02 - Wulfrik Read online

  “I have something better than a battering ram,” Wulfrik told him. He waved his hand in the direction of Zarnath.

  The shaman had been sitting in silence since the discovery that his prediction about the hobgoblins had been wrong. Now he gave a sudden start as he felt all eyes fix upon him. His hands tightened about his staff as he rose to his feet. An azure glow burned in his widened eyes.

  “Time to make amends for your mistake, sorcerer,” Wulfrik said.

  Zarnath backed away, holding his staff in front of him as though to ward off a blow. Wulfrik laughed at his fright.

  “I need you to bring down yon gates,” the champion told him, nodding at Dronangkul.

  A look of horror swept over the shaman’s face. For an instant, his body trembled. After a moment, however, he composed himself. “You want me to use my magic to throw open the gates?”

  “If it is strong enough,” Wulfrik growled. The shaman’s display of fear had diminished his confidence in Zarnath’s powers.

  The Kurgan’s head bobbed excitedly. “Oh, yes! Yes!” he assured Wulfrik. “I can bring down the gates! I can turn them into vapour and scatter them to the winds! I can melt them into the earth! I can—”

  “Just open them,” Wulfrik said, turning away to explain the rest of his plan to his warriors.

  He didn’t notice the smile that flickered across Zarnath’s face as he walked away.

  Broendulf looked down on the slave pens from the edge of the pit and decided he’d never brag about his climbing skills again. The walls of the pit were jagged enough to offer plenty in the way of handholds, but they were weak and prone to crumbling as soon as any weight was put upon them. The pit hadn’t been eroded by any natural process but had been excavated by generations of slaves. The walls still bore the marks of their picks and were pock-marked with deep craters. Some sections had tiny holes drilled into them, scars left from where the dwarfs had been ready to blast instead of dig.

  The fissure Wulfrik had selected from the hill proved to be an excellent choice. For much of its length it was curled in upon itself, hollowed out like a rotten log. If the bottom was as thin as the upper reaches of the tube, Broendulf thought they would be able to easily smash their way through the side once they reached the ground. The most important thing was the concealment the fissure offered. One of the watchtowers was uncomfortably close to where the men needed to go.

  They had waited for night before sneaking to the pit, though Broendulf wasn’t certain how much help the dark was to them. The wolves would be able to smell them if they got far enough away from the chemical reek of the sump, and the hobgoblins seemed more than capable of seeing in the dark. The dwarfs might have been a bit less used to the darkness though, although the evidence of this made Broendulf’s skin crawl. From the towers guarding the causeway and the main gates of the stronghold, thick rays of light emanated, bursting from huge eyes of frosted glass. He could see the dwarfs working the weird devices. The eyes were fastened to steel posts which the dwarfs would pivot to bring the glaring beam of light swinging around. Whatever the rays struck was illuminated as though caught beneath the sun. Throughout the long march across the desert, Stefnir had regaled them with stories about the devilish machines the dwarfs built. Now Broendulf was prepared to believe the Aesling’s tales.

  “Jokull, the rope,” Broendulf whispered to the hunter. They’d managed to avoid the few hobgoblins they’d seen patrolling the edge of the pit, but there was no reason to think there weren’t more they hadn’t spotted. The huscarl took the rope from Jokull and began tying it fast about his own waist. Grimly he checked the tightness of his knots, then tossed the end of the rope back to Jokull. “Loop it about yourselves,” he told the other warriors. “Measure out five feet of slack. As we climb down, each man goes one at a time and only as far as the slack allows. If one man loses his grip, the others will be able to stop his fall.”

  Arngeirr quietly pounded a steel stake into the ground, winding the tail of the rope about it and making it fast with a complicated seaman’s knot. The one-legged reaver hobbled over to the edge of the pit. “A fair way down,” he said, spitting over the side.

  “Too late to turn back now,” Broendulf chastised him. He’d argued with Arngeirr to stay with Wulfrik’s men, but the reaver had insisted climbing down a cliff wouldn’t be half as hard as shimmying up a mainmast in a storm. Moreover, he objected to Broendulf’s insistence that his sword accompany the huscarl into the pit unless he went with it. Arngeirr’s kraken-tooth blade was the keenest among the crew, capable of shearing through solid rock. Broendulf wanted that blade with him in case the hobgoblins weren’t obliging enough to give him the keys to the slave chains.

