by Warhammer
Gotrek wore a look of sorrow and respect and something else that Felix could not quite recognise. ‘A good death,’ he said slowly and painfully.
‘A great death,’ said Snorri. ‘He will be remembered.’
‘He will be avenged,’ Gotrek said and Felix knew he meant it.
Agony coursing through his ancient body, Skjalandir dropped away from the airship. In all his long life he had never felt such pain. It was no satisfaction that the creature who had inflicted the wound had died in the moment he struck. This was not good. Best return to his lair and heal. There would be time enough to seek revenge on these accursed creatures.
SIX
A HERO’S WELCOME
Felix stood on the command deck of the Spirit of Grungni. He could tell just by studying the gauges that things were bad. There was no response from about half the dials and the engines. Even from here, just the two remaining motors sounded terrible.
Makaisson limped through the door. Felix had never seen the engineer look so angry.
‘Bad?’ he asked.
‘Ah’ll say it bloody is. We’re lucky to still be up here. The suspension cables haddin’ the gondola tae the gasbag wir near frayed through in three places. Ah hae the lads makin’ some repairs but its joost jury-rig stuff. Matter o’ time before it ah goes horribly wrang.’
‘Doesn’t sound good,’ Felix said. This seemed to goad Makaisson to further fury.
‘Gasbag’s ripped! Twa o’ the injuns arnae workin’ right. Hulls broken in aboot twenty places! We’ve lost a turret and ah but yin on the gyros. Bloody hell. Ah tell ye. If it’s the last thing ah dae, ah’m gannae make that dragon pay for this. It’ll rue the day it ever attacked ma airship.’
Felix winced. He was sure that Makaisson meant what he said, but he could not see how he was going to fulfil his vow. They had hit the dragon with everything they had, and it had still flown away to its lair. Felix was not even sure they had driven it off. He had a feeling that it had let them go because it suited it. They had about as much chance of killing the dragon as Felix had of becoming emperor, he reckoned.
Old Borek limped onto the command deck. He looked more ancient than ever. His stick moved feebly, like that of a blind man, fumbling to find his way. His long beard dragged along the floor. He seemed to be at the end of his strength. The loss of his nephew had hit him hard.
‘I’m sorry about Varek,’ Felix said. ‘He was a fine dwarf.’
Borek looked up at him and smiled sadly.
‘He was, Felix Jaeger. He was. I should never have let him come on this expedition. I should never have let him leave the Lonely Tower but he wanted to come so badly...’
Felix remembered Varek’s courage in the depths of Karag Dum. His habit of jotting everything down in his great book. His sometimes annoying cheerfulness. His embarrassing hero worship of himself and Gotrek. His short sightedness. His light, slightly pedantic voice. It was difficult to believe that he would never see or hear the young dwarf again. He was surprised. It had been a long time since a death had affected him this badly.
‘He was a guid laddie,’ Makaisson said. ‘Ah probably shouldnae hae let him tak me intae teachin’ him to fly the gyro.’
‘If you hadn’t, my friend, I suspect none of us would be here right now.’
‘Aye – yer right. The laddie wis a hero.’
‘I am the last of my line now,’ Borek said. Felix saw two drops of water running down the old dwarf’s cheeks. Were they really tears? He looked away to spare the scholar embarrassment.
‘Well dinnae you worry! We’ll get the basturd that killed him. It’s joost gone right to the heid of my very ane list o’ grudges.’
Borek just looked away and shook his head in sorrow.
Max Schreiber stood on the rear observation deck, looking out through the cracked crystal of the window. It must have been shattered some time during the struggle with the dragon, but he was not sure how or when. The whole airship looked dreadful. Internal fixtures had come loose. The cargo crates and treasure chests had been tossed around during the fight, damaging themselves and anything they had hit. Two of the crew had been crushed to death. Twelve others had needed healing by Max’s magic.
