Warcry

by Warhammer 40K

  ‘Philosophy,’ Kolsk said dismissively, and spat.

  Varka looked at him, but said nothing. Vos watched them out of the corner of his eye. As ever, his subordinate refused to rise to Kolsk’s bait. It was not fear that stayed her hand, but rather pragmatism. Kolsk did not speak without purpose. His words were a trap – he had lured many a rival into a confrontation, and struck them down, thus assuring the sanctity of his position. So far, Varka had resisted his overtures. She was smart.

  Vos wondered if he ought to kill her now, but dismissed the idea. Pragmatism was one thing, but dispatching a potential rival before they were ready was cowardice. Not to mention a waste of a good warrior.

  Life was conflict. From conflict, came strength. Only by meeting an enemy openly in the field could strength be proven, and life earned. Such were the lessons of the Legion. Such were the truths that Vos carried in his heart. Be honest, be brave and brutal, and the Gods would smile upon you. Be fearful, be a liar or dishonourable, and suffer the fate of all cowards. When Varka was ready, he would meet her on the challenge field – not before.

  Part of him looked forward to it. Varka was a deadly fighter – ­cunning and lethal. And beautiful. He paused, startled by the thought. She turned, and he realised, with some chagrin, that he had been staring at her. She flexed slightly, making the scars on her arms dance. Vos, suddenly uncomfortable, turned away. He cleared his throat. ‘We will make camp.’

  Kolsk looked at him, startled. ‘What?’

  ‘We are not invaders. We are owed recompense. I will give him no excuse to play the aggrieved fief-lord.’ Vos gestured to Harsk. ‘Dig a firepit. Cook something. Let whoever watches us know that we are not going away.’ The legionary nodded, and drew his knife. He crouched and set to work, hacking at the stony ground.

  Kolsk chuckled. ‘Cunning, dominar. You force them to invite us in, or risk angering the High Overlord further.’

  ‘Khoragh is wise, and steeped in guile, like all of his twisted kindred. His hand cannot be forced. But it can be jostled. So we will wait.’ He extended his hammer towards Crola. ‘You have first watch.’

  She thumped her shield. ‘Aye, dominar.’ The legionary took up position at the foot of the bridge, her war-club resting on her shoulder. The others settled around the newly dug firepit. Varka and Garn dumped armfuls of shattered bones into it. Harsk poured a libation of oil onto the piled bones, and Kolsk struck a spark from a stone with his knife. The fire roared up, and Varka loosed the stopper on a wine skin. A familiar vintage, made from grapes grown in the volcanic soil of the Ferrium Mountains. Vos took a pull, relishing the bitter tang of it. The wine skin was passed around.

  There was food of sorts, as well. Cured orruk meat, a staple of the Iron Legion. Vos gnawed on a strip of greenish jerky, chewing determinedly. Even dead and salted, orruks were tough. As they ate and drank, they spoke, not as superiors and subordinates, but merely as soldiers. Such discussion was encouraged in the Legion. Ideas, like iron, required heat and tempering to be made useful. Ignorance was a flaw in the metal.

  ‘Metal is metal, flesh is flesh,’ Kolsk was saying. He was arguing with Varka again. An old argument, reheated for a new day. ‘One is not the same as the other.’

  Varka sighed. ‘At their base, they are one and the same. The fires of Chaos shape them both. Flesh is but the armour of the soul, as iron armours flesh.’

  Crola and Garn ate and drank and listened, absorbing their words. Vos watched, amused. Kolsk and Varka seemed to enjoy these ­gentle duels, when they weren’t actively antagonising one another. The firepit was sacrosanct – a place and time where all grudges were set aside, at least for a few moments.

  Kolsk shook his head. ‘Utter nonsense.’ He looked at Vos. ‘What do you think?’

  Vos was silent for a moment. He studied the fire, considering his words. ‘Flesh is impermanent,’ he said, sweeping his hand through the flames. They licked at his callouses, but he had endured far worse. ‘It begins to rot from the moment it is formed. But metal is everlasting. It can be forged anew, with the proper tools. That is why we must be as iron, rather than flesh. We must be strong. We must endure.’ He reached down and plucked an ember free of the brazier. ‘And we must let the fire shape us, when it is time.’ He closed his fingers about the ember, snuffing it. He cast it back into the pit and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I will take next watch.’

