by Warhammer
A moment later, Volker was on his way to joining him. Even with the orrery crumpling in on itself, the vortex was still there, still growing. And he couldn’t muster the strength to fight its pull. He closed his eyes as he began the slide to oblivion.
His eyes sprang open as he jerked to a sudden, painful halt. He twisted, looking back, and saw Zana holding onto the back of his coat with her good hand. Lugash held her wounded one, and had his axe embedded in the frame of the bulkhead. ‘That’s two favours you bloody well owe me, Azyrite,’ she shouted. ‘Now shift yourself, you great lump.’
Despite the black spots crowding the edge of his vision, Volker did. Slowly, they hauled themselves out into the corridor, the void-born wind clawing at them with increasing ferocity. Inside the chamber, warp lightning erupted from the remains of the device, running across the walls and floor. Metal crumpled in on itself as it was ripped from the frame and drawn into the whirling vortex at the heart of the orrery.
They staggered to the closest hatch as the war-machine shook itself to pieces around them. Volker couldn’t tell whether it was part of the ceiling or the wall, as everything around them seemed to be changing position rapidly. Lugash smashed it open, leaving bloody prints on the metal. The doomseeker was a mass of shallow wounds, his helmet lost, a bloody gash matting the hair on his head.
He gave a bark of laughter and flung out a hand, as if signalling for something beyond the hatch. A moment later, he caught hold of Volker and dragged him up. ‘Reach, manling – your life depends on it.’
Blearily, Volker saw a dangling ladder, and the familiar face of Brondt, hand extended. The Zank was keeping pace with the war-machine, but only just. Aether-smoke gouted from the vessel’s endrins, staining the air. ‘Hand, lad, give me your hand,’ Brondt shouted over the roar of the wind. Volker reached and nearly fell. The ground raced by below, smashed into broken chunks by the war-machine as it sped along, even in its death throes. ‘We can’t keep pace for long,’ Brondt roared. Lugash cursed, caught hold of Volker and flung him out of the hatch. Volker hit the ladder and tried to grab hold, but his arm refused to cooperate. Brondt caught him and dragged him up. ‘Where’s Zana?’ the Kharadron demanded.
‘I’ve got her,’ Lugash snarled. He leapt from the shuddering hatch, Zana clinging to his neck. He scrambled up the ladder after Brondt and Volker.
Zana grinned up at Volker from Lugash’s back.
‘Some fun, eh, Azyrite? Never a dull moment, working for Grungni.’
‘Is it always like this?’ he said. The Zank pulled slowly away from the war-machine. The great engine was folding in on itself, as if it were deflating. He winced as the metal screamed and buckled.
‘Sometimes it’s worse,’ Zana said. She flinched as the war-machine gave a shriek of bending metal and popping rivets. Volker blinked stars from his eyes and sagged against the ladder, feeling more tired than he could ever remember. He looked down at Zana as another explosion sent chunks of the dying skaven war-engine hurtling in all directions. ‘Two favours, huh?’
‘Two,’ she said. ‘And I will collect, Azyrite, you mark my words.’
‘Glad to see you’re happy,’ Brondt called down. He grinned at Zana, and her own smile faltered. ‘And speaking of favours, you owe me three now, Mathos.’
Aboard the dying warp-wheel, Quell realised something had gone catastrophically wrong when he felt his throne beginning to pull loose from the deck. Metal groaned and burst. His crew squealed in panic. Deck plates were ripped free of the frame and drawn away from the command chamber, deeper into the warp-wheel. Everything was shaking, coming apart at the seams.
Rivets burst from the hull, whipping backwards. Several of his warriors fell, heads and chests pierced by the flying rivets. Their bodies rolled across the floor, sliding back into whatever was growing within his war-machine. Quell clutched his throne tightly, as if he might be able to keep it in place through sheer will.
A section of the hull frame slammed down close by. The massive beam bent backwards with a screech, nearly taking his head off. He could hear the familiar roar of the oscillation overgrinder now. Something had caused a power surge. Instead of propelling the warp-wheel through the dimensional membrane, it was drawing it in – and not as a whole, but piece by piece. He slammed a paw down on his throne.
