[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Read online

  Halgar stopped at the statue and listened intently. He motioned to Lokki. The thane came forward and examined the statue. Looking down, he saw something.

  “Rorek,” he hissed, beckoning the engineer, who quickly joined him, shouldering his crossbow, as Halgar stepped to the side.

  Rorek followed Lokki’s gaze to the octagonal base and noticed a strange configuration of carvings, slightly outset from the rest. Crouching down, the engineer carefully ran his fingers over the stone, seeking out any imperfections. He pulled a piece of the design out, a perfectly round dwarf head effigy and rotated it. When he pushed the head back into place, there was a grinding sound and the dull scrap of a sliding bolt of stone, then a small crack appeared at the lip of the octagonal base.

  “Help me lift it,” Rorek said, getting his fingers beneath the lip. Lokki did likewise, catching on quickly to what the engineer wanted him to do. Halgar stood poised with Uthor, whilst Gromrund and Hakem had gathered torches and held them at the ready to be thrust at whatever lurked beneath them.

  “Heave!” Lokki cried and the two of them lifted off part of the octagonal slab, revealing a small, darkened chamber within, below the statue itself, with several tunnels leading off from it. Inside, blinking back the glare of the torches was a dwarf, a thick, leather-bound book clasped to his chest.

  “Ralkan,” he mumbled, half-crazed, trying to ward off the bright light with his hand, “Ralkan Geltberg,” he repeated, louder and with greater lucidity. The dwarf’s eyes were pleading as he added, “last survivor of Karak Varn.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Skreekit wrung his paws together, and fought the urge to squirt the musk of fear. Beneath filth-caked robes, daubed in the bloody symbols of Clan Skryre, the skaven’s fur was moist with sweat. A furtive glance at another agent, a warlock of low breeding, drowning in his own blood from a dagger thrust in his lung, and he found his voice at last.

  “Three hundred warp tokens, four cohorts of warriors for protection against Clan Moulder and a hundred slaves is our price, yes. Make deal, quick-quick,” Skreekit blathered.

  Standing before the warlock, in a dank chamber edged in filth, dirty straw, and other signs of skaven habitation, was Thratch Sourpaw. He called it his “scheming room” but in truth it was merely one of the many antechambers appended to the subterranean warren of the skaven. The black-furred warlord of Clan Rictus sneered his dissatisfaction, looking at Skreekit down his long snout and revealing an old, but horrific, wound on his neck. Coarse, brown stitching was still embedded in his flesh, made visible by the pink scar tissue. Thratch’s cold reddish eyes picked out something behind the nervous warlock, who had just soiled his robes further.

  Thratch watched as something detached itself from the cavern wall at the agent’s back, a layer of swiftly moving shadow, silent and at one with the darkness. There was the sound of metal tearing flesh and blood exploded from the warlock’s mouth, spraying the dirt-encrusted stones in front of him with crimson, a jagged blade punching through his chest. The knife was withdrawn savagely and Skreekit slumped forward. Sheer terror twisted his face, lying in a puddle of his own filth and viscera, blood bubbles bursting on his froth-drenched muzzle as poison ravaged his innards.

  Thratch was one of the many warlords of Clan Rictus as well as dwarf slayer, goblin killer and conqueror of Karak Varn. Clad in thick metal armour, wreathed in a fine patina of rust, stray black tufts of his fur eking out beneath the pauldrons and vambraces, he looked formidable. The warlord knew this and played on it as he approached the last of the three warlocks that had come to make deals with him.

  “Now,” the warlord said, signalling for his assassin, Kill-Klaw, to emerge fully from the shadows, certain there would be no attempt on his life. The Clan Eshin adept obeyed dutifully and lingered at the warlock’s side, just enough so the skaven was aware of his presence, just enough so the warlock couldn’t see him.

  “You build device for me, yes-yes.” Thratch pointed a claw towards a crude design he had scratched on the wall with the spike he had instead of a paw — the three warlocks had winced as he had done it. “Your promise-price,” he demanded.

  The last representative of Clan Skryre gulped audibly before he answered — a half glance at the lurking assassin.

  “One hundred warp tokens, two cohorts of warriors and… fifty slaves,” he ventured.

  Thratch loomed close, hot breath making the agent’s eyes water.

