The end times, p.45
The End Times, page 45
Kemma went to her son, and fussed over him as mothers do. He was proud enough to shoo her away, and Douric smiled at that. Kemma frowned, which he thought a little extreme, but then she held up her hand. ‘Shhh!’ she said. ‘What’s that?’
Douric cocked his head. His eyes widened in concern. ‘Curse my ears, I’m getting old!’
Kemma drew her hammer and put herself in front of her son.
‘Off the path! To that hut down there, and stay on the rocks. Leave no tracks!’ Douric pointed to a sorry ruin thirty yards away. Too late. A party of Belegar’s hammerers came around the corner from below, lining up three abreast to block their way down the rocky path.
‘Brok Gandsson,’ said Kemma. ‘Belegar has you chasing mothers who love their sons, has he? Your beard thickens with honour day by day.’ She spoke haughtily. There was no point in pretence. There was only one reason he could be here.
‘Halt! Halt in the name of the king!’ said Brok Gandsson, leader of the Iron Brotherhood. He stood athwart the path, puffing clouds of cold breath. Dressed in full armour, he wore no extra garb in concession to the temperature, and his nose was red and dripping as a result. His expression made it clear that he meant business.
‘I’ll do no such thing. You’ll let me by, Brok Gandsson. The future of the Angrund clan and all of the Eight Peaks is here by my side. Take him back, and you will doom him. Let me take him away from here.’
Brok stood his ground, his face set. Tension showed in the line of his jaw, bunching muscles under beard. He was not enjoying this role. That was something, thought Kemma.
‘The mountains are full of grobi and urk, and the tunnels heave with vermin. If I let him off this mountain, it is you who will be killing him, not I. I will not let your mistake weigh on my conscience.’
‘It’ll be your mistake, not mine. I’ve made my mind up.’
‘She’s coming with us,’ said Brok to his warriors in an unnecessary display of authority. ‘If her highness complains, clap her in irons.’
‘I am your queen!’ said Kemma, outraged.
‘No dwarf is to leave Vala-Azrilungol without the say of King Belegar. Queen or not, Vala Kemma, you’ll not be among those who disobey him.’
Douric stepped forwards, hands held in front of him as if they were full of reason, and they would all go away content if only they would look into his palms to see. He wore his habitual grin openly, like they were all sharing a joke that needed a punch line. ‘Wait a minute here, Brok. Can we not see our way through to some other solution? The lady only wants what’s best for her son, and the Angrund clan.’
But Brok was in no mood for amity. He looked upon the reckoner with undisguised hatred. ‘What do you know of the honour of the Iron Brotherhood? Long have you been a thorn in our king’s side! Always you reckoners taking a peck of this here, a pick of that there, when you have no right.’
Douric’s good humour fell away from his face in an avalanche, showing the cold hard stone beneath. ‘I have every right. I am a lawmaster of the High King, my lad – a petty one, I grant you, but I bear his seal and his authority.’
‘Then go back to Thorgrim in Everpeak, and steal your ale from his cup for a change!’
Douric took another step forwards. ‘You should let them go.’
Brok raised his hammer. ‘Do not come another step closer, wanaz. I’m warning you.’
‘Let’s just talk this out…’
Brok swung his hammer to smack into the side of Douric’s head with a final crack. The reckoner spun on his feet and went down hard, falling limp to the ground, where broad red flowers bloomed in the snow. His hat blew away on the wind.
Brok stepped from foot to foot, horrified at what he had done. His dawi murmured. Brok’s face hardened. ‘A pox on all reckoners and their dishonourable dealings! Gazul judge you harshly, oath worrier, grudge doubter!’ He spat on the rock. ‘You dawi! Stop your grumbling. Help the queen and the prince here back into the mountain. It’s cold up here and there are grobi about.’
Two hammerers came forward, reaching for Kemma.
‘Unhand me! I command you to let me by!’
Their hands dropped.
Some of the fury went out of Brok, and he sagged, unmanned by what he had done. ‘Belegar gives me my orders, vala,’ said Brok. ‘I had no choice. I am oath-given.’
