Warcry: The Anthology

by Various Authors

  ‘And when you did…?’

  Khoragh looked at him as if he were a fool. ‘I tried to open it, of course.’

  ‘You failed.’

  ‘If I hadn’t, I doubt we would be having this discussion, boy.’ Khoragh’s voice softened. ‘The moment my servants touched it, the sigils… blazed. Bright. So bright. Like fire. No, brighter than that. Brighter than any conflagration known to duardin.’ His eyes strayed to the portcullises, and he fell silent.

  Vos waited a few moments. Then, ‘And?’

  Khoragh shook himself. ‘They died. Magics of some sort. But they awoke something. Perhaps it was summoned by their tampering, or maybe it had been there all along. I don’t know. It came and killed. It killed the guards who patrolled the forges and my slaves some weeks ago. Killed the warriors I sent after it. Killed those I sent after them. And so on…’

  ‘How many warriors do you have left?’

  Khoragh glanced at the ogors. ‘Not so many that I can afford to waste them on fruitless hunts,’ he said, after a moment.

  Vos hesitated. Khoragh was not telling the truth – at least not the whole truth. But he pushed the thought aside. ‘Why not send word to the Onyx Fist? Why not ask for our aid?’

  Khoragh shrugged. ‘I thought I could handle it. When I realised that I could not… well, I knew that Mithraxes would send someone to see why I had not delivered the tithe. So I waited, and here you are.’ He bared his tusks. ‘Took you long enough, I might add. I am owed protection, but when I needed you, you were nowhere to be found.’

  ‘We are here now.’ Vos studied the duardin. There was something else. He could hear it in Khoragh’s voice. Something he wasn’t saying. But it wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was securing the tithe.

  ‘Yes. And now, of course, you will hunt down this… creature,’ Khoragh said.

  Vos looked at him, but said nothing. He had expected as much.

  Khoragh smiled, perhaps taking his silence for confusion. ‘I am owed protection. If you wish the tithe, you will slay this invader for me. A simple enough matter, for such mighty warriors, I think.’

  ‘And if we do not?’ Vos asked.

  ‘Then I will consider the iron promise broken, and my debt paid.’ Khoragh’s smile widened. ‘I doubt my oath-brother Mithraxes would thank you for that.’

  Vos was silent for a moment. Then he looked across the causeway to the portcullises. ‘Where is this vault?’ Such a thing might be of great value to the High Overlord.

  Khoragh’s expression became sly. ‘Somewhere below. Far below. Deep beneath the forges.’

  ‘The forges – they are through those gates?’

  ‘Yes. I trapped it down there. Rune-magics seal those gates. They can only be opened by my hand – or stronger magics. When it became clear that my men could not contain the beast, I was forced to isolate the lower levels.’

  ‘You will open one of them,’ Vos said, decisively. It was the simplest solution to the problem at hand. Kill the creature, claim the tithe. ‘We will hunt the creature down and kill it for you.’

  ‘I will require proof, obviously,’ Khoragh said, hurriedly. ‘Proof that you have done so. It’s head, I think. Yes, that will do. Bring me its head, and I will honour my debt.’

  Vos hesitated but only for a moment. He nodded. ‘Fine.’ He went back to the steps and gestured for the others to join him on the landing. The ogors had retreated, giving them room to climb up. Kolsk leaned close. ‘Success?’ he murmured.

  ‘Not yet,’ Vos said. Then, more loudly, ‘We have a beast to kill, and a debt to uphold. Come. We march in Mithraxes’ name.’ Vos turned to Khoragh. ‘Which gate?’

  Khoragh stomped to the winches and pulleys. ‘Centre portcullis,’ he said. ‘It leads to the largest of the forges. From there, it’s a simple matter to reach the others.’ As he pushed and pulled at the mechanisms, Vos heard a distant clattering. A moment later, the chains began to move and the portcullis began to rise. ‘Best hurry,’ Khoragh said, loudly. ‘I’d rather not leave it open too long. Can’t risk it escaping.’

  The portcullis rose with a groan as Vos and the others crossed the causeway at a trot. ‘I do not like this, dominar,’ Kolsk said, as they loped towards the portcullis. ‘We cannot trust that creature. Duardin are sneaky. Always looking for ways out of their debts.’