  “Accepted, yes,” he hissed, a long and terrible grin wrinkling his features.

  “What happened here, brother?” Lokki asked, his tone soothing.

  Ralkan sat in front of him, still. He was fairly diminutive, even by dwarf standards, and the great tome he clutched to his breast only made him seem smaller still.

  “Red eyes,” he murmured, “red eyes in the dark… everywhere.”

  The crazed dwarf wore the scholarly robes of a lorekeeper, one of the few chosen to chronicle and remember all the great events of a hold — its deeds, its heroes, its grudges. A talisman bearing the rune of Valaya hung around his neck — it seemed the goddess of protection had heeded his pledges. He wore a series of belts and straps over his scribe’s attire, Lokki assumed they were designed to secure the book should the lorekeeper require the use of his arms. The dwarf’s beard was dishevelled, wretched with dirt and encrusted filth as were his skin and nails. He looked wasted and thin, like he could do with a good meal inside of him. How long he had been there, hiding within a warren of tunnels, scrabbling in the dark, Lokki could only guess. Rorek was in the secret chamber beneath the statue of Grungni at that very moment, trying to ascertain how far the tunnels went and how many there were. Of the others, Uthor and Halgar were with Lokki, while Gromrund and Hakem stood guard at each of the entranceways. Drimbold sat sullenly in the corner, occasionally glancing at the way out of the audience chamber, before returning to his thoughts.

  “Bah,” snarled Halgar, the old dwarf getting to his feet. “He has said nothing else since we dragged him from his hole.” The longbeard walked away to go glare at Drimbold, the end of his pipe flaring to life as he lit it.

  Lokki watched him go, then turned back to Ralkan and reached for the book he had pinioned to his chest. The lorekeeper seemed reluctant to part with it, but, with some gentle urging from Uthor accompanied by several dried strips of meat, released it.

  “Tis the Karak Varn Book of Remembering,” Uthor said solemnly.

  Lokki opened it, thumbing carefully through the thick parchment pages. Names, in their hundreds of thousands were etched within, names of all the dwarfs of Karak Varn that had lived and died: their clans, their deeds and how they met their end.

  Lokki skipped ahead to the last of the entries and read aloud.

  “Marbad Hammerfell, journeyman ironsmith, fell to a skaven blade in his back. Fyngal Fykasson, stonecutter, died by drinking water from a tainted well. Gurthang Copperhand, miner, inhaled deadly skaven gas.” He lingered on this last one and mouthed a silent oath to Valaya. “There are hundreds like this,” he said, “killed by the rat-kin, stabbed in the back with spears and daggers, poisoned in their sleep!”

  Uthor clenched his fists until his knuckles cracked. He was breathing loud and heavily, his face was flushed a deep red.

  Before he could say or do anything, Rorek emerged from the secret chamber beneath the statue of Grungni.

  “As far as I can tell, there are several tunnels,” he began, “extending far into the hold and across many deeps. But they are narrow; I doubt any of us could get through them.”

  “Little wonder he is so filthy,” Lokki remarked with a short glance at the Ralkan. The lorekeeper, having devoured the meat given to him by Uthor, was staring aimlessly.

  “I found markings scratched onto the wall in the chamber immediately below…” said Rorek, arresting Lokki’s attention. For the first time the thane noticed that Ralkan had a small rock pick tucked into his belt.

  “…made by some tool or other,” Rorek continued. “If they
equate to years, he has been here for a while.” The engineer’s expression was grim as he regarded Lokki.

  “How did this doom befall Karak Varn?” Lokki asked the lorekeeper again. “How long have you been in hiding?”

  Ralkan’s lips moved soundlessly. There was desperation in his eyes as he met the thane’s gaze.

  “Red eyes…” he sobbed at last, tears flowing down his face, making pale streaks in the grime. “Red eyes, everywhere.”

  * * *

  “It is simple,” Uthor said firmly, on his feet and pacing the length of the audience chamber, “we find the hold’s book of grudges — that will tell us all we need to know.”

  “And risk alerting whatever sacked this hold to our presence?” Gromrund countered. “It is reckless folly.”

  Uthor rounded on the hammerer, who was sat on one of the stools, an imposing sight in his warhelm and full armour. “The hammerers of Karak Hirn are obviously of less sterner stock than those of Kadrin,” he snarled.