‘Dawi killing dawi. Oaths or not, that’s a fine sight, not that my husband would care. He’s wanted Douric gone a long time. Too stupid to see a good dwarf in front of his nose, like a wattock can’t tell fool’s gold from gold.’
‘For what it’s worth, I am sorry.’
‘Not sorry enough to take the Slayer’s oath.’
Brok stared at her with a peculiar mix of emotions, all strong.
‘The reckoner’s body?’ asked one of his followers. ‘We can’t just leave it here.’
Brok stared at the dead dwarf. The wind teased his hair and beard, his hands were still open in a display of peace. He looked asleep, but for his caved-in skull. Self-hatred got the better of Brok, and he turned it outwards. ‘Yes we can, and we will. He was a traitor. Umgdawi to the core and gold-hungrier than a dragon. Leave him for the grobi and the stormcrows.’
‘Thane…’
‘I said leave him!’ bellowed Brok.
‘Shame on you, Brok Gandsson, shame on you,’ hissed Kemma.
‘We should all be ashamed, vala. We’ve taken a few wrong tunnels on the way, and now it’s too late for all of us,’ he said, grabbing her by the elbow and pulling her forwards. Two other hammerers gently helped Prince Thorgrim away with encouraging words and swigs of ale. ‘Each and every one.’
CHAPTER TEN
AN OATH FULFILLED
Borrik hewed down the last of the stormvermin still facing him, his runic axe pulsing with power. The pure blue of its magic, clear as brynduraz in the sun, radiated more than light. The axe’s blessings brought relief to his burning muscles, drove the tiredness from leaden limbs. This was good, for Borrik could not remember the last time he had slept.
Once the Norrgrimlings had been renowned for sleeping upright while standing guard, taking turns in the centre where they might be held up by their brothers. Borrik yearned for those days as much as he yearned for sleep. Neither would come again. There were not enough Axes of Norr left to attempt their famed feat, and he feared they would never rebuild their numbers enough to do so again. It was a point of pride to his ironbreakers that they never had nor ever would abandon a post given them to guard. Pride had ever been the undoing of dwarfs. Soon it would be the end of them.
‘They’re falling back,’ he said. His strong, proud voice reduced to a hoarse wheeze. ‘Forgefuries, forward!’
With a stoicism that would shame a mountain, the remaining four Forgefuries set off with the same skill and speed they had possessed two months ago. Only their faces betrayed their fatigue, pale skin and brown smears under eyes grown small and gritty.
‘Fire!’ said Tordrek. His dawi reloaded and fired with breathtaking skill, pumping round after round of blazing energy into the back of the skaven, incinerating them as they fled.
The squeaking panic of the ratmen receded down the tunnels. Borrik stared at the near-invisible drill holes packed with powder around each stairwell mouth. If Belegar would only let him blow them… But the king would not. His name was a byword for stubbornness, even among the dwarfs. He cursed the king under his breath.
‘Right, lads,’ said Borrik. ‘You know the drill.’
‘Aye aye,’ said Albok tiredly. ‘Rats in the hole. Come on!’
The remaining Axes of Norr lumbered forward, clenching and unclenching fists that were moulded into claws suited only to holding axes. They betrayed no sign of weariness as they heaved up dead skaven from the floor, save perhaps a certain slowness as they tossed the corpses into the hole at the centre of the chamber. Not scrawny rat slaves these, but skaven elites, black-furred stormvermin equipped with hefty halberds and close-fitting armour. Some of this was dwarf-made. For the first days of the battle against the better skaven troops, the dwarfs had diligently stripped the work of their ancestors from the ratmen and stockpiled it in the chamber fronting the door of Bar-Undak. But there was so much of it, so very much, that they had given up. Now the defiled armour went into the hole like everything else, swallowed up along with their grief at seeing the craft of their ancestors so abused.
What cheer the Norrgrimlings had was gone. Weeks of hard fighting had worn them down, stone-hard though they were, as centuries of rain will wear down a mountain. Their eyes were red with lack of sleep, their beards stiff with blood they had neither the time nor the strength to comb out. Seven of them had gone to the halls of their ancestors, among them Hafnir and Kaggi Blackbeard. Their voices were as missed as their axes. Uli the Elder had lost an eye to a lucky spear-thrust, but refused to retire. Gromley had several missing links from his hauberk to add to the scratch on his shield, and complained bitterly about it. No one teased him for his grumbling any longer.