  ‘Yes,’ Vos agreed. ‘That is why we will not give him the opportunity. We will slay this beast, and Khoragh will be held to his promise.’

  Kolsk grunted. ‘Even so…’

  ‘Do not worry, signifier,’ Varka said, laughing. ‘I will protect you.’

  ‘Quiet, both of you,’ Vos said, as they passed beneath the portcullis. It slammed shut behind them, nearly clipping Garn, and forcing the legionary to leap forward with a curse. The echoes of its descent reverberated outwards, shaking Vos to his marrow.

  A second causeway stretched away from the portcullis, towards a heavy stone archway. The archway was surmounted by a single massive rune, stamped onto the blackened rock face. Vos didn’t know what it signified – a name, perhaps, or simply a numerical identifier.

  There were more causeways above them, stretching in all directions. Beneath them were several tiers of stone canals, each full of bubbling lava drawn from the mountain’s depths. The duardin were masters of stone and fire, and could turn a solid mountain into an alembic, if it suited their purposes. Towers of heat and smoke rose from these canals to either side of the causeway, causing the air to ripple and contract in unsettling ways. Vos twitched as sweat crept down beneath the plates of his armour.

  ‘It is hot,’ Harsk complained. ‘Too hot for mortal flesh. How did that cursed duardin keep his slaves alive down here?’

  ‘Perhaps they were stronger than you,’ Garn said. Harsk made to retort, but Vos silenced them both with a look. The causeway was littered with rubble. The roof above and the pillars that lined it were scored by the signs of battle – including a number of strange marks that Vos could not identify. They looked like scorch marks, but he could not think of a weapon that would cause such a thing – at least not one with such seeming precision.

  There were bodies as well. A dozen, maybe more. They were scattered singly and in groups the length of the causeway. Hillmen and sellswords – the sort of trash who drifted from master to master, with no place to call home and no loyalty to anything save coin. Some bore the blessings of Chaos upon their mortified flesh.

  Most were gutter trash from Carngrad or one of the smaller settlements that dotted the Kardeb Ashwaste. Vos saw a warrior clad in sea-green chain, with a mane of iridescent feathers rather than hair, lying broken beneath a fallen pillar. Nearby sprawled a brutish beastman, his horns garlanded with silver chains, and his head nearly severed from his thick neck. Others were simply tribesmen of one clan or another, drawn from across the Bloodwind Spoil. All of them had died in battle.

  ‘What sort of beast is this?’ Varka said. ‘I see no teeth marks, no signs of claws.’

  Vos didn’t reply. He continued on, across the causeway. He could hear the roar of lava and the rush of hot winds circulating through the stone veins of the complex. When they reached the aperture that led to the upper tier of forges, Kolsk stopped. ‘More bodies. These are less fresh.’ The signifier looked down at the corpses. ‘Fairly mangled as well.’ He looked at Vos. ‘How many men did he send down here?’

  ‘All of them,’ Vos said, staring at the aperture. A fallen chunk of rock partially blocked it. The portal reminded him of the mouth of a hungry beast, for all that it was simply unadorned stone. Something was waiting for them in there. He could feel it.

  ‘He told you this?’

  ‘No. But if he hadn’t, we would have seen them. I think that is why he sealed the gates. It killed his men, killed his workforce and now, he fears it will kill him.’

  ‘He is a coward,’ Kolsk said, looking
at Varka.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Or maybe he is simply used to having others do his fighting for him.’

  ‘As I said.’

  ‘Are you a coward for ordering legionaries into battle?’ she retorted.

  ‘A discussion for another time,’ Vos interjected, as he shouldered aside the stone slab. It fell with a crash and the sound reverberated across the causeway. He paused and turned, scanning the pillars and the heights. ‘Keep moving.’

  The stairs beyond were tight and sweltering. Magma-mould crept in red striations across the sloping walls, twitching in the heat. They saw more dead bodies as they descended. These looked as if they had been making a stand on the stairs, against something coming up from below, when they’d been struck down.