  Gromrund shot to his feet, thumping his hand down so hard upon the table that it shook, spilling ale with his vehemence, much to the annoyance of the other dwarfs.

  “The brethren of Horn Hold are ever bold, and not lacking in courage,” he bellowed. “I would not sit here and have their name—”

  “Quiet fool,” hissed Halgar, reproachfully, “lest you have forgotten your own desire for caution at rousing the denizens of this place.”

  The entire dwarf throng were once again arrayed around the table — all except Ralkan who had retreated to a corner and was mumbling quietly. Some smoked pipeweed, others nursed tankards forlornly — ale supplies were running low. This was despite the fact that Rorek had discovered a hidden vault inside the room that contained several reserves of beer, doubtless left there in preparation for the council. The assembled dwarfs were locked in a long and hard debate, not to be rushed into rash action without due and proper consideration, about what they should do. All except Drimbold who was eyeing the finery of Hakem’s merchant attire, before averting his attentions to Halgar as something else caught his interest.

  “I say we venture into the deeps,” said Uthor, eyeing Gromrund as the dwarf sat back down, clearly disgruntled and chewing his beard in agitation. He switched his gaze to Lokki, knowing as a thane of a royal clan and with his venerable companion, it was his favour he needed to sway. “It is our duty to discover the fate of our kinsdwarfs and avenge them! What do we, sons of Grungni all, have to fear from ratmen?” he added, top lip curling in a derisive sneer. “We can scare those cowards away.”

  Lokki remained thoughtful throughout Uthor’s impassioned rhetoric.

  “How are we to find the kron?” asked Hakem, using a second beard comb to preen himself. “I for one have no desire to scramble around in the dark, looking for something that might not even be there.”

  “Indeed,” Gromrund chipped in, suddenly emboldened again. “Even the ufdi sees the madness in what you are suggesting.”

  If Hakem thought anything about the slight, he did not show it.

  “The lorekeeper can guide us,” Uthor said simply, addressing the group again. “But he is zaki,” Rorek whispered, casting a furtive glance at Ralkan before he twirled his finger around his temple.

  Uthor turned to the lorekeeper. “Can you guide us?” he asked. “Can you take us to the dammaz kron of Karak Varn?”

  There was a flash of lucidity in Ralkan’s eyes and a moment’s silence before he nodded.

  Uthor looked again at Lokki. “There you have it, the lorekeeper is our guide.”

  Lokki returned Uthor’s gaze, and was careful not to look to Halgar for guidance. This was something he would have to decide for himself. As member of a royal clan, be that of the Vaults or nay, hereditarily he had the highest status, despite the fact that both Halgar and Gromrund had longer beards. He was the leader.

  “We head into the lower deeps,” he said, ignoring the grunting protestations of the hammerer, “and retrieve the dammaz kron. The fate of Karak Varn must be known and these facts presented to the High King.”

  “It is settled then,” said Uthor, with no small measure of satisfaction.

  “It is settled.” Halgar spoke his approval.

  “I have one question,” Drimbold piped up, beer froth coating his beard as he supped from his own weather-beaten tankard. “Wise grey beard, why do you have an arrow sticking out of your chest?”

  Halgar scowled.

  The dwarfs travelled down a long and narrow tunnel. They had passed numerous hallways, clan chambers, armouries and galleries during that time. So far, no more dwarfs of Karak Varn — not even skeletons — save for Ralkan, were found in the creeping dark of the deep. All that remained, it seemed, were the last vestiges of a toppled kingdom, its reclaimed glory wrecked by calamity, its once proud stature rendered to rubble. Dust lay thick in the air and it was tainted with the bitterness of regret and defeat.

  The dwarfs had discovered, during Ralkan’s more lucid moments — which were becoming ever more frequent — that the dammaz kron, the book of grudges, was in the King’s Chambers located in the second deep.

  Much of the hold, even the upper levels, was in a state of utter ruination— fallen columns and statues, collapsed ceilings and gaping chasms all in evidence — and the dwarfs had been forced to take a fairly circuitous route. The narrow tunnel, fraught with rubble and jutting rocks where the walls had split, was merely part of that route.

  Uthor strode alongside Ralkan, who was at the head of the group, the lorekeeper leading the way. Often he stopped suddenly, causing a clash of armoured bodies and muffled swearing behind him, pausing to regard his surroundings and then set off again without a word.

