rank came on. A thrown spear passed Halgar’s ear and thunked into the wall behind him.
‘Out! Out now!’ he cried, rallying the charge once the dwarfs were reunited.
Azgar and the other slayers went first, cleaving a path through a welter of slaves that had sprung up in their path. Thorig was behind them and, with Drimbold at his side, the Zhufbar dwarf cast more fire bombs into the chamber at will, determined to raze the wretched nest to the ground. As he ran, he coaxed the embers of the torch into life and soon the brand was aflame. Halgar was the rearguard, backing away quickly as the clanrats closed on them, trampling any slaves in their way such was their fury.
Barrelling through their skaven assailants the dwarfs crossed the threshold of the massive cavern, now wreathed in fire as a mighty conflagration took hold, and out into the tunnel again. The clanrats were almost upon them when Thorig turned and thrust the flaming brand into the satchel. Casting the spent torch aside he whirled the burning satchel around his head like a sling and threw it, fire bombs and all, into the nest entrance. A huge wall of fire sprang up from where the satchel hit the ground, so dense and ferocious that the pursuing skaven came to an abrupt halt and became hazy silhouettes through it.
