[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Read online

  “They have been watching us,” Lokki realised, on his feet and moving back-to-back with Halgar as he drew his hammer and lifted his shield.

  “Aye, lad,” Halgar growled, sniffing contemptuously.

  “Never forgive, never forget,” Lokki snarled as the orcs met them.

  * * *

  Uthor Algrimson filled his lungs with a mighty breath of icy air as he regarded the mist wreathed peaks of the distant Worlds Edge Mountains. Standing in a patch of lowland in the foothills of the mighty range, he worked out the cricks in his back and neck. The sun was just breaking the horizon as he appreciated the view, his home of Karak Kadrin to the far north a distant memory now as the shadow of Zhufbar loomed close to the west, and beyond that Karak Varn.

  The wings on the helm the dwarf wore fluttered in a highland breeze, his short cloak disturbed into small fits of movement. The errant wind cleansed him of an otherwise dark mood and committed the desperate plight of his liege-lord and father to the back of his mind.

  Below him, down a steep escarpment, the wide, dark shadow of Black Water glistened. He had emerged at its western edge, about halfway down.

  “A wondrous sight, is it not?” a voice said from above Uthor. The dwarf, momentarily startled, looked up and saw a balding dwarf with a thick, ruddy beard. He was sat upon a rocky outcrop, overlooking the gargantuan lake. Smoke rings spiralled from the cup of a bone pipe pinched between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand and a strange-looking crossbow rested on his lap. Perched in profile, he wore a stout leather apron over a tunic that bore the rune of Zhufbar.

  “Legend tells that the crater was formed by the impact of a meteorite in ages past. Nowadays, the rushing lake waters wash the ore extracted from the mines and turn great water wheels that drive the forge hammers of Zhufbar and Karak Varn,” said the dwarf, and looking over to Uthor added, “Rorek Flinteye of Zhufbar.”

  “Uthor Algrimson of Karak Kadrin,” Uthor responded with a nod, noticing as the dwarf faced him that he wore an eye patch.

  Rorek got to his feet and came down from the rocky outcrop. The two dwarfs shook hands heartily. Uthor noticed a ring upon his brethren’s finger was inscribed with the crest of a dwarfish craft guild.

  “An engineer and a tour guide,” he said when he recognised the crest.

  “Indeed,” Rorek answered, chewing on the end of his pipe throughout the exchange, seemingly unfazed by Uthor’s mild derision directed at his encyclopaedic utterance.

  Smiling thinly, Uthor released his grip. Judging by his hands, Rorek could only have been a craftsdwarf, for they were coarse, ingrained with oil and metal shavings, and he smelled like iron.

  “You are far from home, Uthor Algrimson,” Rorek said.

  “I have been summoned to a council of war by a distant member of my clan, Kadrin Redmane of Karak Varn,” Uthor replied, straightening up. “There are greenskins around Black Water that seek the taste of my axe,” he added, grinning.

  “Then we are brothers in this deed,” said Rorek, “for I too am headed to Karak Varn.”

  “Your crossbow is impressive, brother,” said Uthor, who had never seen its like.

  Rorek looked down at the weapon, and cradled it in both hands so that Uthor might see it better. “It is of my own design,” he boasted proudly.

  The crossbow was larger than those wielded by the quarrellers of Karak Kadrin. Uthor was well acquainted with the missile weapon, having used one during the many goblin hunting expeditions he had accompanied his father on. A dark memory sprang unbidden into Uthor’s mind as he thought of his liege-lord. He crushed it, instead focusing his attention on the engineer’s creation.

  It was well made, as was to be expected from the dwarfs of Zhufbar. A small metal crank attached to a circular base was bolted to the stock and its large wooden frame accommodated a heavy looking metal box filled with bolts. Uthor couldn’t help but notice a similar looking box attached to the engineer’s thick tool belt, but this one contained bound up rope with a stout metal hook at one end.

  “It is… unusual,” he said.

  “I’ve yet to declare it to the guild,” Rorek admitted.

  Uthor was no engineer, but he knew of the traditions established by the Engineers’ Guild and of their reluctance to embrace invention. To impress such a device upon the guild could place Rorek’s tenure in jeopardy and would likely be met with scorn and disgruntlement.

