[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Read online

  The skaven were thinning, but Lokki knew the dwarfs could not battle forever, despite the protestations of Halgar.

  “We cannot win this fight,” he said, and saw the way to the hearth and the dringorak was relatively clear. “Break and make for the hearth,” he cried.

  “Aye,” Gromrund replied, followed by the squealing retort of another felled skaven.

  No one countermanded Lokki’s order, not Uthor or Halgar. They all saw the wisdom in his actions. He led and they followed.

  The dwarfs retreated into their shield wall, crushing closer, until they were almost arranged in a circle. The skaven surged against them, pressing hard and screeching fervently.

  When the swell became almost unbearable, Lokki bellowed. “With all your strength… Now!”

  The dwarfs pushed as one, Gromrund, Drimbold and even Ralkan lending their weight and the skaven were smashed back. Without pausing to take advantage of those skaven prone or stunned, the dwarfs broke, the shield wall dismantling as they ran for the hearth. The few skaven stood in their way were hacked and hewn aside as Uthor took the lead, carving a red ruin in their feeble ranks.

  The dwarfs barrelled into the hearth and into the dringorak. They negotiated the tunnel quickly and emerged into the vaulted gallery outside the great gate of the King’s Chamber. With no time to seal their route off they ran headlong up the long hall, the enraged squeaking of the skaven close behind them.

  Rorek paused a moment, part way down the gallery and fired a fusillade of crossbow bolts at the pursuing skaven as they poured from the hidden doorway. Most of his shots missed, but two of the ratmen fell with quarrels in their necks and bodies.

  “Come on,” Lokki urged, tugging on the engineer’s arm. The thane had been the last to leave the King’s Chamber, ensuring everyone had made their escape.

  Rorek shouldered his crossbow and gave chase as the others pounded onwards.

  Ahead, a horde of skaven spilled out of hidden crevices in the walls, scurrying quickly to form a blockade.

  Unrestrained by the formation of a shield wall, the dwarfs struck the skaven picket line in force and the killing began in earnest.

  In an orgy of blood and screeching death, the ratmen were scattered with the dwarfs barely stalled in their stride.

  Through the long gallery they went, back the way they had come across the guild hall, the feast hall and through the wooden gate, skaven harrying them without respite.

  “You expect me to flee the length of the hold!” Halgar bawled to Lokki as they forged up the long stair that led from the second deep.

  “I thought you trekked all the way to Karak Ungor,” Lokki gibed, grinning broadly.

  “In my youth!” Halgar replied, snarling.

  Lokki laughed aloud and the dwarfs drove on: negotiating the dilapidated tunnel and through manifold rooms, passageways and halls until they reached the audience chamber, hands on their knees and breathing hard. The scratching, squeaking retort of the skaven echoed after them.

  “They are persistent bastards,” Uthor said, begrudgingly between breaths.

  “We must make for the outer gateway hall,” said Lokki, readying himself for flight once more as he regarded the throng. “Wait—” he added. “Where is Drimbold?”

  Drimbold was nowhere to be seen. In the frantic race through the deep, Lokki had lost sight of many of his companions — the Grey dwarf could easily have fallen without his notice.

  “Does anyone know of his fate?” he demanded quickly acutely aware of the rising din of the skaven as they closed on them.

  The shaking of heads met his steely gaze. The thane’s expression lapsed briefly into sorrow and then hardened.

  “He was a greedy wanaz,” said Gromrund, “but it is no way for a dawi to die, fleeing through shadow.”

  The stink of skaven grew abysmally strong as their screeching became ear-piercingly loud.

  “Onward,” said Lokki, “or we shall all share his fate.”

  The dwarfs hurried from the audience chamber and were halfway up the second stairway that led to the outer gateway hall when the skaven reached them. The ratmen flung spears and crude knives, and pelted the dwarfs with stones launched from slings. The throng stopped and raised shields to ward off the missiles as the first of the skaven overtook them.

  The dwarfs hacked left and right, fighting a running battle as they pounded up the last half of the stairs. The throng had almost reached the archway to the outer gateway hall. Uthor was carving a path through the skaven who had got in front of them, Gromrund and Hakem defending the lorekeeper, striking down any ratmen who got too close. As Hakem smashed one of the skaven warriors into the floor with the flat of his shield, another got past him and advanced upon Ralkan.