  Like the ones on the causeway, the heat had all but desiccated them, and the mould was creeping across them, devouring what was left. Vos stepped on one, and the man’s body collapsed into a cloud of spores that drifted lazily on the air. He waved a hand to disperse them. ‘This feels wrong,’ Kolsk said, behind him. Vos said nothing, though he agreed.

  The upper forge was a large, wheel-like chamber, centred on the axle of the firepit itself. A ring of a hundred anvils encircled a great chimney-like structure that Vos suspected passed through each of the forges on the levels below. The fires had grown low, but still burned, thanks to the ever-flowing lava. Tools lay scattered across the floor, and tables and benches were overturned. Racks had been stripped of weapons, and there were more bodies, in the corners as well as atop the observation platform that had been built around the uppermost section of the chimney.

  Vos nudged one of the bodies with his foot. ‘The guards. Khoragh left them to rot.’ The overseer was human – or had been. One of the tribes that infested the lowlands, if he was reading the tattoos right. The warrior had been killed with a single blow – cleanly and swiftly. The guard’s sword was still sheathed. The others were much the same. Only one had managed to draw a weapon. He lay slumped against an anvil, his chest reduced to a blackened crater.

  ‘What kind of monster is this?’ Varka said, examining the guard. ‘This wound is… it’s like he was pierced by a blade made of fire.’

  Vos stiffened. Something about her words caught at him. He turned slowly, imagining the scene as it must have happened. The screams of panic, of fear – and then… what? There would have been hundreds of slaves down here, and more besides, on the lower levels. Khoragh raided the lowlands for them regularly. So where were their bodies?

  ‘These chains… they’ve been struck off,’ Kolsk said from nearby. He lifted a set of manacles. ‘By a blade, not by claws.’ He held the manacles up and peered closely at them. ‘A good blade, too.’

  ‘These as well,’ Crola called out, lifting another set of manacles. ‘Some look as if they did it themselves, with their tools.’

  ‘Something – someone – freed one group, and then that group freed others,’ Vos said, looking around. Pushing and shoving, drunk on hope, they would have made for freedom. Besides the central stairway, there were two other stairwells that stretched away from the forge, and up to the causeway. He went to the entrance of one.

  ‘The duardin was lying,’ Varka said, incredulous. ‘I didn’t know that they knew how.’

  ‘Not lying. Not completely. His slaves are dead. Look.’ Vos extended his hammer. The stairway beyond was black with char. Murder-holes lined the upper reaches, curious brass chutes jutting from each. Burned bone and hummocks of what he thought must be cooled lava crunched beneath Vos’ feet. The floor of the corridor was carpeted in the remains of many bodies, all of them reduced to blackened bones. The bones had melted together in places, creating a fragile, osseous bramble.

  ‘The other corridors are the same, dominar,’ Garn said.

  ‘Something struck off their chains… and then burned them?’ Harsk asked.

  ‘No. Khoragh burned them. By some secret mechanism.’ Vos indicated the murder-holes. ‘When they tried to escape.’ He went to the steps which led down to the lower forges. ‘He must have waited until they were all coming up the stairs and…’ He trailed off. ‘What a waste of good chattel.’

  ‘He was desperate,’ Kolsk said. ‘It’s the only reason one of his sort would sacrifice so much chattel. But all I see here are signs of a rebellion – not a monster.’

  ‘No,’ Vos said. He turned to Kolsk. ‘We are not hunting a beast.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Vos shook his head. ‘I do not know. Not for certain. Come. We must go down.’

  It took longer than he expected to navigate the twisting stair­wells. The lower they went, the hotter and the more oppressive it became. The lower forges were much the same as the uppermost. Guards slain, slaves freed. Whatever had happened had started below on the lowest levels, and swept upwards.

  At the bottom, below the lowest of the forges, they found something new – a cistern, or something similar. A pit, older than the forge built atop it, and wider by far, marked by runes. It stretched almost the length of the lowest chamber, and Vos could see where it had once been sealed by a cascade of collapsed rock, perhaps from the levels above. Someone, likely Khoragh, had begun to clear it. There was a tunnel, stretching through the debris, down into the depths below.

  ‘I know what this is,’ Kolsk murmured. His voice echoed eerily in the stultifying silence. ‘Fyreslayers collapse their vaults if their holds are threatened. They must have done the same here, when Khoragh came. They do it to hide their gold.’

