by Warhammer
It had been called Wolf Crag during the Realmgate Wars, before three warrior chambers of the Lions of Sigmar Stormhost had decimated themselves purging it of its bestial masters. The Hundred Herdstones that had been raised in the crag’s shadow had been toppled, and the Wolf-Kings with them, but with the beastherds gone the skaven had moved in. The ratmen had burrowed up from below, as the forces of Azyr built their defences. When the ratkin had at last erupted into the half-finished citadel, a new war had been waged on the ashes of the old.
It had not been the sort of victory that bards sang of. More, a grudging stalemate. Lion Crag had been left a scalded ruin, the last Volker had heard. Apparently, that was good enough for the skaven. Brondt glanced at him. ‘Your folk are good at the destruction, but not the follow-through. It takes more than collapsing some tunnels and burning a few vermin to exterminate the ratkin.’
Struck by a sudden thought, Volker began to calculate distance. He cursed. Nyoka nudged him. ‘What is it? What do you see?’
‘The old trade roads.’ Volker pointed. ‘It’s a straight line from Lion Crag to Excelsis. That’s why we had to drive the beastherds out in the first place – it was the only way to re-establish those early trade routes with the worm-cities. It was why the skaven wanted it, as well. At least that’s what everyone thought. But they never made any raids that anyone knew of.’ He looked at Zana. ‘What if they had different plans in mind?’
She groaned. ‘Of course. They wanted some place to construct that device of theirs. And close enough to Gorch to use it to claim the spear.’ She rubbed her face. ‘They’ve been planning this for a while.’ She shook her head. ‘Grungni isn’t going to be happy. If the ratkin have known about the weapons this long, there’s every likelihood that they’re looking for the others as well.’ She frowned. ‘They might even have already claimed some of them.’
‘So? Just sounds like it makes them easier to find, to me.’ Lugash strode across the deck, scratching his cheek with his war-iron. The doomseeker had been prowling about since they’d left Gorch, unable to relax. Volker knew how he felt. ‘Skaven are sneaky, but not that sneaky.’ He peered over the rail. ‘How many are down there, do you think?’
The explosion lit up the sky, sending a ragged scar of reds and yellows across the black. Zana whistled. ‘Fewer now, I expect.’ Another explosion followed the first. Something was happening. Volker looked at the others.
‘Looks like we’re not the only ones who followed them.’
Twenty-Two
Battle of The Crag
Volker looked at Brondt, as another explosion lit up the sky. Whoever – whatever – was attacking Lion Crag, they weren’t being quiet about it. ‘We need to get down there.’
‘Are you mad?’ Brondt demanded. ‘I just got this thing sky-worthy – I’m not taking it down there to be destroyed!’
‘You won’t have to. Not for long, at least.’ Zana had a speculative look on her face.
‘You’ve got a plan, I expect.’ Brondt shook his head. ‘What am I saying? Of course you do. Well, we’re out of most everything that burns or explodes.’
‘You’ve got a contingent of Grundstok Thunderers on board,’ Zana said. ‘And your crew.’ She scratched her chin. ‘Besides, once the skaven get a look at this heap heaving to out of the clouds, they’ll scatter. If they’re not busy fighting whoever is already down there. All we have to do is find the spear – we’re not trying to win a battle.’
Brondt puffed on his cheroot in silence for a moment. Then, ‘You can put it to them yourself. Stonehelm isn’t a member of my crew, and I can’t order him to do anything he doesn’t want to do.’
‘I thought what the captain said goes,’ Zana said.
‘And if he wants to remain captain, he’ll make sure he says the right thing.’
The Thunderers gunnery sergeant was a bluff, burly, shaven-headed duardin named Stonehelm. He had a sharply cropped ginger beard shaped like a spade, which he tugged on as Zana made their case. Stonehelm had a hard look in his eye, one Volker normally associated with freeguild officers – a sort of flat acceptance of the world, and all its obvious faults. Especially those standing in front of the officer in question.
Stonehelm frowned as Zana finished her pitch. The Thunderer held his helmet under one arm and tugged on his beard again. ‘It’s suicide. Worse, we’re not being paid for it.’ He glared at Brondt, who glanced at Zana, and gestured.
