[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Read online

  The two left alive against Halgar were already running. Three more fled the other two dwarfs making their way across the flatland, now only a few feet from Lokki and Halgar. One of the fleeing greenskins was pitched off its feet, squealing, as an axe “thunked” into its back. When Lokki looked back, he saw another two, together with their chieftain and his bodyguards, making good their escape. They scattered back up the ravine and into the nearby foothills at the edge of the Old Dwarf Road. The will of the orcs was broken it seemed and, by the time it was over, some sixteen greenskin carcasses littered the ground.

  “Filthy urk,” growled Halgar. “No stomach for a fight, not like in the old days.”

  Lokki decided not to give chase. He doubted Halgar could keep the pace, despite the longbeard’s undoubted protestations to the contrary, and in truth, he was weary himself. He wiped blood from a cut on his brow, caused by a wound he hadn’t realised he’d received, and watched as one of their new found allies, a dwarf wearing a winged helmet and bronze armour etched with the runes of Karak Kadrin, wrenched his axe from a greenskin body.

  “You have our gratitude, kinsdwarf,” said Lokki, slinging his shield to his back and hitching his axe back to his weapons belt, before proffering his open hand to the axe-wielding dwarf. “I am Thane Lokki Kraggson of Karak Izor.”

  “Of the Vaults,” the axe-wielder said, trying to keep his tone even and without derision. There was some ill feeling between the dwarfs of the Worlds Edge Mountains and those of the other ranges. Exiles, some called them. Others had less pleasant names.

  “Yes, of the Vaults,” Halgar returned proudly, daring the stranger’s scorn as he stood beside his lord.

  “Gnollengrom,” the axe-wielder muttered to Halgar, bowing deeply. Rising again, he clasped Lokki’s hand in a firm grip. “Well met, my brother,” he said, “I am Uthor Algrimson of Karak Kadrin, and this,” he added, gesturing towards his companion, a dwarf bearing an eye patch and carrying a strange looking crossbow, “is Rorek Flinteye of Zhufbar.”

  “We are in your debt,” Lokki said, nodding his appreciation.

  “You are of the royal clan of Karak Izor,” said Uthor, noting the gilded earring that Lokki wore. It was a statement, not a question.

  Lokki nodded.

  “Then it seems the rumours of the urk gathering in the mountains must be true, if royal clans are taking an interest,” Uthor remarked. “The greenskins are bold indeed to venture all the way to Black Water.”

  “You too have been summoned to Karak Varn?” Lokki asked, inferring it from Uthor’s comment.

  “Indeed,” he said, “and we would be honoured to travel at your side, noble thane.”

  “Yes, yes. Enough talk,” growled Halgar, wrinkling his nose as he surveyed the carnage. “These urk are starting to stink.”

  Halgar muttered words of remembrance over the cairn tombs of the skeletal remains of Lord Kadrin of Karak Varn and his followers. The dwarfs had carried the bones reverently from the battlefield of the narrow ravine to the western ridge in the shadow of Karak Varn. They were well equipped, as was prudent for long journeys, carrying short shovels and picks, and buried the remains deep so they would not be disturbed. As the longbeard conducted the brief ceremony, the other three dwarfs stood silently around him with their heads bowed as a mark of deep respect. Below them, and in the distance, the oily smoke rising from a burning pyre, on which the orcs smouldered, stained the air.

  “May Gazul guide you to the Halls of the Ancestors,” Halgar whispered, invoking the name of the Lord of Underearth. Making the rune of Valaya — goddess of protection — over his chest, the longbeard got to his feet and the four dwarfs moved away in silence.

  After a time, Uthor spoke.

  “You are certain it was the body of Kadrin Redmane?” He regarded the talisman of his distant kinsdwarf thoughtfully as he slowly traced the rune markings with his finger. Lokki had given him the heirloom immediately after he had explained how he and Halgar had come across the old battle site, the dead dwarfs with the orc chests and the subsequent ambush by the orcs. As he was a relation of Redmane it was only right that he have it.

  “I cannot be certain, but the bones we found bore that talisman and they were old, as if he had been dead for some time.”

  “Was there a hammer amongst the remains?” Uthor asked.