  Broendulf tugged at the rope again, testing how securely the stake held. Nodding in approval, he turned to lead the descent into the fissure.

  A sudden crimson flash filled the sky, freezing Broendulf where he was. For a terrible moment, he thought Zarnath had set his magic against the gates too soon. Looking in the direction of the dwarf settlement, however, he discovered his mistake. Cold dread drained all of the colour from his face.

  Above the ziggurat, blazing in the night sky, a monstrous flaming head hung suspended. Broendulf could pick out gigantic horns and a long beard and eyes that burned like dragonfire. A terrible voice boomed across the sky, its words crashing like thunder against their ears. He couldn’t understand what the voice said, but he didn’t need to to know fear.

  “Hashut,” Jokull whispered, recalling the name Stefnir had given for the god of the dawi zharr.

  The hunter’s terror firmed Broendulf’s resolve. He glared back at the fiery head. “Our gods are stronger,” he said, curling his fingers into the sign of Tchar the Trickster. As he did, the giant, ghostly head vanished, disappearing as suddenly as it had sprung into existence.

  Below, the pit echoed with the terrified wails of goblins and orcs. The clamour boded ill for the success of their mission. They might free the slaves only to find them too frightened to fight their masters. Broendulf shook his head in disgust. Such was a problem he could worry about later. For now, the wailing provided a perfect cover for any noise they might make in their descent.

  The climb down into the pit was a tense struggle to maintain both stealth and speed. Throughout the first part of the climb, Broendulf kept expecting the weird light-casters on the towers to shift in their direction, catching them helpless in the open. If that happened, there would be no place to hide. They would be left with the grisly choice of trying to climb back and no doubt being shot down by the arrows of the hobgoblins, or dropping into the pit and breaking their necks.

  Broendulf gave thanks to his ancestors that the eerie beams of light never shifted in their direction. The dwarfs were more interested in illuminating the slave pens and the mine itself than searching the walls of the pit. The huscarl was struck by the idea that the dwarfs were so used to the idea of slaves trying to break out of the stronghold that the concept of someone trying to break in was alien to them. He wondered if perhaps the thought had occurred to Wulfrik and if the hero hadn’t based his entire strategy upon it. He knew the sudden, impulsive way the champion’s mind worked, but there was usually a foundation of strategy involved in his decisions.

  The northmen felt marginally safer once they had descended to that part of the fissure protected by the outward-curving side of the wall. At least the threat of being caught by one of the beams was removed. In its place, however, they found the increased danger posed by the walls themselves. The rock here was even worse than that above, flaking and crumbling at the slightest touch. Several times one of the Norscans lost his hold as the wall disintegrated beneath his fingers, only the rope binding him to his fellows preventing a headlong plummet to the floor of the pit.

  Each time they knocked loose a few stones and sent them clattering down into the pit, the northmen froze. Almost timidly they waited to hear the whispery voices of hobgoblins raised in alarm. No cries answered the cascade of rocks,
however. Either the wailing of the slaves was enough to drown out the noise or the walls were in such bad shape that loose stones rattling down into the pit were a common enough occurrence that the hobgoblins took no interest.

  It was with a sense of relief that Broendulf reached the bottom and untied himself from the line. Soon the rest of the warriors joined him at the base of the fissure, cramping the narrow cavity. There was a small opening at the base of the hollow tube, just big enough that the Norscans could crawl through. Jokull took the lead, worming his way under the lip of rock and out into the pit. A long moment passed before the hunter tugged on the rope, giving his comrades the all-clear.

  Broendulf and the other warriors hurried to join Jokull, Arngeirr awkwardly bringing up the rear, his bone leg held out stiffly as he crawled. The men knew how long it had taken them to climb down the fissure. Wulfrik was depending on the cover of night to sneak up to the outpost’s walls and the distraction of the freed slaves to cover his own attack. Over an hour had already been spent making the descent, time the warriors could ill afford. Broendulf was almost thankful he couldn’t see the horizon from the bottom of the pit, fearful that even now the first glow of dawn might be rising in the east.