‘The Grundstok company can bill the Azyrites for services rendered,’ Zana said. She knocked her knuckles against Volker’s chest. ‘He’s a gunmaster. He’ll be a witness.’ She grinned. ‘Better, he’s your employer.’ She shushed Volker as he made to protest. ‘Besides – think of it as a social obligation. You see a fire, you put it out. You see a skaven – kssht.’ She ran her thumb across her throat. ‘It’s just neighbourly.’
Stonehelm laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. He looked at Brondt. ‘She has a point, your human.’
‘Not mine.’ Brondt was nodding, though. ‘There’s still a bounty on skaven tails in the worm-cities,’ he added, speculatively.
Stonehelm laughed again. He spat in his palm and held it out. Zana did the same. ‘We have a contract,’ Stonehelm said. ‘We’ll kill rats for you, but the rest…’
‘We’ll handle it, never fear,’ Lugash growled, running a thumb along the edge of his axe. A bead of blood welled up on his thumb and he stuffed it into his mouth. He looked at his thumb. ‘Still not clear on how exactly, though.’
‘Horns of the bull,’ Volker said. ‘A two-pronged assault – one group on the ground, the other by air.’ Before Brondt could protest, he continued. ‘I’ve seen Kharadron land troops atop walls before. Landing on that war-machine shouldn’t be much more difficult.’
Oken laughed and slapped his knee. He’d come back up on deck with the others, unwilling to sit out preparations. ‘That’s the Azyrite way. Why attack one place, when you can attack two?’ He bent over, coughing, and Volker went to him. The old duardin caught his wrist. ‘I’m fine. Bit of venom left in me. Stop worrying.’
‘I’m not worried,’ Volker said.
Oken snorted. ‘You’ve always been a worrier. It’s why you make a good gunmaster.’
Volker hesitated. Then, ‘We haven’t had much chance to–’
Oken waved him to silence. ‘I taught you better than that. There’s a time and a place, and down in a mine isn’t it.’
‘We’re in the air.’
‘Same difference,’ Oken said, dismissively. He looked at Volker and tapped the side of his head. ‘Concentrate, boy. Eyes on the target. Nothing else is important.’
‘Eyes on the target,’ Volker said. He turned. ‘I’ll lead the attack on the machine. Captain…?’
‘Aye, lad. We’ll see to it.’ Brondt expelled smoke through his nostrils. ‘Bit of cut and thrust never bothered us.’
‘I’ll go as well,’ Zana said, before Adhema could speak.
Lugash clashed his weapons together. ‘And I as well, manling.’ The doomseeker was almost vibrating with excitement.
Roggen crossed his arms. ‘I will go with Stonehelm. Harrow will be of more use in the open than in some cramped machine.’
Nyoka rested her hammer in the crook of her arm. ‘I will accompany Roggen.’
‘As will I,’ Adhema said, finally. She grinned at Zana. ‘Three and three, eh? Gives us all an equal chance of finding what we came looking for.’
‘And if you find it first, you’re welcome to try to escape with it,’ Volker said, cutting any argument short. He thumped the deck with the stock of his long rifle. ‘I suggest running very swiftly.’ He looked around. ‘And I suggest we make ready. And pray.’
‘Save your prayers, lad,’ Brondt said, bluntly. ‘I’ve found that the gods are usually on the side of those with the most guns.’
Volker nodded. ‘And failing that,
the best shots.’
Once the decision had been made, things moved quickly. The Zank swung east, manoeuvring to approach Lion Crag from the cover of the clouds. Adhema winced slightly as the sun crept across the deck. The day was brighter here, the light fiercer, than in Shyish. Age lent strength to the body of the soulblighted. She could walk in the light, though not for long. Armour helped. Shadows helped more.
Despite the annoyance, she was excited. The promise of battle always had that effect. Even more so when victory was within her grasp. She licked her fangs, thinking of the celebration to come. Perhaps Neferata would allow her to cast the spear, as a reward for her diligence. She could think of a hundred possible targets, and was imagining one such when the big knight interrupted her. Roggen leaned forwards, hands gripping the rail. His eyes were on the fire below. ‘The Lady of Leaves has little tolerance for your kind. Something that is not dead, but should be – it is offensive to her.’