He could tell that the airship was badly damaged just from the sick drone of the engines and the lack of headway they were making. Compared to their previous progress this was a snail’s pace. He wondered if they would ever get where they needed to go. It seemed that this flight had been dogged by one accident after the other. It was almost as if they were cursed. Perhaps Makaisson’s reputation for disaster was not so ill-deserved after all.
He watched the mountain valleys drift by below them. They were following the path of a stream that descended towards the lowlands. He guessed that the torrent of waterfalls would be beautiful if you were down there, but he knew he would never find out. He would probably never see these places again. Enjoy the view, he told himself. Make the most of this while you’re here. You will never come this way again. Somehow the cheery teachings of his mentors in the Golden Brotherhood seemed just a little precious in the aftermath of the battle with the dragon. And yet part of him knew that the words were true. He should enjoy the moment and he should be glad. The fight had shown him just how fragile life could be, and just how quickly it could end. Look at poor Varek and the dozen or so other casualties of the fight.
The engines stuttered for a moment, then fell silent. For an instant he felt the Spirit of Grungni drift like a rudderless boat on a river. Please, Sigmar, he prayed, aid us. Don’t let this happen now. He feared in his heart that the powerless airship might drift into a mountain side or that more of the gas nacelles would burst and they might drop to earth. In the valley below he saw a tiny group of figures moving along at speed. He was not sure but he thought he caught a hint of green.
‘Orcs,’ he heard Ulrika say from close by. He looked over, surprised.
‘Your eyes are better than mine,’ he said.
‘I’ve spent my life looking along the shaft of an arrow, not reading books by candlelight,’ she said. ‘And I long ago learned to recognise orcs at a great distance. Anyone who lives on the plains of Kislev dies swiftly if they do not.’
‘Are the greenskins so fearsome then?’ he asked. He already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear her voice.
‘Bad as Chaos warriors in their own way. Even more savage and they don’t know when they’re dead. I’ve seen an orc with two arrows through its heart and half its head cleaved away chop down half a dozen warriors before it died.’
‘So have I,’ Gotrek Gurnisson said. Max looked over at the Slayer. His massive form filled the hatchway leading into the observation deck. He moved surprisingly quietly for one so massive. Max had not heard him arrive either. ‘But a good axe will kill them all in the end.’
Max was relieved to hear the engines start up again. They began to move forward once more.
‘Wherever we’re going I hope we get there soon,’ he said.
‘We’ll have to wait till night and fix our position by the stars,’ Gotrek said. ‘Then we’ll have a better idea.’
Max wondered if the airship would even make it to nightfall. He had seen some of the ripped hawser cables. It was a miracle they were still here.
‘You’re very quiet,’ Ulrika said. Felix nodded and drew his cloak tighter about him. It was cold up atop the gasbag and the wind’s bite was cruel. They stood on the dorsal spine of the airship watching the two moons rise over the mountains. It was a sight of strange and intense beauty.
‘I was thinking about Varek. I never really knew him and now he’s gone.’
‘Death comes to everyone,’ she said. Felix looked at her. He wondered if he’d ever get used to the strong streak of fatalism in her. He supposed being brought up on the plains of North Kislev you got used to death early. He had not quite been so hardened before he set foot on the adventurer’s path. Being brought up the son of a rich merchant in Altdorf, the capital of the Empire, had le
ft him quite sheltered. The only death he had really been aware of was that of his mother, when he was nine years old. He had been too young to really understand it.
‘I was wondering what he would have done differently today if he had got up knowing this was his last day in the world. To tell the truth, I was wondering what I would have done under the circumstances.’
‘Have you come to any conclusions?’
‘I might have told you that I loved you.’ Felix was surprised to hear himself say the words. He knew he had wanted to say them for a while but had been afraid to. He wasn’t sure why. She was silent for a long time. He wondered if she had heard him.
‘I might have told you the same thing,’ she said eventually. He felt a strange kick in his stomach when she said the words. He turned and looked away into the distance. He felt as close to her at that moment as he ever had to anybody.
‘Might?’ he asked.
She smiled too and nodded.
‘Might.’