  The men quickly took stock of their surroundings. The fissure was situated in a particularly dilapidated section of the pit, the ground strewn with rocks and boulders that had fallen from the walls, confirming Broendulf’s suspicion that falling rocks were no novelty to the denizens of the pit. Bleached bones protruding from beneath some of the bigger rocks told why slaves were no longer kept in this area.

  Creeping among the rocks, the Norscans studied the slave pen. Broendulf couldn’t decide if the slaves numbered in the hundreds or the thousands, so tightly were they herded together. The area in which they were kept was so restricted the slaves didn’t have room to sit, but were forced to remain standing at all times, leaning upon each other when sleep overcame them. They were mostly orcs, huge ape-like greenskins with ugly, fanged faces and massive knots of muscle, though a not inconsiderable number of goblins were also scattered amongst the herd. These small monsters, similar to the hobgoblins but about half their size, tried their best to keep from being trampled by the big orcs.

  Iron chains circled the left ankle of each slave. A hundred slaves might be shackled to a single chain, the long coffle doubling back upon itself so that the chain formed a long loop. Both ends of the chain were secured to a steel plate bolted to an enormous block of basalt. Looking at the black block of stone, Broendulf judged there must be a dozen such chains fastened to it.

  Only a few hobgoblins monitored the slaves, keeping close to the block of basalt. Perched atop the rock, sprawled upon a high-backed chair, was the master of the slave pens. Broendulf had fought dwarfs before, but never had he seen one as ugly and vicious-looking as the villainous creature sitting in the chair. He was dusky-skinned, with his black beard pulled into long coils and festooned with the severed ears of goblins and orcs. His face was stamped with the marks of cruelty and avarice, his mouth distorted by the bestial tusks jutting from his lower jaw. He wore a suit of scale armour, a mesh of interlinked bronze that resembled the skin of a fish. Across the dwarf’s lap rested a murderous-looking device with a wide, bowl-like mouth attached to a slender wooden stock. Broendulf had seen the guns of other dwarfs and recognised the object as being some sort of kindred weapon.

  “If anyone has the keys, it’ll be Ear-taker there,” Arngeirr said.

  Broendulf nodded in agreement. “Then we’ll just have to make sure he’s the first to die.” He looked over at Jokull, nodding at the hunter’s bow. “Think you can hit him from here?”

  Jokull stared intently at the dwarf slave master, gauging the distance. “I think so,” he decided.

  Broendulf looked anxiously at the dark sky overhead. How much time did they have left, he wondered? Grimly he shook his head. He didn’t know. That meant he had to assume the worst.

  “Send him to his inbred ancestors,” Broendulf growled.

  Jokull lifted his bow, aimed and loosed in one smooth motion. The arrow sped straight and true, but even as it streaked for the dwarf’s head, the slave master was leaning forwards to bark an order to one of the hobgoblins. Instead of piercing the dwarf’s skull, the arrow glanced off the steel skullcap he wore.

  Instantly the dwarf was dropping down from his seat, crashing to the ground beside the boulder. Frantically he glanced in every direction, trying to discover from where the attack had come. His eyes narrowed with fury when he saw the Norscans hiding among the rocks. Spitting some curse in his own guttural language, the dwarf raised his weapon, pointing the wide mouth at the men.

  There was a loud crack followed by a thunderous roar and a brilliant flash of light. Broendulf winced in pain as he felt his arms and face torn by what felt like a fistful of gravel. He could see that Jokull and the others were likewise scratched by the blast. The huscarl snickered at the sorry results of the dwarf’s attack. He didn’t understand how the force of the shot had spread out over the distance or the havoc the blunderbuss could cause at close quarters.

  Boldly, Broendulf emerged from the rocks and charged at the dwarf. The other Norscans followed his example, shouting a fierce war cry.

  The slave master smiled at the rushing humans. Savagely he snapped orders to his hobgoblins, punctuating the command with a particularly violent threat. Reluctantly, the hobgoblins drew their weapons and ran forwards to intercept the northmen.

