by Warhammer
Struggling to his feet, Morek saw the shaman had righted himself also and balanced on the thickening snake tail replacing his severed legs. As the dwarf watched, the shaman’s robes fell away revealing a scaled body not unlike the Chaos gorgons of legend.
‘Mother Isha,’ whispered Korhvale as the snake-shaman loomed over them, its tongue lathing the air through its fangs.
Flicking out a talon, the creature sheared through the White Lion’s gilded vambrace, severing the tendons in his wrist. Korhvale screamed, his axe slipping from his nerveless fingers. Blood began oozing through the shredded armour plate and he clutched it with his other hand to staunch its flow. Sweeping its serpentine body around in a swift arc, the snake-shaman took the elf’s feet from under him again and put him on his back. Korhvale gasped as the air was punched from his lungs, and he writhed on the ground winded.
Roaring, Morek came at the snake-daemon with his rune axe. It dodged the first swipe, chittering in what sounded like profound amusement then raked a talon across the dwarf’s face, putting four red gouges in his cheek and ripping off his battle helm. Morek shook his head, blinking back stars, and was about to attack again when the snake-shaman slithered towards him with blinding speed, sweeping his sinuous body around the dwarf and constricting in an eye blink. Morek grunted, dropping his rune axe as the snake-shaman crushed him in its serpentine coils.
The sudden wrench of metal filled his ears, and the dwarf felt his armour being slowly dented inwards. Despite himself, he cried out and smashed his balled fists against the scaled hide but the shaman would not release his deadly embrace. Instead, his glabrous head hove into view, a wicked smile curving his lipless mouth, sadistic malice in his slitted eyes.
Morek felt himself suddenly drawn to the shaman’s penetrating glare, relenting in his struggles as sibilant whispers probed at his mind’s defences, visions manifesting slowly in his consciousness…
An island wracked by terrible storms, its earth scorched by fire and drenched with blood…
An army of elves, hatred in their hearts led by a cursed and vengeful king…
A warrior of the line of Ithalred, fighting in the glittering host, a war cry on his lips…
A daemon, like a serpent fused with a man, run through by Ithalred’s ancestor and cast screaming into the waiting void…
The image changed, bleeding away like streaks of paint across a slickened canvas, resolving itself into a new vista…
King Bagrik, lord of the under-mountain, stabbed by a poison blade…
A red-eyed goblin squatting on the throne of Karak Ungor wearing a pelt of beards, its kin capering around it…
Morek crowned king, Brunvilda in his arms cradling a beardling child, his heir…
Only Morek’s innate dwarf resolve saved him from madness. Remembered pain came back and he growled in anger as the battlefield returned to him.
‘Give in,’ hissed the snake-shaman. ‘Give in to the Prince of Rapturessss…’ it goaded sibilantly.
‘Bugger off,’ Morek snarled through gritted teeth and headbutted the snake-shaman hard in the mouth. Shrieking painfully the daemon recoiled, spitting out a broken tooth as it relinquished its death grip on the dwarf. Morek was dumped onto the ground and, despite the pins and needles forcing white hot pain into his body, took up his fallen axe and cleaved the snake-shaman’s head in two. Without waiting, he ripped his blade from the cloven skull and hacked again and again, chopping the daemon into pieces.
When he was done, Morek bent over with his hands on his knees, a warm sensation spreading across his forehead, chest heaving as the snake-shaman dissolved into ichorous sludge in front of him. When he’d caught his breath, the dwarf walked over to Korhvale. Extending a hand, he helped the elf to his feet. He winced as he did it, realising that at least one of his ribs was broken.
The dwarf smiled despite the pain, the rune of Grungni that was inscribed just above his brow and usually concealed by his battle helm cooling.
‘Now, he’s dead,’ said the dwarf, hoisting Korhvale to his feet.
Once he was up, the elf tore a strip from his robes and used it to bind his wound.
Morek stared around the battlefield.
‘This way,’ he said, already off and running.
Bagrik was alone. His king needed him.