‘Sabotage,’ he shrieked. His throne rocked back, caught in the pull of the overgrinder. It was the Blighted City all over again. Someone was trying to deny him his rightful glory. ‘Was it you?’ he demanded, glaring down at the crew-rat clinging to his throne. The skaven chittered a protest. Quell crouched on his throne and kicked the hapless creature off. The skaven squealed piteously as he was dragged away to his well-deserved doom. A moment later, he was joined by several other members of the crew, most of whom were still clinging to their seats, or part of the hull.
The hum was growing louder. The overgrinder, chewing away at the fabric of the realm. Quell ran the calculations. Definitely sabotage – but who stood to gain? Warpfang? No. Skewerax? Possibly. Daemons were sneaky, even the stupid ones. Perhaps especially the stupid ones. The warp-wheel was doomed, regardless.
The thought made him want to gnaw his tail to a bloody stump. He had wasted precious months building the device, only to have it snatched away now, on the eve of his greatest triumph. Someone would pay. But first – escape. Quickly, he dropped into his seat and reached for the straps. His was the only seat with them, for a very good reason. It was the only seat designed to be anything more than what it appeared to be.
The first rule of being a warlock engineer – always have a way out. He tightened the straps and tore away the padding on the frame, revealing a heavy switch. He hesitated. He’d only ever tried this on slaves, and it hadn’t ended well for them. Then again, what choice did he have? He looked up as the top of the hull peeled away, revealing open sky. Baring his teeth in fright, he thrust the switch down. Fat sparks stung his paw as the hidden launching mechanism growled to life. Warpstone springs contracted with a screech. Quell closed his eyes as his throne exploded upwards, towards the sky.
As he hurtled to safety, his invention at last surrendered to the inevitable and exploded with an ear-splitting shriek. Fading tracers of lightning shot across the steppes following the chunks of wreckage, scorching striated paths through the grasses.
He tumbled skywards, caught in the updraught of the explosion, paws fumbling at the controls of the ejector seat. He had to deploy the parachute before gravity caught him in its treacherous grip. As the sky and ground juxtaposed themselves with dizzying speed, Quell caught sight of an aether-craft pulling away from the funeral pyre of his genius.
A faint thread of satisfaction pierced the all-consuming fear. He had been right after all. It had been sabotage. Well, they would pay. They’d all pay. He shook a fist at the departing craft, even as he caught hold of the lever to deploy the chute.
Another gut-churning lurch and he was spinning gently towards the ground. Below, only a smoking crater dotted with wreckage remained of his grand design. The war-machine, and all that it had contained, was gone.
But Quell still lived. And while he lived, he could–
Something croaked above him. He twisted in his harness. A raven perched atop his throne, watching him with a beady black eye. It croaked again, and he wondered why it sounded so much like laughter. More croaks echoed from all around him.
Quell turned, glands clenching.
The rest of the ravens were waiting for him.
Twenty-Four
Seven Weapons
Several days later, Owain Volker placed his hand palm-up on an anvil.
He’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for days since their return to Excelsis. Even now, he was sleeping more than he was used to. But he still felt tired. The pain was to blame for some of that, he thought. The ache of healing bones and bruised flesh. But the rest of it was due to the dream
s. Nightmares, really. Of something seeking him, across the dark seas of infinity. Sometimes it was the Great King. Other times, Ahazian Kel.
But mostly, it was Gung. The Spear of Shadows had his scent and was on the hunt.
‘Will this work?’ he asked.
‘If it didn’t, we wouldn’t be wasting our time,’ Vali said. The ancient duardin caught his wrist in a vice-like grip and placed a rune, crafted from gold, right in the centre of his hand. ‘Now hold still,’ he said. He looked up at Grungni. The god stood nearby, waiting, his hammer over his shoulder.
‘You may proceed, grandfather.’
