by Warhammer
Mercifully, the ratmen were intent on their labours and had not seen the dwarfs emerge from the underground river.
Uthor’s eyes widened as they tracked further and took in a massive, infernal construction that dominated the back of the immense chamber. Huge wooden wheels bolted together with crude strips of copper and iron were connected to the towering, ramshackle device. They ran rapid and wild with the frantic efforts of the slaves and giant rats imprisoned within. Arcs of eldritch lightning flew across spiked prongs far above as the desperate slaves were urged to greater endeavour with the lash and crackling staves of the Skryre agents. All the while in the background, behind a raft of clumsy observation towers and platforms, great pistons thudded up and down in relentless unison and the water in which the device was sat, where the makeshift skaven embankment fell away, gradually drained.
‘Valaya preserve us,’ Uthor breathed. It was a huge pump; the rat-kin had devised a way to clear the flood waters from Karak Varn. His heart stammered when he perceived what was stood behind the wretched skaven contraption. It was the great sluice gate itself – the Barduraz Varn.
Gromrund cursed loudly, striking his head for the seventh time as he and Thalgrim climbed up the narrow shaft of Dibna’s Drop.
‘You would find the going easier if you removed that warhelm, hammerer,’ the voice of the lodefinder echoed down to Gromrund.
‘I shall never remove it,’ came the caustic response of the hammerer, the warhelm of his ancestors still ringing loudly in his ears. ‘Some oaths were not meant to be broken,’ he added in a murmur.
They’d left Hakem and Ralkan behind, waiting at the crossroads beneath the lofty shaft through which the two dwarfs now toiled. Ralkan was in no condition to climb; the book of remembering was a weighty burden to bear and with only one hand a climb upwards was too difficult for Hakem. Besides, as he’d muttered when Thalgrim and Gromrund had departed, someone needed to stay behind and guard the lorekeeper. The first part of the climb had been conducted via the lodefinder’s rope, tied off at the mine shaft of the Rockcutter Waystation; the second meant scaling a length of thick chain hanging down from Dibna’s Chamber, doubtless a remnant of when there had once been a lift cage.
Thalgrim went hand over hand, his pace quick and assured with the ready practice of repetition. The lodefinder seemed to bend and swing from the path of every jutting crag, every errant spike of rock, though the way upwards was largely clear of obstruction.
Gromrund found it harder going in his much heavier full plate, great hammer smacking against his back as he climbed. More than once he slipped, and each time he found his grip again. Thalgrim made no such mistakes and was soon far ahead of him in the soot-drenched darkness, the flame of his helmet candle flickering faintly above like a firefly.
When Gromrund at last reached the zenith of the shaft and Dibna’s Chamber in the third deep, he found the lodefinder waiting with hands in tunic pockets and a smouldering pipe pinched between his lips.
‘There,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the stone statue of Dibna the Inscrutable, still just as they’d left it, bearing the weight of the room. ‘A mattock blow to the left ankle, precisely three and three-eighths inches from the tip of Dibna’s boot, will collapse the statue and give us enough time to climb back down.’
‘And you know this, just by looking at it?’ said Gromrund, a little breathlessly.
‘Aye, I do,’ Thalgrim replied, supping on his pipe. ‘That and the rock–’
‘Please, lad,’ uttered Gromrund, ‘don’t say it.’
The lodefinder shrugged and test swung his mattock a few times before advancing forward carefully. ‘Precision and a deftness of touch is the key,’ he muttered.
Gromrund gripped his shoulder before he got any further.
‘Wait,’ snapped the hammerer.
‘What is it? This deep is likely crawling with grobi and rat-kin by now, we should not linger.’
‘I have not yet heard the wyvern-horn. We cannot release the waters until the slayer and the rest are ready.’
‘Then I hope it is soon, for if the vermin come – and come they will – then we will have no choice but to act,’ said Thalgrim.
‘Then we had best hope they do not,’ muttered Gromrund.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Azgar emerged back into the foundry, Thorig at his heels with Drimbold and Halgar bringing up the rear.
‘Close and bar the gate,’ the longbeard growled, through rasping breaths. He was bent almost double, hands clamped to his knees and wheezing.
Drimbold went to his aid but recoiled before the venerable dwarf’s bark.