  Before Uthor could say anything of this to the engineer, the sound of clashing steel and the cries of battle carried on the breeze. Words of Khazalid were discernable through the clamour of the distant melee. Rorek’s good eye grew wide as he turned towards the source of the commotion. “Not far,” he said. “South, just beyond this side of Black Water.”

  “Then we had best hurry,” said Uthor, his top lip curling into a feral smile. “It seems the battle has started without us.”

  * * *

  Gromrund of the Tallhelm clan, hammerer to the great King Kurgaz of Karak Hirn, and so named because of the mighty ancestral warhelm he wore upon his head, stalked down the Ungdrin road, his companion a few short steps behind him. Great was the subterranean underway of the dwarfs, carved into the rocks in ages past in an effort to connect the many holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains. Runic beacons that could be made to glow, and even blaze, with a single word of Khazalid, the language of the dwarfs, provided guidance and illumination through myriad tunnels that ever since the Time of Woes had become, at least in part, the domain of fell creatures: orcs, goblins and even worse denizens all stalked the ruined passages of the Ungdrin road now.

  “The gates of Karak Varn are not far,” said Gromrund, raising a lantern as he noted a runic marker inscribed in one of the ornate columns set along the tunnel walls. Statues of the ancestor gods sat in between them, wrought into the very walls themselves. At their feet were thick stone slabs of grey and tan, rendered into knotted mosaic interweaved with the runes of Karak Varn. “This way,” said the hammerer and forged off into the darkness.

  “Have you ever seen the gilded gates of Barak Varr, my friend?” asked Gromrund’s companion, a dwarf who had introduced himself as Hakem, son of Honak, of the clan Honak, bearer of the Honakinn Hammer and heir to the merchant houses of Barak Varr, Sea Gate and Jewel of the West. The longwinded title had failed to impress the hammerer.

  “No, but I suspect you are about to describe them to me,” Gromrund replied with gruff disdain.

  The two dwarfs had met at a confluence of the Ungdrin road by sheer chance at a point where the subterranean tunnels that linked Karak Hirn and Barak Varr met. Three days they had been travelling together. To Gromrund, it felt like months.

  “They rival even the great gates to Karaz-a-Karak in their majesty,” boasted Hakem, “eclipsing even the Vala-Azrilungol with their beauty. Wrought of iron, inlaid with coruscating jewels that shimmer in the refracted sunlight, each gate bears the likeness of Kings Grund Hurzag and Norgrikk Cragbrow forged into the metal, founders of the Sea Gate and my esteemed ancestors. Bands of thick, lustrous gold filigree mark it in the rhuns of the royal clan of Barak Varr.” The merchant thane’s eyes grew misty at the mention of the architectural masterpiece.

  “A wonder, I am sure,” remarked the taciturn hammerer, wondering if he could silence his travelling companion with a blow from his great hammer, doubtful that the merchant thane would be missed. Yet in truth, even Gromrund was moved, as all dwarfs were when talk was made of the elder days, but he did his best to hide it.

  Hakem’s merchant garb was almost as grandiose as his tongue: gilded armour, ringed fingers and a purple velvet tunic spoke of wealth, but nothing of heritage, of honour. Gromrund found such ostensible opulence distasteful and decadent. He knew that the War of Vengeance had hurt the purses and the pride of the merchant thanes of Barak Varr. Now, some four hundred or so years later, trade had ceased with the elves. They needed to establish stronger links with their kin, to garner favour and forge new contracts wherever possible. He could think of no other
reason for Hakem to have been summoned. To invite such a dwarf to a council of war seemed incongruous at the very least; at most it was an insult.

  The Ungdrin narrowed ahead, the roof had become dislodged and sloped downward sharply, doubtless the result of the earthquakes that had ravaged Karak Varn and all of the Karaz Ankor. It forced the hammerer’s mind back to the matter at hand. The damage only affected a short section of the underground tunnel, but Gromrund had to stoop to get his helmeted head, replete with two massive curling horns and the effigy of a bronze boar, through it.