They moved a little apart but their hands drifted together and their fingers interlocked. Overhead the stars glittered like specks of ice. The Spirit of Grungni ploughed on through the night.
Max looked through the spyglass at the stars. ‘You’re right,’ He said. ‘That’s the polar star, and that is the Fang of the Wolf.’
Makaisson was already making a notation on his chart. He moved the callipers from the point that indicated their position to a red dot. ‘Then the nearest place we can seek repairs is Slayer Keep,’ he said.
‘Slayer Keep?’ Max enquired.
‘Karak Kadrin. The city of the Slayer King. Tis a grim wee place.’
‘With a name like that I wasn’t expecting something from a Detlef Sierck comedy.’
‘Will dae joost as weel as onywhaur else, so it will.’
‘I’m sure it will, Malakai. You’re the expert.’
‘Aye that ah am.’
Makaisson bellowed orders into the speaking tube. Slowly, like a dying whale, the Spirit of Grungni responded, taking a new line through the mountains towards the city of the Slayer King.
Felix and Ulrika stood on the command deck of the Spirit of Grungni. Ahead of them, dour and foreboding in the clear light of a mountain morning, lay Slayer Keep. It was a massive fortress carved from the very rock of the mountain peak. Its buildings had not so much been built as carved from the bare rock. Only the outer walls differed. They were built from massive chunks of lichen-encrusted stone. The stonework looked old as the mountains.
Kadrin Peak itself was not the highest of the local mountains by any means, but it stood apart from all its surroundings, dominating a massive valley between two chains of higher, grander mountains. A river ran below it. Borek had told Felix that once a forest had filled the valley, but that it had long ago been chopped down to feed the furnaces of Slayer Keep. Below the city were some of the deepest, darkest and most dangerous mines in all the dwarf realms. There were seams of coal and iron down there that had been worked since before the foundation of the Empire. They provided the raw materials for Kadrin steel, famous through the dwarf realms and the lands of men for making the finest of axe blades. Clouds of dark polluted smoke hung over the city.
Felix did not think he had ever seen a more forbidding place. It was a grim fortress of crudely cut stone. Knowing the pride that dwarfs took in their masonry, Felix could only guess that the crudeness of the architecture was a statement of some sort. Karak Kadrin spoke of squat primitive power. It was a castle designed to be defended. A place meant to endure siege. An outpost in a place of infinite danger. He did not like the look of it particularly.
Already he could see warriors gathering on the walls. Various war engines were being brought to bear upon them. Ballistae, catapults and other things the purpose of which he could only guess were all being swivelled towards them. Even though Borek had insisted on draping rune banners from below the Spirit of Grungni, the occupants of Slayer Keep were treating them as a potential threat. Felix could see the sense in that. Had the airship appeared over any city of the Empire it would have caused similar consternation, even if it was flying the colours of Karl Franz himself.
As Felix watched, the last gyrocopter whisked past the airship and sped towards the city. It was a machine that would be recognised by any dwarf, and it carried a message for Ungrimm Ironfist, the Slayer King himself. Makaisson threw the engines of the Spirit of Grungni into reverse and they hovered just out of ballista range waiting for permission to land.
‘A grim place,’ Felix said to Ulrika. She nodded agreement to him. They had been strangely shy of each other since their conversation last night. He could not speak for her, but he was relatively new to all of this. He had felt no strong emotional attachment to anyone since the death of Kirsten at Fort von Diehl.
‘As well it might be, Felix Jaeger,’ Borek said from his chair. He looked up at Felix with rheumy old eyes, from which all the spark of triumph had vanished. ‘If you knew its history, you would understand more. Slayer Keep has endured more sieges than any other dwarfhold, and it is the home of the Cult of Slayers, and the Shrine of Grimnir, who is the most bloodthirsty of all our Ancestor Gods.’
‘You say Grimnir is bloodthirsty.’ Ulrika asked. ‘Does he accept living sacrifices then?’
‘Only the lives of his Slayers. He takes their death in payment for their sins. And their hair.’