  His face still twisted with sadistic anticipation, the dwarf hurriedly began pouring powder and shot down the muzzle of his blunderbuss. The hobgoblins would buy him the time he needed to recharge the weapon.

  This time the humans would be in a better position to appreciate its performance.

  Wulfrik glared up at the black walls of Dronangkul. If he could have burned a hole through the thick basalt with his eyes, the entire stronghold would have come crashing down. Locked away inside the fortress was something he thought he’d never have again.

  Hope.

  The champion watched the sentries patrolling behind the spiked battlements with a murderous eye. Up close he could appreciate the degeneracy of these dwarfs. They were twisted, vile caricatures of the dwarfs he had fought against in the Worlds Edge Mountains. Where the other dwarfs had displayed a martial pride the Norscan could respect, these dark kindred had a sneaky, duplicitous air about them. Observing the dwarf warriors on the walls, Wulfrik could see that they handled their weapons capably enough, allowing their heavy axes to rest against their shoulders in a fashion which was a perfect balance between comfort and readiness, but there was an emotionless precision to their motions, like a clockwork toy from Kraka Drak. Theirs was a skill at arms born from years of drill and training, not from a life on the battlefield.

  At the same time, Wulfrik would not make the mistake of thinking these creatures to be timid and untried after the fashion of southling soldiers. Their scaly armour was festooned with all manner of grisly trophies, from severed ears to mummified hands. Many of the dwarfs wore helms that appeared to be bronzed skulls. No, these were no strangers to death. Far from it. The fiends appeared to revel in death with sadistic enthusiasm. But there was a difference between facing a worthy enemy in a fray and slaughtering vanquished foes. Wulfrik judged these dwarfs had little experience with the former.

  Certainly they were arrogant in their might. After dark, the Norscans had crept through the desert to within a few hundred yards of the stronghold. In all that time, they had encountered only a few easily dispatched hobgoblins patrolling outside the gates. The dwarfs themselves did not stir from their fortress, so secure in their minds that they left such chores to their lazy minions. Even the weird daemon-lights mounted on the towers never strayed beyond the stronghold, the dwarfs directing their rays instead down into the mine and slave pit.

  The dwarfs could not conceive an enemy attacking them, and that was the great weakness Wulfrik intended to exploit. By the time the dwarfs w
ere fully aware of their mistake, Khorakk would be dead and his torc well on its way back to the Seafang.

  “Your sorcery had better be strong enough, Kurgan,” Wulfrik growled at Zarnath. He pointed at the immense gates. The northmen were stretched out across the desert, their bellies in the sand. Zarnath was forced to lift his head to follow Wulfrik’s gesture.

  “My power is equal to the task,” the shaman hissed back. “After that, it is your sword that will be tested.”

  “You think we will leave you out here while we do all the fighting?” Sigvatr scoffed. “No, witch-father, you’ll be right there with us.” The old warrior emphasised his point by letting his hand close about the hilt of his blade.

  The shaman’s eyes crackled with blue light, glowing in the darkness as anger flared up inside him. “Then we had better pray your friends have released the slaves. We will have no chance at all if the dwarfs are not busy elsewhere.”

  “Broendulf will not fail me,” Wulfrik said. “He knows I will feed his spleen to the vultures if he does.”

  The champion’s menacing words seemed to provoke a response from the denizens of Dronangkul. The northmen turned their faces from the stronghold as a fiery light blazed into life above the black ziggurat. When they looked back, a ghostly head, gigantic and formed of swirling flame, glowered from the night sky. A thunderous voice boomed down from the heavens, sending icy fingers of fear coursing through the hearts of the warriors.

  Wulfrik felt his stomach clench in terror. He had heard Stefnir’s stories about Hashut, the Dark Father of the dawi zharr. Alone among his men, he could understand the harsh words the thundering voice spoke: I watch what you do.

  No wonder the dwarfs were so confident behind their walls! They were protected by their dark god! Against mortals and monsters, daemons and wraiths, Wulfrik had proven his valour and his courage, but what hope did he have against a god?