  ‘I do not think Khoragh found gold down there,’ Varka said.

  Vos peered into the tunnel. Something gleamed in the depths. ‘Not just gold,’ he said. ‘I will go down. Varka, come with me. Kolsk, the rest of you – hold here. If we do not return… do as you think best.’

  Kolsk genuflected. ‘Aye, dominar.’ Then, after a moment’s pause, he added, ‘May the flame of Chaos light your way.’

  Vos led the way, moving carefully down the uneven slope of the tunnel. It had been carved by the hands of slaves. He could see the marks where they’d faltered, and the stains where they’d died. He felt the heat of the mountain’s roots squeezing his lungs and he paused to blink the sweat from his eyes. The gleam grew brighter.

  ‘It’s gold,’ Varka said, tapping the wall with her flail. ‘Melted gold.’

  ‘They destroyed their wealth, rather than let it be taken.’

  ‘Not everything,’ she said, pointing.

  The box sat trapped amid a twisted extrusion of melted gold. It was a long thing, and narrow. And cold – it radiated cold, such as Vos had never felt. The cold of the night sky. It was crafted from some strange metal that bled a soft radiance. ‘Starlight,’ Varka whispered. ‘It is like starlight.’ She turned away. ‘It hurts my eyes. Dominar… we should not be here. This thing is cursed.’

  Vos stepped closer, squinting against the glare. He could just make out the weird sigils which encrusted it – they were not runes or the familiar marks of the Dark Gods.

  ‘Do you hear that?’ Varka said, softly. ‘Like… singing?’

  He did. Thin sounds as if from some great distance, like the patter of rain or the crackle of a distant fire. Only they were words, not just sounds, he was certain of it. And even as he tried to ignore it, a part of him yearned to hear – to know what it meant, to see and feel what it promised. Unable to stop himself, he reached out a hand. He heard Varka say something, but he could not look away. Could only stretch forth a hand – could only…

  ‘Dominar! Listen!’ Varka shook him, breaking the spell. He shrugged her off and staggered back, head swimming.

  ‘What?’ he growled. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The signifier calls out.’ Varka was already making her way back up the tunnel. Vos hesitated, looking back at the strange box. Then, with a curse, he forced himself to follow her.

  At the top of the tu
nnel, Kolsk was waiting, agitated. ‘I saw something,’ he shouted.

  ‘Saw what?’ Vos demanded.

  ‘I do not know, dominar. Only that it was fast. Up there, somewhere.’ He gestured to the support arches and stone beams that made up the ceiling. Shadows bunched thickly among them. Vos stared, but saw nothing.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  As if in answer to his question, the sound of metal on stone echoed down from above. Vos caught a flash of movement then. Something was perched above, watching them. And he knew what it was, now. He suspected that it had been shadowing them since they’d entered the forge. Of course it would have been watching the portcullises, waiting for an opportunity to escape. Or for Khoragh to send more warriors in after it. ‘Back,’ he growled. ‘Back to the causeway. We have been misled.’

  ‘What is it?’ Varka asked.

  Vos ignored her question. ‘Go!’ Varka fell silent, and the warband fell back to the steps with disciplined haste. Panting with exertion, they raced up through the forges, one after the next. He pressed them hard, not letting them stop or slow. He knew that to stop, for whatever reason, was to die.

  Every so often, he caught a glimpse of it, out of the corner of his eye. Behind them. Above them. It’d had weeks to learn every route and path in this place. There was only one place they could go. One place that might allow their survival.

  ‘Back to the portcullis,’ he said, as they finally reached the uppermost causeway. ‘We’ll make our stand there.’ He heard Kolsk shout, and turned. Something gold flashed in the gloom of the stairwell. ‘Form up, form up!’

  Harsk and the other legionaries turned, shields presented to the enemy, but too late. The monster – the thing – was fast. Too fast, for something so bulky. As if it weighed nothing at all. It sprang over them, striking a pillar, and crashed down on the causeway, bet­ween them and the portcullis. Its ragged cloak flared about its massive form, revealing tarnished facets of golden war-plate and the hateful sigils which marked them. Forbidden celestial runes that stung the eye and stole courage.