‘And what do you think?’ The question came unbidden to her lips. Curiosity, perhaps. The knight had saved her. Unthinking bravery, or simply a coincidental destructive urge? ‘Am I offensive?’
Roggen grinned. He was missing teeth. Not through neglect, she thought. A history of violence was writ on his features. A more interesting story than that of the Azyrite, at first glance. ‘Not to me. But then, I am a simple man. I fight. I do not judge.’ Another explosion from below drew his attention and he leaned forwards intently. His pulse jumped, and she felt something close to kinship, even as she imagined the taste of his blood on her tongue.
‘Simplicity is best,’ she said. ‘Leave judgement for the gods.’
‘Yes,’ he said, tearing his eyes away. ‘Come. We go below. It is almost time.’
She gestured elegantly. ‘Lead the way.’
Down below, in what the Kharadron called a deployment hold, they found Nyoka awaiting them, alongside Stonehelm and his Thunderers. The duardin glared at her, but none of them protested. She noted with some amusement that they gave both her and the demigryph an equally wide berth. ‘Predators of a feather,’ she murmured. The demigryph grumbled at her, its tail lashing. Animals rarely tolerated the scent of the undead.
As the Zank lurched into position, the sides of its hull scraping against the jagged cliffs of the crag, the Thunderers braced themselves. The ready-orb, mounted high above the cargo hatches, blinked, and Stonehelm began barking orders to his warriors. There were more than a dozen of them, divided into two fire-teams. ‘I want a fast drop. Ironwall formation, centred on Nhar. Eyes up and out. If you see anything bigger than a jezzail, give a shout. We all know the ratkin like their toys. Hamfist…?’
‘I’ll keep the big yuns off’n, gunnery sergeant,’ a heavy duardin, hunkered behind the blast shield of an aethershot cannon, answered. ‘Me an’ Helga.’ He patted the cannon fondly. Adhema snorted and traded looks with Roggen.
The big knight sat in the saddle, the reins gathered in his hands. He patted the demigryph’s neck, calming the restive beast. ‘We shall take the lead, I think.’
‘Aye, if you like,’ Stonehelm said. ‘Just don’t get in our way. I want a clean deployment zone. No foul-ups.’ He turned, fastening one of his warriors with a glare. ‘That goes double for you, Big Mad Drengi. Don’t think I don’t see you fondling that cutter of yours. We stay out of the chop, lads. That’s for greenskins and manlings.’
Drengi, a smallish duardin, muttered something, but nodded as Stonehelm’s glare remained steady. ‘Aye, gunnery sergeant. No chop.’
‘I trust you don’t have any aversion to us doing so, however,’ Adhema said. Her keen hearing had picked up the whining ping of small-arms fire ricocheting off the lower hull. The skaven had realised by now that a new player had entered the game. Stonehelm fixed her with a stare. Then he smiled.
‘Oh no, by all means – chop away. Just stay out of our line of fire.’ He shrugged. ‘Or don’t. Your choice.’ The ready-orb pulsed again, washing the hold in crimson light. ‘That’s it. Get ready. Blowing hatches in three… two… and…’
The trio of hatches set into the slope of the hull swung open with loud clanks and the grinding of unseen cogs. The sound of battle was no longer muffled, and Adhema could hear the crackle of warpfire and the screams of the dying. The landscape below was a blur of sandy brown, split by green streaks and azure slashes. Roggen thumped Harrow into motion before the first Thunderer had moved, and the demigryph sprang through an open hatch with a snarl. Adhema followed, laughing.
She struck the ground lightly, and was moving before the dust of Harrow’s landing had settled. She relished her speed, and the way the ratkin twitched and fell to pieces in her wake. In Shyish, the skaven were considered abominations – Nagash had declared them unworthy of life, or what came after, and they were to be destroyed utterly. Exterminated like the vermin they were.
From behind her, she heard the clatter of the descent-ladders unfurling. She glanced up and saw the Thunderers descending, their gauntlets sparking as they slid to the ground. Nyoka was among them, mouth moving in what Adhema assumed were prayers. She shuddered slightly. Prayers had no place on the battlefield. Death ground belonged to Nagash, whatever the inclinations of the combatants.