‘Leave me be, half-dwarf,’ he snarled. ‘I do not need the likes of you to help me stand and fight. I was fighting battles before some of your ancestors were beardlings.’
With a resounding clang, the gates to the foundry were shut and the bar slid across. Enraged skaven chittering emanating from beyond it was cut off abruptly as the way into the further deeps was sealed.
‘Make ready,’ bellowed Azgar, a half glance at Halgar to make certain he was still fit and able. The gnarled old longbeard was back upright and swinging his axe to work the cramps from his arm and shoulder.
Good enough, thought the slayer and marshalled the meagre dwarf forces that stood before him in four lines of iron and steel, axes and hammers ready, shields held to the fore.
Towards the barred gate the foundry plaza narrowed to such an extent it was possible to cover its breadth with twenty-five shields. Three further lines, similarly-armed, stood stoically behind it. If one dwarf fell, another would take his place. They were to hold the skaven as long as they could, defending solidly as only dwarfs knew how and infuriate the vermin hordes so they committed all their forces to the attack. Should the lines fail – and fail they would, Azgar knew – then the forgemaster’s platform would be their egress and the site of their last stand, one worthy of a saga the slayer hoped.
‘The rat-kin come,’ Azgar said as he appraised the dwarfen ranks, ‘and they are angered,’ he added with a feral grin. A rousing cheer met his words.
Relentless thudding came from the foundry gate. Metal creaked and moaned against the determined assault and the bar bent outwards slightly with every blow.
‘They will soon be upon us,’ hissed Halgar to the slayer, who had taken up his position in the middle of the first line.
‘Yes,’ Azgar replied – a glint in his eye as he stood alongside the longbeard. His steely gaze never left the gate. When it shuddered and the bar began to split he tightened his grip on the haft of his axe. ‘Let them come.’
Another crash and the gate shook hard. The dwarfs remained in silence, jaws locked and hearts racing in anticipation of the imminent battle. For most, if not all, it would likely be their last.
The gate was rocked again.
It was met with stony silence. The tension was almost unbearable.
‘Shed blood with me,’ Halgar cried out suddenly to the throng. ‘Shed blood and be my brother. We are the sons of Grungni. Alone we are rocks; together we are as enduring as a mountain!’
‘Aye!’ came the response as almost a hundred dwarf voices responded in unison.
The gate shuddered for the last time and was ripped outwards, wrenched almost off its hinges. From the black void of the unknown came the skaven, squeaking and snarling in apoplectic rage.
‘Quarrellers!’ Halgar bellowed, and a host of crossbow-bearing dwarfs of the Flintheart clan came forward from the second rank, their clan leader Kaggi amongst them.
‘Loose!’ cried Kaggi and the snapping retort of flung quarrels filled the air. So densely packed, a rat-kin fell to every bolt but the skaven did not falter and the dead and dying were crushed. With no time for a second volley, the Flinthearts retreated behind the first rank shield wall to draw axes and hammers.
The furred skaven wave fell upon the throng without pause and engulfed it. Blades clashed, shields clanged and blood slicked the flagstones of the foundry
plaza in torrents. The dwarfs reeled before the sudden, furious onslaught. Many warriors fell clutching grievous wounds, only to be stomped to death by the relentless rat-kin masses driving forward. Other dwarfs, the Flinthearts amongst them, fought hard to fill the gaps in their shield wall but the skaven pressed with unremitting wrath, their frenzy evident in their foaming muzzles. Halgar was at the centre of it, separated from Azgar somehow but with Drimbold now at his side.
‘Remember, King Snaggi Ironhandson at the Bryndal Vale,’ the longbeard bellowed as he fought. ‘Remember his oaths, my brothers, as I remember mine. Sing your death songs loud, bellow your defiance to the deep, ‘til the sound echoes throughout the Halls of the Ancestors!’ he said, hacking left and right, using his shield as a bludgeon, his axe stitching a red haze in the air around him. ‘Join me now, brave dawi. Join me in death!’
A rallying cry erupted from the dwarf ranks with all the power and thunder of a landslide. Clan warriors dug their heels in and repulsed the skaven horde with all the steel they could muster. Halgar drove at the vermin with added purpose to let the other dawi see his defiance. The stink of killing got into his nostrils and he felt empowered. Perhaps it was infectious; even the Grey dwarf seemed full with battle lust.