Borek must have noticed the startled look pass across Felix’s face, for he added, ‘Most Slayers take their vow before the great altar of Grimnir down there, that is where they shave their heads, then they burn their hair in the great furnace. Outside is the street of skin artists, where they have their first tattoos inked into their flesh.’
‘Did Gotrek take his vow there?’ Ulrika asked. Felix tilted his head. The question had crossed his mind too.
‘I don’t believe so. To my knowledge he has never set foot in this city before, though I do not know all of his deeds.’
‘Then is he really a Slayer?’ asked Ulrika. Borek smiled.
‘It does not matter where a dwarf takes the oath and shaves his head. He is a Slayer when it is done. Many choose to take the oath at Grimnir’s shrine for the sake of form. They have their names carved on the great pillar in the temple and that way all will know of their passing from life.’
‘But they’re not yet dead,’ Ulrika said.
‘Not yet. But to family and friends, to clan and hearth, a dwarf is dead the moment he takes the oath. It may be that Gotrek chose you as a rememberer, Felix Jaeger, because he had not yet had his name carved on the pillar of woe.’
‘I don’t follow you,’ said Felix.
‘No one would know of his deed had he fallen in a far place with no dwarfs to witness it. A rememberer would bring word of his doom to us, and see his name carved on the pillar.’
‘That is not what he asked me to do.’
Borek smiled sourly. ‘The son of Gurni was never conventional even before he became a Slayer. Once he greatly craved renown. I think in a way he still does.’
Felix was about to ask more when he was interrupted by a dull roaring noise from the distance.
‘What is that?’ he asked. ‘Are we being attacked?’
The sour smile widened on Borek’s face. ‘I would guess that the Slayer King has received word of our quest’s success. That is cheering you hear.’
And indeed it was, thought Felix, as the battered airship half-drifted over the dwarf city. Looking down all he could see was a seething ocean of dwarf faces, looking up. He could hear roaring and chanting. Drums beat, mighty horns sounded. Banners and flags were draped from every window of the city. Felix wondered where they found space to house all those dwarfs. The fortress city did not look large enough to be home to all of them. Then he remembered that like the great ice mountains floating in the Sea of Claws, most of a dwarfhold was hidden from sight, leaving only their smallest portion visible on the surface.
Below them he saw an enormous structure, squat and ma
ssive, with a massive sculpture of two crossed axes inset in its roof. Strange runes were set on the stonework that reminded Felix of those he had seen blazing on Gotrek’s axe. He guessed they held some mystical significance for dwarfs.
He looked at Ulrika and smiled. It was the first time in his life he could ever remember being welcomed as a hero anywhere.
Grey Seer Thanquol looked at Lurk. Lurk glared back at the magician with loathing in his eyes. Thanquol’s magic had brought down a grazing elk. Lurk had consumed most of it before Thanquol had even buried his snout in the flesh. He was not best pleased.
Granted, he needed far less meat than his mutated henchman, and he could not have eaten one hundredth of what Lurk had anyway, but that was not the point. It was the disrespect that galled him. He was a grey seer. Lurk was a lowly warrior even if he was now a huge and powerful mutant. He should have waited till after Thanquol ate his fill before beginning this disgusting orgy of consumption, and he should have asked Thanquol’s leave to eat. He was, after all, a mere lackey.
Briefly Thanquol considered pointing this out. Very briefly. Lurk was now far more physically powerful than Thanquol. The seer’s full magical power had yet to come back after the battle, and he had only the smallest piece of warpstone left to augment his energies. He wanted to save it for an emergency.
No, he decided. It was merely prudent skaven caution to avoid a confrontation with Lurk at this moment. He knew he was physically no match for the great brute. But then again, he consoled himself, what did that matter? As a feeble and skinny runt he had used his gigantic intellect to exact vengeance on skaven far larger and stronger than he. The same thing would happen here eventually, of that he was certain. Also, the thought had crossed his mind that the more Lurk ate now, the less likely he would be tempted to kill and eat Thanquol later. The grey seer had seen some of the hungry glances his minion had been shooting at him. They were in no sense reassuring.