  “Why don’t you just remove your warhelm, brother?” Hakem offered, just behind him, ducking only slightly as he took off his own jewel-encrusted helmet. Gromrund turned to glare at the Barak Varr dwarf, his face hot with indignation. “It is an heirloom of my clan,” he snapped. “That is all you need know. Now, keep to your own business and stay out of mine,” he added, and continued through the tunnel without waiting for Hakem’s reply.

  Once they had traversed the narrow passage, the Ungdrin opened out again, into a much larger cavern with three portals leading off from it. A great circular bronze plaque set into the floor at the centre of the room bore further runic symbols. It was a bazrund, a way marker that indicated they were close to the hold and showed the roads that led to Zhufbar and Karaz-a-Karak.

  “I know of heirlooms, kinsdwarf,” said Hakem, seemingly unfazed by the hammerer’s outburst as he stepped onto the plaque. “What say you of this?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, stooping over the plaque as he confirmed they were indeed headed in the right direction, Gromrund saw the dwarf hold a rune hammer aloft. So beauteous was it that even he stopped to look at it.

  The rune hammer was clearly crafted by a master. It was plainer than Gromrund might have imagined, a simple stone head — inscribed with three runes that glowed dully in the gloom — topped an unadorned haft carved from stout wutroth, studded with fire-rubies. The grip was made from bound leather and a thick thong attached it to Hakem’s bejewelled wrist.

  “Have you ever witnessed a thing so truly magnificent?” said Hakem, his eyes alight with pride. His immaculately preened black beard bristled, the gem-stones set in braid clasps within it glistening with the reflected rune-glow of the hammer.

  “It looks a fair weapon,” Gromrund said, feigning his indifference as he turned away again and started walking.

  “Fair?” said Hakem, in disbelief. “It is worth more than the entire wealth of most clans!” he said, brushing down his tunic when he realised some dirt from the narrow tunnel had marred the velvet.

  “Why does a merchant have need of such a weapon, anyway?” Gromrund remarked, feigning disinterest.

  “That,” said Hakem, clearly relishing the moment, “is my business.”

  Gromrund snorted, contemptuously.

  “Silk-swaddled cur,” the hammerer muttered beneath his breath.

  “What did you say?” Hakem asked.

  “We’re nearly there,” Gromrund lied, a wicked grin ruffling his beard, before Hakem continued to boast of the wealth of the merchant thanes and the house of Honak. They couldn’t arrive soon enough.

  Rorek was gasping for breath by the time they crested the final rise. Below them, in a narrow ravine a battle was being fought. Two dwarfs, one clearly a thane and carrying an axe and shield; the other much older, a longbeard, similarly armed. They fought back-to-back. Rorek counted nine orcs surrounding them, another six dead at their feet. He watched as one of the greenskins waded in with a reckless spear thrust. The longbeard hacked the haft down whilst the thane reached over his back and stabbed the spike of his axe into the orc’s neck, blood fountaining from the wound.

  Uthor had seen enough and a wild grin crept across his face as he bellowed, “Uzkul urk!” and charged into the melee.

  One of the orcs, a thickset beast with broad tusks jutting from its slab-like jaw and an iron ring through its nose, turned to face this new threat. There was a flash of silver and the deep, “thwomping” retort of a blade slicing air. The orc was smashed off its feet and hit the ground before it could throw its spear, an axe embedded in its cranium.

  On the ridge, Rorek watched as Uthor flung his axe end-over-end into the nearest orc. He waded in quickly after it, ducking the savage swing of another greenskin before punching it hard in the face with his leather-gauntleted fist, shattering its nose. He stooped to retrieve his axe, wrenching it free with one hand. More blood spurted from the mortal wound as he did so. Uthor then used the haft to block an overhand cleaver swing from the orc with the shattered nose.

  Further down, the thane and the longbeard were still pressed hard by the remaining orcs, one of whom looked like some kind of chieftain. His flesh was much darker than the rest, his body bigger and more muscled, and he wore an antlered leather helmet. He wielded a heavy-looking morning star and pummelled the thane’s shield with the crude weapon.

  Uthor had dispatched a second orc, the top half of its skull cut off by the keen edge of his axe, the matter within spilling onto the ground. He was breathing hard and two more orcs came at him wielding wicked cleavers and crude, curved blades.