‘Is there any more ale?’ asked Borrik. ‘My throat’s dryer than an engine-stoker’s dongliz.’
‘There’s another delivery due soon, but they’re getting tardy,’ said Grunnir Stonemaster. There was no way of telling the time in the dark underground, but the dwarfs had an unerring knack for it. ‘It’s past midday or I’m a grobi’s dung collector.’
Borrik managed a grin that hurt his face. ‘That you certainly are not. Not only are they late, but the barrels are getting lighter.’
Grunnir shrugged. ‘Back in the glory days that would never have happened. Proper brewmasters then, and proper brew.’
Borrik looked at the devastation around him. Nothing was like it was, not any more. ‘You’re sounding like a longbeard.’
Grunnir tugged his beard. ‘It’s been well watered with blood these last weeks. It’s growing as quickly as my tally of grudges.’
Distant drums sounded. Borrik stood. ‘All right, lads! Back in formation – they’re coming for another go!’
The ironbreakers tossed another few corpses into the pit and trudged wearily back to their stations. Skaven began filing out into the Hall of Reckoning in organised lines that spread into calm ranks, a far cry from the panicking thralls they had first faced.
‘Look at them,’ said Gromley, taking in the number of stolen dwarf items in the hands of their enemies. ‘Thieving vermin. They’re so intent on killing us, they never stop to think who’ll they’ll steal off when we’re gone.’
‘Less of that,’ said Uli. ‘We’re not going anywhere.’
‘Well,’ said Grunnir, settling his standard into a more comfortable position. ‘If they do win, I hope the little furry beggars choke on their victory.’
‘Borrik! Borrik!’ A hand tugged at the mail shirt of the thane. Tordrek had come forward. ‘There’s someone at the door.’
‘Ale?’ said Borrik brightening.
Tordrek shook his head. Borrik cast an annoyed look at the marshalling skaven and followed his friend through the thin back rank of the Axes of Norr. There remained a single full line of ten to block the way.
The sound from the skaven was muted in the chamber at the rear. A steady tap-tapping came from the door. Borrik pressed his ear against it.
Borrik counted three different hammer sizes beating out the code, the notes they made identical to anyone but a dwarf.
‘Aye, that’s the right signal. Open the door,’ he said. ‘Quickly now, we don’t want this gate gaping wide when the skaven come to attack.’
‘We’re all right for a minute,’ came Gromley’s sour voice from the front of the ironbreakers. ‘They’re still trying to get themselves in order.’
Tordrek’s remaining Forgefuries, guarding the door, opened it.
What emerged was not ale. A spike of orange hair came around the door. Borrik took a step back, face grim. ‘It’s come to that, has it?’ he said. ‘Make way, lads!’ he called. ‘We’ve got company.’
Silently, the Slayers came out, more than twenty of them, all stony-faced killers. Their leader, an emotionless dwarf who made Borrik look the size of a beardling, nodded a greeting to the thane. The rest filed out without looking. Borrik didn’t look them in the eye, because behind the flinty light that burned there you could catch the darkness of shame. A broken oath, a grandfather’s mistake uncovered, a romantic advance rebuffed… Whatever crimes these dwarfs had committed or shames they had suffered, trivial or gross, they all felt the same. They were all broken by their experiences. Through the narrow passage they went. At the far end, the Norrgrimlings parted to let them past.
The skaven were working themselves up into a frenzy, biting at their shields, their leaders squeaking orders from the back, their soldiers squeaking together in response.
‘Quickly now, quickly,’ said Borrik. ‘Close ranks as soon as they’re through.’
Gromley gave him a hard stare that suggested that wasn’t going to be necessary, but prodded his tired warriors into place with his axe haft.
The Slayers spread out once in the hall, not in a disciplined line but each finding a spot that suited him best. That meant as far away from the others as possible. They said nothing as they waited for the skaven to attack. The ratmen did so cautiously, their eagerness for the fight seeming to desert them when they saw these fresh opponents.