  Red, beady eyes gleaming maliciously, the ratman brandished a long knife and made to stab the lorekeeper in the heart. Months of waiting in the darkness, cooped up in the dank tunnels, every noise sending shivers of dread down his spine welled up in Ralkan and he snapped. Bellowing a battle-cry that resounded around the stairway he smashed the creature aside with the book of grudges itself. The skaven crumpled under the furious blow but was then battered down by the book again as the lorekeeper bludgeoned it, all of his pent up fury and anguish vented in a few seconds of bloody battery. In the end, Hakem hurried him on, the skaven a smear of red paste on the ground.

  “Feel better?” said the Barak Varr dwarf.

  “Yes,” Ralkan replied. His face and beard were flecked with blood, the book of grudges drenched in gore.

  “Good, because there are more…”

  Lokki beheaded a skaven warrior, before impaling another on the great spike at the top of his axe blade. Halgar was at his side, battling furiously, the two dwarfs fighting the rearguard as always. Looking down at the massing horde, Lokki thought he saw something nearby — nothing more than a fleeting scrap of shadow — dart into the darkness at the edge of the stair. He wondered on it no further, his attention diverted to a diminutive skaven, wearing robes daubed in wretched symbols and bedecked in foul charms. In its greying paw it clutched a bizarre, arcane-looking device. It was like a staff but almost mechanical in nature. The creature raised the staff high and devoured a chunk of glowing rock, swallowing it labouredly, throat bulging.

  A strange charge suddenly filled the air as Lokki’s beard spiked.

  “Sorcery,” he breathed, making the rune of Valaya in the air.

  Greenish lightning arced from the skaven’s staff, zigzagging wildly until it struck the stairway roof, earthing into the stone. There was a low rumble and a tremor rippled across the ground, great chunks of masonry plunging downward, shattering as they struck the stair.

  Halgar staggered and nearly fell.

  Lokki looked up. A great slab of granite dislodged itself from above and was plummeting down about to crush the longbeard.

  Lokki smashed him aside, rolling furiously as the massive rock missed him by inches. It splattered several skaven and began rolling slowly down the stair. It granted the dwarfs a brief reprieve as the skaven wailed, fleeing in all directions.

  Wiping a swathe of sweat from his face, Lokki got up and helped Halgar to his feet. The thane didn’t see the scrap of shadow creep up behind him. At first he didn’t feel the blade sink into his back.

  “That was close, lad, Grungni be—” Halgar stopped as he saw Lokki’s wide eyes and the blood seeping from his mouth.

  The longbeard was paralysed as a skaven thing bound in black cloth — its eyes blindfolded with a filthy, reddish rag — snarled from beneath a long hood revealing a stump of flesh for a tongue. It emerged slowly, tauntingly from behind the thane and ripped out its dark-stained dagger.

  Lokki lurched, spitting blood and fell backwards down the stair, his armour clattering.

  Disbelief then rage filled Halgar and he roared.

  His anguished cry was crushed by the screeching retort of another bolt of lightning surging from the robed skaven’s staff. The eldritch energy exploded against the arch
way, which shuddered and started to collapse completely. The violent quake that accompanied it threw Halgar down as the skaven assassin bled away into the darkness, Lokki lost from view.

  A sound like pealing thunder echoed menacingly above him and Halgar prepared to meet his doom with grief in his heart.

  Hakem crushed a skaven skull, his rune hammer exacting a fearsome tally, and looked back from the threshold of the outer gateway hall to see Lokki fall. He watched as a black scrap of shadow seemed to withdraw from the dwarf and shaded his eyes as harsh, green light flared below in the stairway tunnel. He staggered, but kept his feet as the archway to the outer gateway hall started to crumble, Halgar beneath it.

  Hakem raced back through the arch, and hauled the longbeard backwards with all his might.

  “Nooo!” Halgar bellowed, as the archway and part of the roof collapsed downward, smashing into the stair and crushing any skaven in its path. The route down to the audience hall was blocked. The dwarfs had become separated from the ratman hordes.