  “None that we discovered,” Lokki replied. Uthor sighed lamentably.

  “Dreng tromm, then I am doubly saddened. Lord Kadrin’s rune hammer was presented to him many years ago, when he was in his youth, by the then High King, Morgrim Blackbeard,” Uthor said. “If my ancestor is dead then it means the hammer is lost, either to the urk or the Black Water,” he added, tucking the heirloom back under his armour. “We had best make haste,” he said grimly, “this does not bode well for Karak Varn.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was with some relief that Gromrund and Hakem finally reached the gate to Karak Varn. The hammerer’s mood had grown steadily more belligerent the longer they travelled together and the prince of Barak Varr feared the two of them might have come to blows. His tunic was freshly tailored and he would not have it soiled in a brawl, nor would he be received into the hold of Karak Varn in such a state of disrepair.

  “Behold,” said Gromrund. It was the first time he had spoken in over an hour. “The southern gate of Karak Varn.” The hammerer seemed to straighten as he said it, and was made impossibly tall by the mighty warhelm that sat upon his brow, the two great horns spiralling from it almost touching the roof of the tunnel. The helmet incorporated a half mask, too, that concealed much of the hammerer’s face, but still his moods were easy to discern.

  The gate was impressive. Tall and wide, it was set into a vaulted antechamber that ended the narrow tunnel. Etched with gilded spiral designs and elaborate cross-hatching, it was the height of the fully helmeted hammerer five times over. With the intricate gold framing and knot work the past histories of the karak were described in painstaking mosaic. Truly, it was a stunning piece of craft and a testament to the dwarfs’ mastery of metal, displayed ever proudly, for what was merely a side entrance into the hold. To Hakem, it was little more than an ornate door, plain and austere — nothing like the bejewelled entryways of Barak Varr.

  “There is something wrong here,” Hakem said suddenly, his mood darkening quickly.

  “If you remark of the lustre of the gilded gates of Barak Varr, once more…” Gromrund warned, brandishing his great hammer meaningfully.

  “No, it’s not that.” The seriousness in Hakem’s tone demanded attention as he gripped his rune hammer.

  “Yes, I see it,” Gromrund said, facing the southern gate, gripping his hammer haft a little tighter.

  “Where are the guards?”

  Gromrund led the way through the gate. Deciding against hailing for it to be opened or even knocking, the dwarfs had to push hard against it to force an opening. Worryingly, it was neither locked nor barred. Once inside, a long and lofty hall stretched before them. It was lined with stone statues; thanes and kings of Karak Varn and lit by flickering braziers mounted in sconces. One of the statues was toppled over. Its fall had shattered the terracotta slabs beneath and removed its head. Rubble was strewn all about. On the left wall, a huge tapestry depicting a great battle fought against the elves during the War of Vengeance was torn. Shreds of material hung down like strips of flayed skin.

  “This was not the welcome I had envisaged,” Hakem said humourlessly, gaze ever watchful in the deepening shadows of the hall. “Where are our clan brothers?”

  “Karak Varn is invaded,” Gromrund hissed, fear edging his voice. “These halls should be the dominion of Kadrin Redmane, lord of this hold.”

  “Yet, they seem abandoned.” Hakem finished for him, saying what the hammerer was thinking.

  “Indeed,” Gromrund concurred, noting the absence of any dwarfs at the south entrance, even dead ones.

  “Is it possible that Redmane and his kin merely moved on, following another seam
of ore? It is the way of our people,” Hakem reasoned, stepping carefully, every footfall a clattering din in the abject silence.

  The two dwarfs advanced slowly and cautiously, and spoke in low tones. Something was desperately wrong here. Both knew that this was no dwarf migration; no pursuit of a more promising vein of ore. Some terrible fate had befallen the karak. It appeared empty — in a place where guards at least should be present — utterly bereft of life; even the hammer falls of the forges, usually an ever present and reassuring clamour, were silent.

  The long hall soon gave way to another area of the hold, perhaps a merchant quarter — it was wide and dark, shadows cast from the illuminated entryway suggesting another hall with associated galleries and antechambers. Unlit braziers, growing cold, were set in the walls and the detritus of trade lay all about: ruined casks, broken carts and broad barrels, wrecked wooden stalls and racks.