Bellowing the name of Grimnir, the slayers fell upon the trolls with axes cleaving. Their death songs were like sweet music to Haggar’s ears, and the thane made an oath to the ancestor god, himself. As they cleaved, the rampant slayers threw flaming torches, those left after the destruction of the mammoths.
Fire was anathema to trolls, their rugged flesh unable to regenerate if it was burned. The wretched creatures screeched and groaned in terror at the mere sight of it. Haggar marshalled what longbeards were left and set about surrounding the few remaining trolls, deliberately picking on the injured. Though formidable foes, once their will was broken, trolls were easy meat. The attack of the slayers with their fiery brands was enough to make the trolls panic and they fled, hooting and shrieking back into the caves. Not to be deprived of their worthy doom, the slayers gave chase.
‘Hold here,’ said Haggar, gasping for breath. He looked around and behind him, trying to gauge the stage the battle was at. To the distant right, the elf knights were carving through scores of fleeing northmen being crushed under hoof or spitted on lances. Lethralmir seemed to revel in the slaying. Nearby, the dwarf could see Ithalred being helped back onto his horse. Everywhere the final few Norscans were being cut down or driven to an icy doom, just as Morek had promised the king. In the middle of the carnage though, a last bastion of enemy resistance remained. Here were the majority of the warlord’s best and most loyal warriors. Shields out and tightly packed, they were proving difficult to crack. Haggar knew that amongst the sea of foes Bagrik was fighting for his life. He knew also that they needed to hold this flank, ensure that nothing else emerged from the caves. Even so, the young thane was not about to leave his king to his fate.
‘With me,’ Haggar ordered, ‘King Bagrik needs us.’ With that he hared off, the longbeards muttering disparagingly as they followed, the banner of Karak Ungor swaying back and forth as Haggar ran to the throng of Norscans and to the king.
‘Heh, heh, is that all you’ve got north-man?’ Bagrik laughed, spitting a gobbet of blood onto the frozen ground. His chest felt heavy inside his armour, every breath an effort, and his old wound was now so stiff that he could barely move. Lamentably, Bagrik glanced at the dents and tears in his gromril scale from where he’d been a little too slow to parry the Norscan’s blade.
Fifty years ago this cur would not have even touched me, thought Bagrik, using the brief lull to gather his strength. Only it wasn’t fifty years ago, and the Norscan had cut him; he’d cut him deep.
In contrast the warlord was barely scratched. Every blow Bagrik landed was shrugged off or what should’ve been a killing strike manifested as a graze or nick. With every swipe, the king felt his strength fading, the power behind the blow lessening as if his muscles were atrophying aggressively all the while they fought.
One good hit, Bagrik thought, that’s all I need.
In a blackened blur, the Norscan’s blade fell upon Bagrik again, the brief amnesty in the battle having ended. The dwarf king struggled desperately to fend him off, knowing in his heart that he was losing. Blows rained in and Bagrik was battered to his knees. Gasping for breath as the Norscan sought to crush him, the dwarf king searched deep within himself for the last vestiges of his strength. There at the core of his being, he tapped into the one thing he had left that could save him. Anger.
Swiping madly, the dwarf caught the Norscan a glancing blow against his war helm, his enemy having opened up his defences when he’d believed that Bagrik was all but defeated. He spun on his heel a little, staggered by the dwarf’s sudden lucky strike. Bagrik used it to his advantage. He managed to heave his good leg to a standing position, though the pain was crippling him, and with a roar of fury
severed the Norscan’s forearm in two. The obsidian blade clattered to the ground and shattered into glassy fragments, its power suddenly broken. Protruding from the lopped off stump of the Norscan’s arm, his writhing black veins searched desperately for the weapon. Like a floundering fish gaping for air on the shore, the tentacled veins slowly ceased, flaking away into nothing.
Bagrik didn’t stop. To stop now would mean death. He rammed the spiked pommel of his rune axe into the Norscan’s thigh, tearing it open and felling the warlord to his knees. They were face to face. Bagrik snarled as their eyes met.