  Rivulets of dust and grit flowed readily from the ceiling cracks and the small chunks of dislocated rock that crashed down to the ground added to the imagined peril that the outer gateway hall was about to cave-in.

  Eventually though, the tremors subsided and only dust motes remained, clinging to the air like a thick fog.

  Uthor coughed in the dust-clogged atmosphere and beheld the huge slabs of granite that effectively sealed off the route to the first deep. He knew that Lokki’s body was behind it. In the end, just ahead of Hakem, he had witnessed their leader fall. He watched the other dwarfs stunned by their own grief, silently regarding the mass of fallen stone. Drimbold too was lost it seemed, to Grungni only knew what fate. They had the book of grudges, but at what price?

  “Old one,” said Uthor, his voice low and reverent. “We must not linger here.”

  Halgar had his hand on the wall of stone. He bowed his head and listened carefully. Muttering something under his breath — it sounded like a short pledge — he turned and looked Uthor in the eye. His face was like chiselled stone for all the emotion it betrayed.

  “Let it be known,” he said aloud for all the throng to hear, “on this day did Lokki, son of Kragg, thane of the royal clan of Karak Izor fall in battle, stabbed in the back by skaven. May Grungni take him to his breast. He will be remembered.”

  “He will be remembered,” the other dwarfs uttered.

  “The skaven still gather at the other side of the rock fall,” said Halgar, stalking toward the great gate. “They will seek a way to get through to us,” he added, turning to Uthor. “You are right, son of Algrim. We should not linger.”

  “I think we might not have to traverse the latrine tunnels to escape the hold,” Rorek said, his back to the others as he examined the great gate, its antediluvian mechanism wreathed in a fine white patina of dust. “The five of us may be able to open the gate from inside.”

  * * *

  “Push!” Rorek cried and the dwarfs heaved with all their collective might. The engineer had disengaged the massive locking teeth on the gate by means of six circular cranks. With the aid of Uthor, Hakem and Halgar he then released the three huge, metal braces barring it. It was then just a matter of opening the gate itself. Two large, thick chains hung from the ceiling. As each was dragged downward, by means of an immense circular reel set flat into the stone— ten broad handles on each — a series of interlocking cogs and pulleys would go to work, hitching each gate, inch by laborious inch, along an arc carved into the rock. Slowly, but surely the gateway would open. The throng only needed to work one gate — that would be enough to allow them egress — but with only six dwarfs, instead of ten, gathering in one of the chains it was extremely hard going.

  “Enough!” shouted Rorek again. The left-hand gate was open a shallow crack — just three feet wide but enough for them all to squeeze through. Hazy light was spilling onto the open courtyard.

  “Follow me,” said Uthor, taking the lead.

  As he emerged into the harsh, late afternoon sunlight of the outer world, he covered his eyes against the glare. When he saw what lay beyond, he quickly lowered his hand and bellowed, “Grobi!”

  A small horde of orcs and goblins gathered in the crags outside Karak Varn. They appeared to be making camp — sat around crude fires and the debased totems of their heathen gods — eating, squabbling and sleeping.

  The first orc died with Uthor’s flung axe in its chest. The beast stared down stupidly at the ruin of its torso — at first stupefied — then it let out a low gurgle and slumped dead.

  A goblin fell, its skull crushed by Hakem, before it could let out a warning. A third, then a fourth was killed by Halgar, holding his axe two-handed, meting out death with silent determination.

  Gromrund killed another, smashing an orc in the back, brutally collapsing its spine and crushing its neck.

  Rorek put his crossbow to work and pitched several goblins off their feet, their torsos pinioned by tightly bunched quarrels.

  Before the greenskins even realised what was happening, eight of their number were dead. The thirty or so that still lived roared and snorted in anger, frantically taking up weapons. A host of snarling green faces all turned in the direction of the onrushing dwarfs, drawing up into a ramshackle picket line of bristling spears and curved blades.

  “Charge through them!” Uthor cried, wrenching his thrown axe free of the orc carcass, before sheathing it and drawing the blade of Ulfgan. The dwarf of Kadrin surged into the masses, the undeniable spike of the throng’s attack. Gromrund and Halgar were at his heels. Hakem followed with Rorek, the two of them keeping the lorekeeper safe as he was carried along by the charge.