  “I thought the hold had been resettled,” Hakem remarked, biting his tongue about the great merchant halls of Barak Varr. “If it was recently contested, where are the signs of battle? What in the name of Grungni happened here?”

  “I know not,” Gromrund breathed. “Karak Varn was wrested back from the rat-kin and the grobi years ago. The entire upper deeps were conquered by dawi, though much of the lower levels are ruined and flooded still from the Time of Woes.”

  “It is as I read it,” agreed Hakem. “Though this place looks dead, as if…”

  “Hsst!” Gromrund motioned for quiet, raising a clenched fist. With the same hand he pointed towards a runty-looking figure, swathed in shadows and crouched with its back to them, in the middle of the hall.

  With unspoken understanding, Hakem ranged wide of the figure, moving silently to catch him at his flank. Gromrund headed straight ahead, low and quiet as he stalked his prey.

  As the hammerer drew close, he saw more of his prey’s appearance. Its clothes were ragged; coarse and filth-stained garments, the stink of which rankled at his nostrils. Gromrund could not keep the sneer of contempt from his face — if it was a grobi swine his hammer would crack its wretched skull, though as he got closer he realised it was too big for a mere goblin. The creature wore a helmet upon its head, too, dented and tarnished. Doubtless, the foul greenskin, whatever its breed, had stolen it from some noble dwarf’s corpse.

  Anger swelled in Gromrund’s breast and a red rage overlaid his vision, before he saw Hakem ready to strike at the creature’s flank.

  “Turn, filth!” Gromrund bellowed, all thoughts of caution gone. He wanted to see the fear in the greenskin’s eyes before he smote it. “Turn and feel the wrath of Karak Hirn!”

  The runt-like shadow figure seemed to leap up in sudden shock and whirled around to face the hammerer.

  “Hold!” it cried in Khazalid. Gromrund’s hammer stalled a few inches from stoving its skull in. Hakem, frozen momentarily, held his rune hammer aloft and ready to strike. “Hold!”

  It was no goblin. The bedraggled swine before them was a dwarf. Gromrund, now facing him, recognised the dwarf’s garb as belonging to that of the Grey Mountains. Known as “Grey dwarfs”, they were the poorer cousins of the Worlds Edge Mountains, the Black Mountains and the Vaults. The hammerer then noticed a large pack behind the dwarf, who held up his hands plaintively. Some of the contents had spilled out: spoons, a silver ancestor idol and even a dented firkin were amongst the booty. It was unlikely that these trinkets were the Grey dwarf’s belongings.

  Gromrund’s lip curled up with distaste as he saw the scattered treasure, but he lowered his hammer.

  The Grey dwarf exhaled in relief, shaking slightly at almost being sent to his ancestors prematurely, and nodded his thanks.

  “I didn’t hear you approach,” he said, voice quivering a little as he extended a grubby hand. “Drimbold Grum,” he offered, “of Karak Norn, in the Grey—”

  “Doubtless you were too intent on whatever it was you were doing,” Gromrund grumbled, staring from Drimbold’s hand to the bulging pack. “And I already know of your heritage, dawi,” the hammerer growled, keeping his hands firmly at his side, “and of your name. The Grums are well recorded in the Tallhelm Clan’s Book of Grudges. One hundred years ago, you supplied us with a stable of shoddy lode ponies, weak of back and bowel. Recompense for which is yet to be made by the reckoners,” he added through gritted teeth.

  “Ah, no, that was the Sournose Grum’s,” said the Grey dwarf, “I am one of the Sourtooth Grums,” he added, smiling.

  Gromrund glowered.

  Drimbold lowered his hand and his eyes, and quickly set about replacing the items that had spilled from his pack.

  “He smells worse than a narwangli,” hissed Hakem behind his hand, not entirely convinced the Grey dwarf hadn’t soiled himself when they’d surprised him.

  Gromrund ignored him.

  “What do you know of the fate of Kadrin Redmane and his kin?” the hammerer demanded, once Drimbold had turned back around to face them and was on his feet. Even the dwarf’s mail was rusted and ill kept, and his beard was infested with gibil.