  He relieved Crola, and sent her back to the fire. Hammer in hand, he watched the great doors at the opposite end of the bridge. Someone had noticed them by now – he was certain of it. The question was, how would they react?

  Vos had few illusions as to his warband’s true purpose here – they were like the char-birds that slaves took into the mines, to check for deadly aethers. If Khoragh welcomed them, then Mithraxes knew that the iron promise held true. If the forgemaster slaughtered them, then an army would follow and avenge their deaths.

  It was a great honour, and the rewards would be great if they succeeded. That was what Vos told himself. It was an honour, bestowed upon him by his glorious kinsman. And Vos would see it done, whatever the outcome.

  He heard the groan of great hinges, and looked up. ‘On your feet,’ he bellowed. Kolsk and the others hurried to join him as the gates swung open with ponderous gravitas. Dust rose where they scraped the stones. The bridge shook slightly as the motion of the gates reverberated through it.

  The gates ceased their movement, and for a time the only sounds were the echoes of unseen mechanisms, and the distant growl of the lava flow. No sentries appeared, no heralds or messengers. And finally, even the echoes faded.

  ‘A trap,’ Kolsk muttered.

  ‘An invitation,’ Vos said. ‘He’s decided to talk.’ He took a breath, and then stepped up onto the bridge. ‘Come.’ He strode slowly across the bridge, glancing warily at the broken pillars to either side. Up close, he could discern the runes carved into them. They glowed faintly, as if hot, and Vos’ skin prickled – sorcery, of the duardin sort. ‘Careful,’ he grunted.

  ‘Aye, dominar, I see them,’ Kolsk said. He shook his standard. ‘Eyes to the front, Harsk, you laggard.’ The legionary twitched at the rebuke, but said nothing. Vos noted that the other four were silent as well. That was good. It showed their discipline.

  As they passed between the pillars, the runes flared. Red sparks danced along the chains overhead, startling the carrion birds. The hanging corpses twitched, and one of them made a sound like a moan. ‘Ignore them,’ Vos cautioned. The moment the words left his mouth, the first corpse dropped to the ground with a wet thump. It was followed by nine more, from among the most intact.

  The corpses straightened, and Vos saw runes of red gold hammered into their flesh. The runes blazed with heat, and the bodies twitched and stumbled forward, hands outstretched. ‘I think we found the sentries,’ Varka said.

  Kolsk pushed past her. ‘Pfaugh – a few deadwalkers. We have faced worse.’ He lashed out at the closest of them, and crushed it to the ground. A chilling moan swept through the remaining corpses, louder than before. The runes embedded in their tattered flesh blazed more brightly. Vos stepped ahead of his signifier, and smashed a second corpse from its feet. Varka and the others followed his example.

  ‘A good welcome, eh, dominar?’ Varka said, as she kicked the legs out from under a deadwalker and stamped on its skull. ‘Do you think he knows we’re friendly?’

  ‘A better question would be… does he care?’ he said, crushing the skull of another carcass. ‘Advance.’ Shields and bludgeoning weapons were put to good use, herding the deadwalkers backwards. Sometimes, it took more than one blow, and sometimes, they got back up, even with broken limbs and mangled skulls, driven on by the magics that infused the runes. Regardless, they proved little challenge. It was only when the last corpse fell twitching that he wondered if they had truly been meant to.

  They reached the gates moments later. Heat wafted
out through them, making the air shimmer. Without hesitation, Vos led his warriors through them, into the darkness beyond. He was certain now that they were being watched – that the dead fyreslayers had been nothing more than a token resistance – a grisly jest. Duardin had a strange sense of humour.

  Their footsteps echoed in the dark for a time. But then – lights. One, at first. Then two. Four. Eight. Ten. Lanterns of curious manufacture had been set into the pillars that lined the space, and they flickered to life through some unknown artifice.

  They revealed a large antechamber, with vaulted ceilings and heavy archways of cut stone. Narrow steps rose at odd angles, coiling up to high doors and apertures. There was little ornamentation, though there were signs that such had not always been the case – the shattered plinths of toppled statues, and the cracked facades where great carvings might once have glared down. Now there was only plain stone, scorched black in places by constant heat.