‘Now you die,’ he promised, aiming for the Norscan’s neck. As he lifted the blade, he exposed his side. The warlord ripped another weapon from its sheath and stabbed the king. Bagrik felt nothing more than a pin-prick, glancing quickly to see a serrated dagger in the Norscan’s meaty fist. It was nothing. Even driven by the warlord’s formidable strength, it had only grazed the dwarf king’s flesh, slowed by his rune armour.
With a roar, Bagrik decapitated the Norscan. His armoured head thunked onto the icy ground and rolled, his body slumped over next to it pooling blood.
Then the poison hit. Coldness seized Bagrik’s bones. Paralysis in his fingers saw the rune axe fall from his desperate grasp. The dwarf king reached down to the wound, though he could no longer feel it. The blood on his gauntlets, his blood, was tainted yellow. He gritted his teeth against sudden agony. Gripped by palsy, he fell. Barely able to keep his eyes open, Bagrik stared into the cold lifeless orbs of the Norscan’s severed head. Huscarls still surrounded him. He could hear them closing.
One of Ulfjarl’s ambitious hurscarls, Heimdarr, had raised his axe and was about to claim the life of the bearded king, and with it lordship over the tribes, when he heard a heavy object spinning through the air towards him. Too late, he turned. Blurring silver was the last thing he ever saw.
‘To the king! To the king!’ Morek cried, whipping his last thrown axe into the bestial brow of another Norscan. Korhvale was alongside him, severing heads and limbs one-handed with his hand axe, his wounded arm bound to his side, even as the dwarf barrelled into the huscarls hacking, punching and butting.
In seconds they had forged a way through to Bagrik. The hearth guard captain’s heart held in his throat when he saw the ashen-faced king on his side, fearing his liege lord was dead. With relief, he noticed that Bagrik was still breathing, though it was with shallow, laboured gasps.
‘Uzkul umgi,’ he shouted, cutting down a northman as he dared to take a step toward the stricken dwarf king.
Together, elf and dwarf circled Bagrik keeping the foe back.
War horns rent the air as the back of the Norscan mob suddenly crumpled. From the north, Haggar emerged through a swathe of carnage with a band of dour longbeards. To the east came Ithalred at the head of his dragon knights, crushing Norscan skulls and cutting them down where they stood. In a few bloody moments, the battlefield was clear and the last of the northmen were being destroyed. Some were rounded up and slaughtered, others were harried into the sea. Desperately, these last remnants dove into the icy water. They only reached a few hundred feet from the shoreline before they were dragged asunder by the denizens of the deep, their screams eclipsed by the crashing waves. The Norscan beasts were burned, greasy smoke already staining the air black.
Satisfied the foe was vanquished, Morek went to his king.
‘Victory my liege,’ he said, thinking at first that Bagrik was only winded.
Far from it. The king was alabaster white. His fingers were shaking, eyes wide, as he hissed through gritted teeth, fighting to speak.
‘Back to the camp,’ rasped Morek, fear gripping his chest as he looked at Haggar. ‘Back to the camp!’ he cried.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BROKEN BREAD,
SHATTERED ALLIANCE
‘How is he?’ Morek asked. He kept his voice low; the king was only in the next room.
The allies had returned slowly and wearily to their encampment, twenty miles from the battle site upon a flat ridge overlooking the distant sea. A thin, lonely trail had led them down to the ice plain, now slicked with blood, and it was by this path that the victorious allies returned in dark mood. The camp was little more than scattered pavilions and sparsely dotted stone-ringed fires. Most of the troops had been committed to the final battle, only disparate knots of wounded and a paltry group of guards awaited the allies upon their return. Morek had sent rangers ahead of the war host to ensure that Bagrik’s grand tent was put up, determined his king would have every comfort as he was tended to. The squat structure, smoke issuing through the chimney vent from an already stoked fire, dominated the flat ridge. Drifting in and out of consciousness, Bagrik had been taken there immediately and the Valakryn summoned in force.