  Rorek unslung the crossbow from his side, released the safety catch and turned the crank at the wooden stock. A fusillade of bolts peppered the ravine. One of the orcs was struck in the jaw, a second bolt pierced its neck, and a third pinioned its foot to the ground, though at least four more bolts thundered harmlessly into the ground. The engineer roared with glee, then exhaled sharply as an errant bolt careened off Uthor’s winged helmet while a second whistled closely by his ear. The dwarf cursed, scowling at Rorek before dispatching the pin-cushioned orc with his axe and then turning his attention to its unscathed kin.

  Thinking better of it, Rorek shoulder his crossbow and drew his hand axe. He’d have to do this the traditional way.

  “Kruti-eater!” Uthor snarled at Rorek as the engineer reached him from atop the ridge, disembowelling the second orc, though more were coming to replace it. “Though it might suit you, I’ve no desire to wear an eye patch!”

  Rorek nodded apologetically, before hacking off another orc’s hand at the wrist. Uthor finished it, beheading the creature. “Stay behind me,” he said, “and keep that crossbow well harnessed.”

  At the base of the ridge, as he was slowly being crushed beneath his shield under the continued blows of the orc chieftain, Lokki saw the two strangers rushing to their aid. “Halgar!” he grunted.

  The longbeard kicked an orc in the shin, shattering the bone, and cut the greenskin down as it crumpled in pain. “I see them,” he growled, half-turning to regard his liege-lord as another two orcs demanded his full attention.

  “No, old one,” said Lokki, pain spiking up his arm as his shield was pounded incessantly, “I need a little help.”

  Halgar swung his axe in a wild arc, forcing the two orcs in front of him to give ground. He then whirled around and rammed his shoulder into the flat of Lokki’s shield, the thane doing the same. “Push!” he roared.

  The blow from the orc chieftain came again, but this time it was met with the force of two angry dwarfs and his morning star was parried aside. Lokki and Halgar followed through, smashing the shield straight into the orc chieftain’s body, who staggered backwards, stunned.

  Halgar cried out as a spear struck him in the side. It split some of the chain links of his armour and grazed bone, but didn’t impale him. Lokki’s expression was fraught with concern for the venerable dwarf, but Halgar just bellowed at him.

  “Kill the beast!” The longbeard gestured toward the staggering chieftain, before swatting the spear aside and turning back to face his foes.

  Lokki did as ordered, swinging his axe around full circle to reaffirm his grip, and lifting his shield to work out some of the pain and stiffness in his shoulder. The orc shook its head, a long drizzle of blood and snot shooting from its ringed nostril as it snorted. It snarled at the advancing dwarf.

  “Come on,” Lokki growled, meeting its bestia
l gaze with his.

  Uthor battered another orc with the flat of his axe blade before hacking up into its chin, his face and beard sprayed with greenskin blood as the orc’s jaw caved. He shrugged it disdainfully off his blade then hawked and spat on the cooling corpse.

  “I count another five, since we joined the fight,” he said to Rorek, who was watching his back.

  “I saw at least three more come from the rocks cresting the western ridge,” Rorek returned, “but they are thinning,” he added, breathing hard.

  The two dwarfs had left an impressive trail of greenskin dead in their wake. Another group had emerged from the rocks almost as soon as they had arrived, though, placing themselves between them and the other dwarfs. But with the orc reinforcements dispatched, only a handful remained, and Uthor had a clear route through to their two embattled kin.

  The longbeard faced three, while the thane made ready to fight the orc chieftain, wielding his axe and shield with practiced ease. Two further greenskins — bigger than the others and more heavily armoured — stood behind the chieftain, presumably at the orc’s bidding. Uthor snorted.

  “I’ll get to you later,” he muttered and fixed his steely gaze on the three fighting against the longbeard.

  The orc chieftain facing Lokki was about to commit to the attack when, as if abruptly aware of its surroundings, it backed off and grunted in its debased language. Two heavily armoured orcs behind it rushed forward suddenly and into the thane’s path. Behind them, the chieftain bellowed again, a shrilling cry that ululated in its throat. Lokki flashed a brief glance over his shoulder to see the remnants of the orc horde retreating.