  At the far end of the chamber, the floor rose upwards on slabbed steps, to a flat landing. The landing, held up by a grove of support pillars, stretched backwards and split apart into a trio of parallel causeways that extended across a high-walled canal of lava.

  These causeways ended at a trio of heavy portcullises, all sealed. The red glow cast up by the lava played across the portcullises, and vents set high into the walls belched smoke that pooled across the landing and crept down the stairs.

  As Vos and the others approached the steps to the landing, figures appeared in the smoke. Three of them – two massive, one stunted and short. Vos stopped, and signalled for the others to do the same.

  ‘Ogors,’ Kolsk said, as the two larger figures came into view. Vos nodded. The ogors were head and hands taller than Vos, and thrice his width, with slabs of fat and muscle slathering their twisted frames. They were clad in the piecemeal armour of Breachers – the line-breakers and gate-smashers of the Iron Legion. Their armour covered only the vital organs, and they wore cage-helms wrought in the shape of a bull’s head, complete with horns. Their hands had been replaced with crude weapons – two blades for one, and a pair of bludgeons for the other. They grunted and growled as they ­shuffled to the edge of the landing.

  The third figure was a duardin – broad and muscular, beneath heavy, unadorned war-plate and thick furs. He wore no helm, and his dark hair and beard were curled and braided in a way that was at once savage and vain. His bare arms and face were burned brown by the sun, and marked by rune-shaped scars. A whip was coiled on his hip, and he carried a heavy, ornate smith’s hammer in one hand. He glowered down at Vos and the others, and bared black tusks in a fierce grimace. ‘I am Khoragh. This place is mine. You are not welcome here. Tell me why I should not kill you all.’

  Vos stepped forward. ‘I am Vos Stalis, Dominar of the Iron Legion, and blood-cousin to High Overlord Mithraxes…’

  ‘That is not a reason,’ the duardin said. He made a show of looking around. ‘What is Mithraxes to me, in this place? Nothing. Less than nothing.’

  Vos bristled. ‘I was told your kind were wiser than men. Was I told wrong, then?’

  Khoragh grunted. ‘I merely speak truth, umgash.’

  Vos knew that word, and anger surged through him. It meant raw iron, untempered and untested. ‘I am not untempered, forgemaster,’ he spat. ‘Test me if you like. I will not break. I was forged in the sacred flame.’ He slammed a fist against his chest-plate, and the sound echoed through the cavernous hall. Khoragh flinched at the noise, but smiled – a sharp, cruel expression, like a blade scraped along bone. Vos cursed silently. He had been baited.

  ‘Test you? Yes. Yes, I will test you, blood-cousin to my oath-friend Mithraxes. Yes, yes, yes. A test. That is what is in order here. Proof of blood. That is the thing.’ Khoragh gathered his robes about him, his armour clanking. ‘Come up here, boy. Let us speak as friends, eh?’ He paused. ‘Only you, though. The rest stay where my guards can watch them.’ He nodded to the ogors, who clashed their weapons in acknowledgment.

  ‘Don’t trust him, dominar,’ Kolsk muttered. ‘He stinks of fear.’

  ‘Duardin are stone and iron,’ Varka said, quietly. ‘They are not supposed to know fear.’ She laughed. ‘Then, maybe someone has taught him.’

  Vos gestured sharply. Khoragh was staring down at them, his eyes bright, like dollops of molten gold. Duardin had sharp ears, and Vos had no doubt the forgemaster had caught every word of the exchange. ‘Stay here. All of you.’ He shouldered his hammer and climbed the slabbed steps. Khoragh looked him up and down when he reached the top.

  ‘Yes, you’re one of Mithraxes’ kin, no doubt about it. You all carry yourselves with the same mix of arrogance and brutality. Almost like a proper duardin.’

  Vos inclined his head respectfully, despite the anger that pulsed through him. ‘I thank you for the compliment.’ He looked around. The landing had once been decorated with statues, but now only shattered bases remained, and the nubs of stone feet. Khoragh caught him looking.

  ‘Gods and kings,’ he said, simply. ‘They offended me, so I removed them. A duardin should not have to endure the gazes of those who abandoned him. Besides, the stone was better put to use elsewhere.’

  ‘I am sure it was.’