She stepped aside as Roggen galloped past, roaring out a war-cry. The demigryph bowled over a trio of skaven before lunging to meet a bellowing rat-ogre. Skaven scuttled in every direction, throwing up clouds of dust, fighting black-clad warriors or daemonic shapes. The stink of Chaos hung heavy over the slopes, and warp-flames raged in the depths of the crag, causing stockpiled ammunition to cook off and ricochet about the battlefield.
A high-pitched cackle caused her to turn, and she saw gambolling pink-fleshed daemons swing and leap among the walkways and gantries above. The creatures were fleshy nightmares, with leering features marking their wide torsos, and massive, grasping hands flapping at the ends of too-long arms. They stuttered forwards on bowed legs, chortling and shrieking. One mass of shifting, gangly limbs bounded towards her with an excited squeal.
She ducked beneath its lunge and chopped through its torso, splitting it in half. Pink flushed purple, before fading to blue, and the chuckling monstrosity collapsed into two smaller, squabbling shapes. She kicked these aside and turned, as the shadow of the Zank passed overhead, sliding towards the rounded shape of the skaven war-machine.
Yuhdak gestured, and a skaven screamed as his spell twisted it into a new and more monstrous shape. Its flesh burst and boiled, erupting in scabrous tendrils, even as its torso split, revealing a newly made maw of dagger-like teeth. The skaven-thing fell on its comrades, ripping and tearing with unnatural hunger. Yuhdak left the spawn to its feeding and pressed on, trailing warpfire from his hands.
He felt a strange sense of peace at times like this, when there was no greater objective in the moment than to ride the wave of chaos over the enemy. He felt the strands of binding that connected him to the daemons he’d summoned twitch and hum, as the creatures set about indulging themselves. The writhing lesser daemons were fashioned from raw warp stuff, and eager to entertain themselves with the more solid inhabitants of the mortal realms. They served to occupy the skaven well enough, while the Ninety-Nine Feathers saw to more pragmatic concerns.
He’d considered summoning such creatures earlier, but the effort was tiring, and he had no intention of making any more pacts with the Neverborn than was absolutely necessary. While some adepts could drag daemons from the Realm of Chaos through sheer brute strength, he was not one of them. Instead, he bargained – or failing that, wagered – with them. This for that, tit for tat. A favour here, a favour there. Luckily, lesser daemons were rarely capable of thinking beyond their own immediate gratification.
Yuhdak turned, unleashing a gout of coruscating flame with a twitch of his fingers. A rickety-looking wooden watchtower convulsed and bent, becoming something horrible and hungry. It gnashed the skaven who’d occupied it to red, wet
rags with splintery teeth, before lurching awkwardly after new prey. Yuhdak laughed gaily. It pleased him no end to bring new life into the world.
A different sound intruded on his good cheer. The hard bark of duardin guns. He spun, searching the battlefield, and cursed as he saw a familiar shape sliding through the sky above. He lifted his hands, intending to bathe the vessel’s hull in witchfire and send it crashing to earth. But before he could loose the spell, something struck him in the belly, driving the air from his lungs and the words from his mind.
He staggered, wrenching his sword from its sheath, driving his attacker back. Words lashed at him – holy words, spoken in a panting rush. The woman came for him again, two-handed hammer raised. A blinding aura suffused her, making him wince. The power of Azyr flowed through her, and it made his soul ache to be near it. He recognised her, if dimly – a priestess, then. ‘Vampires, lunatic duardin, and now a fanatic – the Crippled God chooses strange tools,’ he said, backing away.
‘It is not for us to question the gods,’ she said. She paced after him. ‘I know your stench. You sent your feathered assassins to desecrate our holy fane, witch. For that, you must deliver an accounting.’
‘And who are you to judge me?’
‘You have already been judged,’ she said, with a serenity that irked him. ‘And I am the sentence.’ Her hammer snapped out, almost faster than he could follow. He ducked back, startled. She whipped towards him, allowing him no respite, giving him no chance to gather himself. She spun, catching him in the side. He skidded, barely managing to remain on his feet, and whistled once, sharply.
A pink horror leapt for her, out of the smoke. She struck it in the face, pulping it. Its unnatural flesh smoked where her weapon struck it and it sagged back, deflating with a maudlin sigh. Two more daemons flung themselves at her, chortling. As she fought, the light within her grew brighter, almost blinding, and he felt a shiver in his soul.