Driven on by furious squeaking and the clang of cymbals, the skaven charged, flowing over the broken, bloodied floor of the Hall of Reckoning as one.
When the enemy were close, the Slayers counter-charged. Some shouted out to Grimnir, some sang, others howled with the pain of whatever shame had driven them to take the oath. Yet others made no noise, but set to with voiceless determination.
They were engulfed by the vermintide like bright rocks in a dark sea. Like rocks, they were not overcome.
‘Look at them,’ muttered Gromley. The Slayer leader leapt and whirled, his paired rune axes trailing light and blood in equal part.
‘This is a rare sight. I’m glad I have one eye left to see it with,’ said Uli.
‘Look at that one! The big one with the scars!’ Albok pointed to a dwarf who was wider than he was tall, his body covered in tattoos, his tattoos scratched through by scars. He wielded a single, double-handed axe with a head as big as his own torso.
‘That’s the Dragonslayer Aldrik the Scarred, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Gromley. He blew out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘If you live to be five hundred, you’ll be half the warrior he is.’
Aldrik was a solid presence amid the churning mass of skaven. They were far quicker than him, but he moved aside from every blow. His axe strokes were deliberate. Not a single one missed. Every swipe cut a skaven in half.
The Norrgrimlings relaxed. It was plain to them all that they were not going to be needed in this engagement. The Slayers were butchering the skaven, and the ratmen were close to breaking. Already, their back ranks were becoming strung out from the mass at the front.
Of a sudden, the skaven had had enough. They fled, squealing frantically. The Slayers let out a shout and chased after them. Surrounded by piled bodies were three orange-haired dwarf corpses. The remainder disappeared down the stairheads after the fleeing skaven.
The Axes of Norr let their guard drop.
‘That’s that, then. Time for a rest,’ said Grunnir.
‘Aye, and more besides,’ said Thane Borrik, pushing his way to the front with a metal message scroll in his hand. ‘We’ve got new orders from the king. Time to pull back to the Hall of Clan Skalfdon.’ He pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Got a herald back there, so it’s as official as it gets. Tordrek, blow those doors up before we go.’
‘What about the Slayers, Thane?’ asked Albok.
‘Three groups of them have gone out,’ said Borrik. ‘It’s shameful to say, but we won’t see the likes of this for a long time. They’ve got their wish. Let’s take their dead back. The least we can do is lay their axes on the shrine of Grimnir, and let him know they fulfilled their oaths.’
As the Norrgrimlings tenderly retrieved the dead Slayers, Tordrek stepped up with his dawi and headed for the centre of the room. Once there, they opened fire and ignited the charges packed around each stairhead. The explosion in the Hall of Reckoning sounded like the end of everything. Dust blew out, coating the surviving members of the Axes of Norr so they appeared like the ancestors, freshly awoken at the roots of the world. Bright eyes peered out from grey faces.
‘That should keep them back a bit,’ said Borrik, when the last rock had clattered to a standstill. ‘Come on, lads, let’s see if there’s any ale left in the citadel. This has been a thirsty couple of weeks.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A CONFRONTATION
‘A messenger is coming,’ said Soothgnawer’s voice, as yet unattached to a body.
Kranskritt startled. It was unnerving how the verminlord came from nowhere. He looked around for Soothgnawer, nose working frantically. He caught a whiff of the otherwordly creature, but the scent was faint and all around him, and Kranskritt could not see him.
‘There is always a messenger coming. Who? What-what?’ responded the grey seer testily.
‘One of the Red Guard,’ came the reply. Soothgnawer had still not manifested. Kranskritt saw a darkening against the wall, a shadow out of place. He stared fixedly at it, determined not to be surprised.
‘Queek will give the orders I foresaw,’ said Soothgnawer smugly. ‘Queek has guessed the deception. It is to the peaks you will go, hunting goblins. He wishes your clawpack to engage Skarsnik and keep him away from the main assault upon the beard-things’.
‘Pah! Mad-thing does great insult to me,’ Kranskritt said. ‘I should be with him, I should whisper-command in his ear! He is mad and foolish-stupid.’ Kranskritt shivered. The bells on his ankles, wrists and horns tinkled with fury.