  Khoragh chuckled, but Vos could see fear in his eyes as he glanced nervously at the portcullises on the other side of the causeways. The duardin gestured. ‘Follow me.’ He led Vos to the edge of the landing, over the molten flow. A row of pulleys and winches lined the edge, and chains rose from them, up to holes in the ceiling high overhead. Vos glanced at them, realising that they likely controlled the portcullises, among other things. Khoragh patted a lever fondly.

  ‘My own design,’ he said. ‘Much more efficient than what this place’s previous masters used. Good warriors, my kin – bad engineers, though.’ He shook his head, as if saddened by the thought. Vos knew it was pretence. He had heard enough stories about Khoragh to know that the forgemaster had enjoyed every torment inflicted upon his hapless kin. Indeed, according to some, he seemed to hold a special hatred for his own folk above all others. As if they had wronged him personally.

  Vos looked out over the lava flow. Waves of heat battered at him, and the air was thick with choking steam. The duardin studied him intently, as if seeking weakness. ‘You look uncomfortable, boy. I thought Mithraxes’ brood were used to a bit of heat.’

  ‘I am fine.’

  Khoragh grinned, showing his black tusks. Vos realised that they were chips of carved obsidian. The duardin tugged on the plaits of his beard. ‘Good. Maybe you are strong, at that. You will forgive me for the rudeness of my greeting, eh? It has been some time since my oath-brother sent his dogs to my door.’

  Vos forced himself to remain calm. The duardin was testing him. ‘You call him oath-brother… Does the iron promise still hold, then?’ he asked, carefully.

  Khoragh nodded. ‘Aye, it does.’ He glanced at the portcullises again, and frowned.

  ‘Then why have you not delivered the tithe?’

  ‘Is that why he sent you?’ Khoragh sighed. ‘And here I fancied that my oath-brother might fear for my safety.’

  Vos did not reply. Khoragh frowned and looked out over the surging lava flow. ‘Do you know who I am, boy? Did your vaunted kinsman tell you the story of Khoragh?’

  ‘I know all I need to know.’

  Khoragh shook his head. ‘You know nothing. Too young to know anything.’ He swept a hand out. ‘Once, we ruled an empire of our own, my brothers and I. We were masters of the great Bale-Furnace. We tricked a God into raising up a mountain for us, and took his secrets. Then, we set to work. We armed a thousand kings, and slaughtered a thousand more so that we might use their royal blood to cool our steel.’

  ‘And now you are here,’ Vos said, interrupting. ‘And you owe a tithe.’

  Khoragh sighed. ‘Yes. Now I am here and I owe a tithe.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘I thoug
ht my folk cherished their debts. But Mithraxes coddles his like children. I never would have made such a bargain had I but known how… disrespectful my oath-brother would become.’

  ‘It is because he respects you that we are here – and not an army.’

  Khoragh laughed. ‘Oh, I like you, boy. I do. Such honesty is refreshing. I’m used to men dissembling for all they’re worth – and they’re not worth much.’

  ‘Only the weak lie. They are weak. We are not.’

  ‘Let us hope that is the case, eh?’ Khoragh clapped him on the arm. A friendly gesture. Vos’ skin crawled at the duardin’s touch. He twitched back.

  ‘Tell me. Now.’

  Khoragh looked away. ‘A monster.’

  Vos blinked. ‘Monster?’

  Khoragh gestured with his hammer. ‘We will get through this more quickly if you do not simply repeat my words. Yes, boy, a monster. Something from deep in the mountain, I expect. The previous inhabitants of this place built their lodge on the bones of forgotten cities, like the lazy fools they were. These peaks are likely riddled with secret tombs containing horrors even the Dark Gods themselves have no interest in freeing.’

  ‘But you are not so wise.’

  Khoragh glanced at him, one bushy eyebrow raised. He bared his tusks and chuckled. ‘Say, rather, I am not blessed with omniscience. I must crawl through time the traditional way, on two feet and with great determination. I cannot see what awaits me, and the Gods do not deign to warn me of such things.’ He snorted. ‘If I had known, I would not have disturbed it. Even my hubris has its limits.’

  Vos doubted that, but did not interrupt.

  ‘It was a container of some sort – a sarcophagus, perhaps, or a personal vault. Marked by strange runes – no, not runes. Sigils. Buried down deep. I have no doubt my kin knew of it, for they had created the paths that led to it. Paths that I only discovered by accident.’

  ‘And when you did…?’