Volker closed his eyes, and forced himself not to flinch away as the god raised his hammer. There was a sound like the bark of a cannon, and pain plunged through him, up his arm and into his brain. He staggered, but Vali refused to let him fall. The hammer struck again, and again, and Volker couldn’t help but scream as the rune was driven deep into his flesh. After the third strike, he was allowed to slump. He cradled his hand. Despite the pain, nothing was broken.
Vali sneered down at him. ‘No stamina.’
Volker caught hold of the anvil and pushed himself to his feet. He didn’t bother to reply. Instead, he stared at the rune embedded in the meat of his hand. It flickered strangely, taking on a new and different hue with every flex of his fingers. The old duardin stepped back, and turned to Grungni. ‘If you’re done, I have duties to attend to.’
‘Go, Vali.’ Grungni watched his servant stump away and then looked down at Volker. ‘Gung will hunt you, until it has you. That is its purpose. But its captivity weakened it, and your quick thinking saw it lost to the seas between realms. It will seek you, but this rune will change your scent, in a manner of speaking. Whatever realm you stand in, the spear will think you are in another. Thus it will pursue, but never catch.’
Volker looked at the god. ‘Runes like this don’t last forever, do they?’
Grungni frowned. ‘No. But for the time being, it will do.’
Volker nodded, trying not to think about it. ‘The others?’
Grungni set the head of his hammer atop the anvil. ‘More or less in one piece. Roggen has returned home, so that he might heal in familiar surroundings. I offered him a hand of silver, to replace the one he’d lost, but he declined. He claimed he would plant the seed of a new hand himself, and return when it had sprouted.’ He shook his head. ‘A funny folk.’
Volker shook out his hand, trying to ease the ache. ‘Zana and Nyoka?’
Grungni leaned forwards on the haft of his hammer. ‘Somewhere. Both seem disinclined to leave my service at the moment, despite everything.’ He paused. ‘The priestess is healing, though I’m told a missing eye takes some getting used to.’
‘Did you offer her a new one as well?’
Grungni smiled. ‘I did. She seemed less than enthused by the idea. Mayhap Sigmar will tell her it’s all right to accept gifts from other gods, when he gets around to it.’
‘And Oken?’
‘Here, boy.’ Oken stepped out of the shadows of the smithy, leaning heavily on a cane of iron and bronze. ‘Still in one piece, unlike some others I could name.’ He looked up at Volker. ‘I thought I told you to be careful.’
‘I’m not dead.’
‘That’s not the same thing.’ The old duardin shook his head. ‘You didn’t ask about the vampire, I noticed.’
Volker frowned. Adhema had vanished before they’d returned for Roggen and the others. She’d simply… slipped away. ‘No. I didn’t.’ Then, ‘Any sign of her?’
Oken snorted. ‘No. Though I have no doubt she’ll show up again, like a bit of grit in the gears.’ He looked at Grungni. ‘How long?’
The god sighed. ‘I do not know. If he keeps moving, perhaps forever.’
‘You don’t know?’ Oken said. He frowned and rubbed his face. ‘My apologies, Maker. I did not mean…’
Grungni smiled. ‘You did, but it is understandable.’ The smile faded. ‘There is much about these weapons of which even I am ignorant. They are mysteries, and I do not like mysteries. They must be studied before they are reforged.’ He looked at Volker, and there was cool speculation in his gaze. ‘So long as he lives, Gung will seek him. And as long as Gung seeks him, no one else may claim it.’
‘I’m bait,’ Volker said, mouth suddenly dry. ‘Bait, and a failsafe in one.’ He looked at the rune in his palm, and wondered at how such a small thing would keep him hidden from the black hunger that hunted him.
‘Aye,’ Grungni said, ignoring Oken’s glare. ‘You are. Is it a burden you are fit to bear, gunmaster?’
Volker hesitated. Then, he nodded. ‘It is, Maker. However much time is left to me, is yours.’ He flexed his hand, and then pulled on his glove. ‘There are seven other weapons out there. Seven shots, to turn the tide, for one side or the other.’ He smiled thinly.
‘A gunmaster only needs one.’
And why did you choose to slip away, rather than stay?