  “Like I said, zaki,” Rorek, immediately behind them, had whispered in Uthor’s ear. “Are you sure he knows where he’s going?”

  Gromrund walked beside the engineer and wore an expression like brooding thunder. The hammerer had been silent throughout the trek, positively bristling at the will of the “council” going against him. He gripped his great hammer tightly, glowering behind the mask of his helmet as he focused meaningfully on the back of Uthor’s head.

  Behind them was Hakem and Drimbold, a bizarre pairing of wealth and poverty. Hakem cast frequent, sideways glances at the Grey dwarf, who stooped occasionally to pick something up and add it to his pack. The merchant-thane took great pains to ensure the strings of his purse were tight and his possessions securely fastened. Drimbold paid no heed to his discomfort and smiled back at Hakem broadly, using a silver fork, encrusted with jewels— Grungni only knew where he had appropriated it from — to pick strips of goat meat from his blackened teeth.

  Lokki and Halgar brought up the rear, taking care to watch the route the dwarfs had taken, lest anything be following them.

  “What do you think of the son of Algrim?” Lokki asked, keeping his voice low.

  Halgar thought on it a moment, scrutinizing Uthor carefully and considering his answer before he spoke. “He is a hazkal, to be sure. But he fights as if the very blood of Grimnir flows in his veins.” The longbeard blinked twice and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “And he bears a heavy burden, I know not what.”

  “Are you all right, old one?” Lokki asked the longbeard. Halgar had been rubbing his eyes intermittently for the last hour, gnarled fingers kneading out whatever fatigue ailed them.

  “An itch, is all,” he growled, “Damn grobi stink is everywhere.” The longbeard stopped rubbing and stalked on a little harder, making it clear the conversation was at an end.

  Halgar was old, so old that Lokki’s father, the King of Karak Izor, had urged the longbeard not to take the road with Lokki, that one of his hammerers could accompany him instead. Halgar had snarled his derision at the stoutness of hammerers in “these times” and more placidly had said he wanted to “stretch his legs”. The king had relented, unwilling to go against the wishes of one of the oldest of the clan. Besides, there was the debt of Halgar’s grandsire to con
sider and the king would never oppose the pursuit of a pledge of honour. But throughout their journey to Karak Varn, Halgar had been prone to dark and reflective moods. Lokki had often woken in the night, after quaffing too much ale and needing to empty his bladder, to find the longbeard staring off into the dark as if looking at something just beyond his field of vision, just beyond his reach. It was as if he sensed an end was coming and he had no desire to wither and atrophy in the hold, scribing of his last days in some tome or scroll. He wanted to die with an axe in his hand and dwarf armour on his back. Lokki hoped his own end could be so glorious.

  After that, Lokki fell into silence, remaining watchful of the dark.

  The long stairway stretched down into the waiting blackness of the second deep. Much like that which led to the audience chamber at the great gate, it was broad and illuminated by gigantic iron braziers wrought into the fearsome image of dragons and other creatures of ancient legend. The flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, throwing ephemeral slashes of light onto finely carved mosaics fashioned into the rocks. Each one was broken up by thick stone pillars, marked by rune bands of the royal clan of Karak Varn.

  “Here, does High King Gotrek Starbreaker slay the elf king and take his petty crown,” intoned Halgar, pointing to one of the mosaics. On it, Gotrek Starbreaker was depicted in refulgent, golden armour, his axe drenched with blood. An elf corpse lay at his feet, the Phoenix Crown held aloft in the High King’s hand and presented to a mighty throng of dwarfs arrayed about him.

  “Lo, does the Bulvar Trollbeater, three-times grandson of Jorvar who did flee at Oeragor, face the grobi hordes, and reap a doom worthy of the sagas of old,” he said wistfully. Bulvar was a slayer, and bore a massive crest of red hair upon an otherwise shaven head. Half his body was painted to resemble a skeleton — an affectation common among the cult and indicative of the slayers’ death oath — the other half was scribed with swirling tattoos and runic wards of Grimnir. Bulvar was alone, surrounded by orcs, goblins, trolls and wyverns. His last stand was made upon a great host of greenskin carcasses, the twin axes in his hands slaying goblins for all eternity.