What Drimbold lacked in skill, he made up for with effort. He guarded Halgar’s side with such vehemence that even the longbeard couldn’t help but notice his fervour.
A surge to the left of the skaven horde got Halgar’s attention as he cleaved another clanrat down. He felt it ripple down the front rank. Following the source of the tremor he saw the right dwarfen flank collapsing as the rat-kin scurried their way around the edges of the shield wall.
‘Reinforce the flank,’ the longbeard bellowed above the roar of combat. ‘Don’t let them get behind us.’
Kaggi saw the danger and, shouting commands, gathered his warriors to bolster the failing flank. As the brave clan leader led the way a spear flung by some unseen hand skewered him in the neck. Kaggi fell, clutching the wound, his lifeblood spilling eagerly. He was quickly lost to Halgar but the clan leader’s warriors, enraged at Kaggi’s death, pressed with fury and the line was strengthened again.
Halgar averted his gaze. The sorrow pricking at his heart turned to fury as he cut a black-furred skaven from groin to sternum.
‘Uzkul!’ cried the longbeard, wrenching his axe free in a swathe of dark blood.
‘Uzkul!’ echoed Drimbold, mashing a clanrat in the maw with the butt of his axe before finishing it with an overhand swipe to the head.
Still the rat-kin came on and Drimbold slipped and fell on the fluid-slick stone. A host of hate-filled skaven faces bore down on him but then recoiled before a swirling mass of steel.
Azgar wove amongst them, slightly ahead of the first rank and swinging his chained axe in a brutal, repeating arc. Limbs rained down upon the plaza floor as the grim-faced slayer was showered in blood.
Drimbold staggered up, two clan dwarfs helping him.
‘Stay on your feet,’ Halgar snarled, taking a moment to rub his eyes.
The Grey dwarf nodded dazedly. When he went to rejoin the fight he saw the skaven had gathered together and were backing off. The dwarf line, having weathered the first attack, did not press and a gap soon formed between the bitter foes.
‘Nice of them to give us a breather, eh, lad?’ remarked the longbeard, wiping the blood slick from his axe and readjusting his shield.
‘Why don’t they come?’ hissed Drimbold through gritted teeth. The tense lull was almost more than the Grey dwarf could take. Only when the lumbering shapes came slowly from the skaven ranks, bustling their smaller kin aside violently to reach the killing, did Drimbold understand why.
Huge rat ogres, ten-strong, bristling with muscle and raw, terrifying brawn bellowed challenges and beat their chests with slab-like claws. Confronted by these horrifying, freakish creations the dwarf line took an involuntary half step back.
Azgar, who had rejoined the line, saw it.
‘Khazukan Kazakit-ha!’ bellowed the slayer, invoking the ancient war cry of the dawi, and stepped forward a pace.
‘Khazuk!’ came the unified response from the throng who matched him.
‘Khazuk!’ they cried again and took a second pace.
‘Khazuk!’ came the final cry as the dwarfs stepped into the killing zone of the rat-kin ogres.
With just their noses above the waterline, Uthor, Rorek and Emelda stalked across the shallow reservoir towards the guards lingering at the rock plateau. As they drew closer the three dwarfs fanned out at some unseen command.
Uthor’s gaze was fixed upon three clanrats, leant on spears and bickering with one another at the base of one of the ramshackle observation platforms. Only a few feet away, the thane of Kadrin arose slowly and quietly from the water, his beard and tunic drenched. One of the clanrats turned just as Uthor raised his axe and balked when confronted by the thane’s cold eyes.
That expression remained on the creature’s cooling corpse after Uthor buried his rune axe into its forehead. Ripping the glittering blade free, he beheaded another and downed the third with a savage blow to the back after it turned to flee.
He looked over to his companions. Three more rat-kin corpses lay at Emelda’s feet in various states of mutilation. Rorek, too, had dealt with his guards. Two skaven pin-cushioned with quarrels floated in the shallow water, exuding blood. With this outer ring of sentries dispatched, the trio of dwarfs grimly moved on.