‘He’ll live… for now,’ replied Hetga, matriarch of the priestesses. She was a grizzled matronly woman, her robes and trappings cinched tightly around her impressive girth and bosom. Her long hair, bound into a tight bun, was once golden but had since faded to an elegant silver-grey. She carried several scars and much like her uncompromising appearance, didn’t sweeten her words. ‘The poison still runs through him. He’s weak, but some of his strength may return given time. The cantankerous old bastard is awake though, refusing help and banishing my priestesses from his bed chambers, the prude. Truth be told,’ said Hetga, lighting up a pipe and supping deep, ‘there’s nothing more we can do anyway. Whatever venom was upon that blade is beyond our arts to heal completely. Only Valaya, bless her name, can decide his fate now.’
Morek’s face hardened. He’d hoped for better news.
‘Tromm,’ he intoned, bowing his head slightly.
‘Tromm, Thane Stonehammer,’ Hetga replied, bowing too, and took her leave.
The hearth guard captain took a deep breath before he passed through the flapped entrance to Bagrik’s bed chamber.
‘This is becoming an all-too familiar occurrence, my king,’ he said with forced good humour.
Bagrik muttered a reply that Morek didn’t quite catch. He gestured weakly for the dwarf to come to his bedside. Morek obeyed the pale-faced king, seemingly more old and frail that he’d ever known him. Bagrik looked even worse up close. Dark blue veins were visible beneath skin that was white and thin like parchment. Liver spots flared angrily as did the harsh purple bruises where his dented armour had nicked him. The king’s eyes, though, were the worst. Rheumy and old, sunken into gaunt cheekbones, they lacked purpose and vigour. It was if the angry fire behind them had died in the hearth.
Bagrik reached out and grasped Morek’s tunic, dragging him close. It seemed the old king had strength in his body yet.
‘Get me… out of this… damned bed,’ he snarled. Every word was an effort, but Morek was still taken aback by the king’s vehemence.
‘You have to rest,’ he told him, shaking his head.
Bagrik tightened his grip. Morek felt his collar pinch his neck and his breathing get a little more difficult.
‘If I… am to die,’ said Bagrik, gritting his teeth against the pain, ‘then… I’ll do so with the rock… of the mountain above me, not on this Grungni-forsaken plain… Now, help me up!’
Morek swallowed with effort, managing a nod as he hooked his arms beneath the king’s and lifted him out of the bed.
‘Enough…’ Bagrik said breathlessly, content to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment to gather his strength. ‘I need a moment…’
‘My king, are you sure–’
‘A moment!’ snapped the king, cutting Morek off as he glared at him.
When he was ready, Bagrik nodded and Morek heaved him off the bed and helped him into his boots and robes. As he did so, the hearth guard captain saw the ugly yellow wound that had been caused by the poison dagger. It was only small, little more than a graze, but the flesh around it festered and stank.
It reminded Morek of what he’d been shown when in the shaman’s thrall. He thought about confiding in his king but in the end dec
ided against it. Bagrik had enough to worry about. Knowledge of the future foretold would avail him nothing.
‘Throne bearers!’ cried Morek, once the king was back on his feet and the crown of Karak Ungor upon his head.
Four hearth guard marched into the room, the king’s seat carried aloft between them. When they reached their captain and the king, they set the throne down and kneeled, heads bowed. Morek assisted Bagrik as the king mounted his throne, then draped heavy furs, together with the boar pelt over his back and shoulders.
‘This’ll keep out the cold,’ he whispered, pressing a tankard of ale into the king’s wasted fist. Bagrik had to clasp it with both hands, but as he drank he straightened, eventually holding the tankard in one hand, as if some of his strength was returning.
‘A good drop,’ remarked the king, some of the colour coming back to his cheeks as he wiped the foam from his mouth. ‘I’ll need more if we’re to travel,’ he added, forcing a determined smile.
Morek filled the tankard. The king raised it to his lips.
Rugnir drank the last of the broth, upending the warm cauldron into his mouth, allowing rivulets of the thick soup to run down his face only to be sopped up by his beard.
Whilst in the cave with Craggen, time had lost all sense of meaning. Drifting in and out of consciousness, it could have been days, weeks or months. Rugnir simply did not know. He knew only that he had to return, and with all haste, to Karak Ungor.