Neferata’s voice pierced the din of Excelsis at night. Adhema rose to her feet, smiling. She stood high above the Veins, perched on wet slates, revelling in the scents that unfolded beneath her. It had been too long since she had visited a city – a proper, living city.
‘A spur-of-the-moment decision, my lady. One I suspect you will agree with, if you but hear me out.’ When Neferata did not reply, Adhema continued. ‘The spear is gone. Once thrown, it will not allow itself to be bent from its purpose until it makes its kill. You yourself told me that.’
So, you will stalk this Azyrite until his almost certain demise?
She sensed her mistress’ amusement, and allowed herself a polite chuckle. ‘No. Grungni will find some way of preserving his life, of that I have no doubt. But it is what they will do next that I wish to see…’
Silence. Then a soft laugh. Adhema shivered. There was malice in that laugh, and some slight admiration. The other weapons, Neferata murmured. And will you help them claim the Lamentations, sister? Will you play the guardian angel for them?
‘If I must,’ Adhema said, frowning. ‘Grungni will seek to gather them. He will stop at nothing, and neither will they. They are determined, for mortals.’
You admire them.
It wasn’t an accusation. Not quite. But almost. Adhema hissed. ‘They are a means to an end, my lady – nothing more. They will gather the weapons for us, in a safe place, and then we will take them, as our rightful due.’
And you know where this place is?
Adhema smiled and looked down. In the crooked, cramped alleyway below, an ogor stood, half-slumbering, on guard. She’d considered attempting to get inside herself, but saw no benefit to announcing herself so brazenly just yet. She knew where the entrance was, and that was enough, for now. ‘I might have some idea,’ she said. She sniffed. ‘I will keep a watch on it, and them. And when the time is right… well.’ She shrugged.
A good plan, sister. But do you have the patience for it? Would it not be better for me to send someone else… someone more subtle, to do this thing?
‘No,’ Adhema snarled. She clutched the hilt of her sword. ‘This is my quest. I will bring the weapons to you, my queen, whatever obstacles arise. That is my oath, upon the ashes of Szandor.’ She looked up at the moon. ‘Let me do this?’ she asked softly.
The only reply she got was a mocking laugh, which soon faded away into the night, leaving her uncertain and irritated. The Queen of Mysteries did so enjoy her little jokes. Adhema shook her head, and went back to studying the alley below.
After a few moments, she sighed.
Neferata had been right. She didn’t have the patience.
Something clattered on a nearby rooftop. She turned, seeking the source of the noise. She smiled a moment later. ‘Ha,’ she murmured. Two swift steps brought her to the edge of the roof. Across the way, a roof-runner gang slowly but easily prie
d away slates, so that they might slip in through the eaves of the building below. They were young, and thin. Children, really, but feral. Like alley cats with opposable thumbs.
She crashed down behind them, startling them. One slipped and slid with a squall, nearly falling. She caught the boy by his ankle and pulled him up as she stood. Dangling him over the edge, she looked into their pinched, starveling faces, and smiled.
‘Hello, children. I am Adhema. And there is something I need you to do for me.’
Kretch Warpfang, Grand High Clawmaster of Clan Rictus, sighed and shifted on his throne. He rubbed his snout tiredly. It had been a trying few days, since he’d ordered the retreat from Excelsis. The expected in-fighting had taken its toll, and he was running low on subordinates as well as patience.
It was all Quell’s fault, of course. When his wondrous war-machine had failed to materialise, Warpfang had come to the unhappy conclusion that Excelsis would remain unplundered for the time being. He’d struck camp and retreated inland, towards Lion Crag, and the supply warren he’d built there, only to find it on fire and full of corpses. Not entirely full – there had been some survivors, one of whom was crouched before him now.
‘Where is Quell?’ he growled, glaring down at the cowering skaven.
‘Almost certainly dead-eliminated, Grand High Clawmaster,’ the snivelling creature before him said. The warlock engineer stank of scorched hair and fear, and his eyes were hidden behind cracked goggles. He and a few followers had stumbled into camp that morning, looking as if they had been through a war. ‘You need have no worries-fears on that score, no-no. He has paid for this most disappointing of failures with his life.’