Crouched low as they sneaked across the rock plateau, the dwarfs converged and reached the threshold of the skaven engine. Up close, the infernal machine gave off an almighty clamour that masked their booted footfalls and shook their armour. As they approached, one of the hooded Clan Skryre agents turned and squeaked a warning. Rorek stitched a line of crossbow bolts across its neck and torso as it went to raise its staff.
Alerted by the sound the black-furred skaven turned, together with their smaller clanrat brethren, and began herding the slaves towards the dwarfs. The rancid, emaciated creatures dropped barrows and sodden sacking filled with earth, and took up spades and picks, the fear of their masters overwhelming their terror of facing the well-armed dwarfs.
Flikrit watched as Gnawquell twitched and fell, a host of feathered shafts jutting from his body like spines. The Clan Skryre warlock grinned with glee at his fellow acolyte’s demise. ‘Favour finds the survivor,’ that was his motto. You cannot be elevated in the eyes of the Thirteen if you’re dead. When he noticed the three battle-hardened dwarf-things stalking towards him, ripping through his slaves like they were nothing, he readily squirted the musk of fear.
Mastering the terror that was threatening to loosen his bowels, Flikrit backed away. Delving into his robes he found a chunk of glowing warpstone and ate it up hungrily. The tainted rock tingled on his tongue: bitter, acrid, empowering. Fear ebbed away to faint, gnawing doubt as visions were visited upon the warlock. He raised his staff, full of warpstone-fuelled confidence and incanted quickly. A nimbus of raw energy played briefly around Flikrit’s outstretched paw before he channelled it into his staff and unleashed an arcing bolt of lightning.
Green-black energy arrowed into the air, charging it with power and the redolence of sulphur, and split a slave before it earthed harmlessly away.
Flikrit snarled his displeasure and screeched again, thrusting his staff towards the marauding dwarf-things carving up his slaves; slaves paid for with his tokens! Lightning flashed and one of the dwarf-things was struck as the eldritch bolt exploded into the earth nearby, spewing razor chips of rock.
Flikrit cackled with glee, leaping up and down but scowled when he realised the dwarf-thing was alive and getting to its feet with the help of one of its kin. This new foe broke through the stormvermin ranks that were now bearing the full brunt of the dwarf-thing’s fury with the slaves dead or running. It was beardless with long, golden fur hanging from beneath its helmet. Determined anger was etched on the beardless-thing’s face and Flikrit squirted
the musk of fear again as the effects of the warpstone chunk wore off. The warlock hunted around quickly for another hunk of the tainted substance and plopped it nervously into his mouth with quaking fingers. The dwarf-thing was almost upon him as he unleashed another lightning bolt.
Flikrit squeaked with relief and joy as his assailant was engulfed by a furious storm of warp energy. He closed his eyes against the flare of light, expecting to see a charred ruin when he opened them again.
Armour smoking, the dwarf-thing was alive! A faint glow emanated from a gilded belt around its waist. Having been brought to its knees, it got up in an even fouler rage than before, axe swinging meaningfully. Flikrit backed away, looking right and left for aid. Most of the stormvermin were dead. All of the Clan Rictus warriors were slain. He was alone.
Desperate for survival, the warlock dug his filthy paw deep into his robes and pulled out the last of his warpstone. Three massive chunks went into his mouth. Flikrit swallowed loudly. Dark energy rushed into his body, setting his nerves on edge, like he was on fire. About to unleash a final bolt of terrifying power, Flikrit realised he was on fire. He tried to pat out the greenish flames in his smouldering fur but to no avail. Opening his mouth to scream, the warp-blaze ravaged him utterly, stripping fur and flesh, and rendering bones to ash.
Emelda shielded her eyes from the skaven torch before her, lightning arcing wildly from its body and striking the roof of the chamber. The wretched sorcerer crumpled into a blackened heap of nothing as the deadly magic it had tried to unleash consumed it. The clan daughter’s armour was still hot from the lightning blast and she smelled scorched hair before muttering an oath to Valaya. As the skaven magic dissipated, the runes at her cincture dulled and became dormant once more.
Slightly dazed she looked around at the carnage.
Rorek shot down a group of fleeing clanrats with his rapid-firing crossbow before rushing forward to finish a rat-kin slave crawling across the ground with the weapon’s weighted butt.
Uthor dispatched the last of the burly black skaven, Ulfgan’s axe flashing fiercely as it shredded armour and bone with ease.