  “I do not know, my kinsdwarf. I only just arrived myself. I was adjusting the items in my pack when you found me. I noticed one of the straps was loose,” he added by way of explanation.

  “Indeed,” muttered Gromrund, not bothering to disguise his suspicion.

  “Has Karak Norn made a pledge to Karak Varn, also, in ridding the Black Mountains of the urk tribes gathered there?” Hakem asked, wrinkling his nose at the Grey dwarf’s stink.

  “Precisely that,” Drimbold confirmed brightly.

  “Then, Grum or no, you had best come with us,” Gromrund returned. “Perhaps the Grey dwarfs have something to contribute if they are willing to send an emissary across the mountains. Besides, I have an ill feeling about this place,” the hammerer added, looking around the large hall of the merchant’s quarter again, before returning his gaze to Drimbold. “It smells foul.”

  With that, the hammerer stalked off into the gloom, Hakem following at his side. Whatever differences were felt by the Karak Hirn and Barak Varr dwarf, they were nothing compared to the mutual distaste they held for a resident of the Grey Mountains. They were poor dwarfs, scratching a living off rocks, without the breeding or heritage of the other holds. Still, a dawi he was and if part of the war council they should travel together. In any event, it was far better that a stern eye was kept upon him, lest he get into trouble and bring it down on all their heads.

  “Where are we going?” Drimbold asked, adjusting his cumbersome pack, an eye on the way he had come.

  “To the audience chamber,” Gromrund replied, “where the rest of the war council are due to assemble.”

  “What if they’re gone, too?” Drimbold asked again.

  “Then we wait,” Gromrund snarled, turning briefly to set his steely countenance upon the Grey dwarf, “for as long as it takes!”

  In truth, Gromrund did not know what else to do. His role here was merely to hear of Lord Redmane’s grievances and commit what forces to staunching the growing grobi hordes that he was permitted. With Redmane absent, and his hold deserted he was slightly lost and getting steadily more annoyed.

  “An ufdi and a wanaz,” he muttered, bemoaning his travelling companions as he followed the runic markers that would lead them to the audience chamber, “why Valaya, do you test me so?”

  The great gate of Karak Varn loomed large and imposing — two immense slabs of stone, bound with steel and gold set into the very mountainside.

  “Tis quite a sight,” breathed Lokki, arching his head properly to survey the gate’s majesty.

  “Aye lad, an eye opener you might say,” Halgar agreed.

  “Indeed,” said Uthor.

  Rorek nodded sagely, supping on his pipe.

  The four dwarfs were standing on a short, but wide, road fashioned from stone tiles of ruddy terracotta and grey granite that led up to the massive gate. The walkway, a preamble to the majesty of the entrance proper, was decorated with square spira
l devices and inset by a band of runes on either edge. Shallow stone steps met the short road and ended in a wide plateau of smoothed rock, similarly inscribed with gold intaglio.

  The main gate itself was a full two hundred feet at its highest point and framed by a stout arch of fashioned bronze, inlaid with intricate copper filigree. A cross-hammers device encompassed both sides of the gate, the stone haft of each inset with large gem-stones. Judging by the crude scratch marks around the jewels, efforts had been made to remove them but to no avail. On either side of the gate was a symbolic rendering of a dwarf face, each wearing helmets, but one with an eye patch, the other bearing horns, and forged from bronze. At the gate’s apex was a carved stone anvil.

  At each end of the immense structure there stood an eighty-foot statue, set proudly upon a rounded stone dais, banded with runic script. On the left there was Grungni, clad in long mail, a forge hammer in his hand. On the right, the imposing figure of Grimnir, war-like with his noble crest standing sternly from his shaven skull, the mighty axes forged by his brother god gripped in both hands. Other, smaller statues gave way to the ancestor gods — kings and thanes of Karak Varn all — set in mighty alcoves carved into the mountain rock. Harsh weathering had worn the statues down, some were even toppled over.

  “Praise Grungni for his skill and wisdom that we humble dawi might fashion such beauty,” Uthor breathed reverently.

  “For his hand guides all things, and is felt in the hammer blow of every forge,” Rorek completed the litany.

  Uthor clapped the engineer heartily on the shoulder then turned towards Lokki, his expression serious.