  A flurry of arrows came at the dwarfs as they ran, the hooded goblins loosing short bows and screeching madly. Uthor took one in his pauldron, two more struck his shield but he did not slow, ducking an overhead cleaver swipe and, as he rose, hacking off his attacker’s arm.

  In the end, it was over quickly. The dwarfs smashed through the camp like an irresistible hammer, leaving the greenskins bloodied and bewildered in their wake. They didn’t stop running until they could no longer hear the bestial calls and cries of the orcs and goblins. They weren’t followed. Foolishly, they had left a way in to the karak and doubtless the greenskins were exploiting that mistake.

  The dwarfs had made camp in an enclosed crag, a fitful fire at the centre. There were only two ways in and out, Gromrund stood ready at one, hammer held across his chest; Hakem was at the other, watching the road ahead.

  Night was drawing in, the last vestiges of sunlight bleeding blood red as they slowly vanished into the horizon. Uthor warmed his hands by the fire. None of them had spoken since the battle with the greenskins.

  “We make for Karaz-a-Karak,” Uthor muttered darkly across the crackling embers of the fires.

  “It is a fair march from here,” said Rorek, smoking his pipe. “At least two days over rough terrain and our rations are few — the ale has all but run dry.”

  “Then we had best tighten our belts,” said Uthor.

  “Hsst!” The warning came from Gromrund. “Someone approaches,” he hissed, just loud enough for the others to hear. The dwarf crouched low, adopting a stalking position. He held his great hammer in one hand, the other raised in a gesture for the rest to wait.

  “It is Drimbold,” he said aloud in surprise. “The Grey dwarf lives!”

  Drimbold walked into the camp, his face cut and his already worn attire ripped in several places. Even his pack appeared lighter. The dwarf quickly explained to the others how he had become separated from them, the skaven blocking his path. He had taken another tunnel and wandered in the dark until he’d luckily found another way out — a secret door in the mountain that led to the Old Dwarf Road. He’d watched the dwarfs fight through the orc camp at the gate, but had been too far away to do anything. After that he’d followed their trail, until it led them here.

  “I am lucky to be alive,” he confessed, “by
the favour of Grungni.”

  He smiled broadly, reunited with his erstwhile companions, and then said, “Where is Lokki?”

  “He is dead,” said Halgar, before any of the others could speak, “slain by skaven treachery.” The long-beard’s expression was like steel. There was but one thing concerning him now, Uthor could see it in his eyes. Vengeance. And he meant to exact it.

  Uthor got to his feet and regarded his kinsdwarfs.

  “A great wrong has been done this day,” he uttered, with fire in his eyes. “But it is one among many. One that began with the death of my kin, Kadrin Redmane and now Lokki, too, rests in a stony tomb. Karak Varn lies in ruins; its once great glory rendered to nought.”

  Many of the dwarfs began pulling at their beards and growling in anger.

  “It cannot stand!” Uthor bellowed, watching the grim faces of his companions alight with the flame of vengeance, the dwarf’s rhetoric emboldening.

  “It will not stand,” he added solemnly. “I Uthor, son of Algrim, lord-regent to the clan of Dunnagal do hereby swear an oath to reclaim Karak Varn in the name of Kadrin Redmane, Lokki Kraggson and all of the dwarfs that gave their lives to defend it.”

  “Aye!” cried the dwarfs in unison.

  Only Halgar kept his silence.

  “Until the end,” said the longbeard, holding out his open palm.

  Uthor met his stony gaze and laid his hand on top of Halgar’s. “Until the end,” he said.

  The others followed. The oath was sworn. They would go to Karaz-a-Karak and return with an army. Karak Varn would be retaken or they would die trying.

  From atop a lonely crag overlooking the camp a dwarf sat in solitude. The faint flare of a pipe briefly lit his battle-scarred face, his nose pierced by a line of three gold rings, a chain attached to the opposite nostril running to his ear. A huge crest surged from his forehead, appearing like a spike as he was silhouetted against the night.