[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  The seat of the High King broke the semi-circle of elders into two smaller, but equal, arcs and was altogether more grandiose.

  Backed with a bronze motif of a hammer striking an anvil, the face of Grungni wrought above it in a triangular apex of gold, the Throne of Power was a mighty symbol of Karaz-a-Karak and all the dwarf people. It bore the Rune of Azamar, forged by Grungni and the only one of its kind, and was said to be all but indestructible. For if the rune’s power was ever broken, it was believed that it would signal the doom of the dwarfs and an end to all things.

  Stood just behind the king, two at either side, their gromril armour resplendent in the light from the roaring braziers, were Skorri’s throne bearers. During times of war, and at the king’s command, they would bear the mighty throne of power into battle, with the High King sat upon it reading from the Great Book of Grudges. They were the finest of all Karaz-a-Karak’s warriors. Uthor would have bowed to them alone and yet here they all were before the High King himself!

  “Noble Bromgar, whom do you bring before this council?” asked the high priestess of Valaya.

  “Venerable lady,” said Bromgar, bowing deeply. “An expedition from Karak Varn seeks the wisdom and the ear of the council of Everpeak on a matter of dire import.”

  “Then let them step forward,” the priestess replied, observing the custom of the High King’s court.

  As one, the dwarf throng stepped into the circle as Bromgar stepped back into the shadows, his immediate duty done.

  “Lord Redmane is the master of Karak Varn,” said the High King. The dwarfs were almost twenty feet away, such was the size of the circle, and yet the king’s voice came across loud and resonant to all. “A grudge is scribed in his name in the Dammaz Kron,” the king continued, “for failing to deliver a shipment of gromril as was his oath. What have you to say on this matter? Who speaks for you?” snarled the king, glowering at each of the dwarfs in turn. Only for Halgar did he hold back his ire.

  Uthor stepped forward from the throng.

  “Gnollengrom,” he said, bowing down on one knee and removing his winged helmet, cradling it under his arm, to observe due deference. “I do, sire — Uthor Algrimson of Karak Kadrin.”

  “Then be heard Uthor, son of Algrim,” boomed the voice of the king, brow beetling beneath the golden dragon crown of karaz sat upon his head.

  “I bring dire news,” Uthor began. “Kadrin Redmane, my ancestor and lord of Karak Varn, is dead.”

  A ripple of shock and despair from across the council greeted this stark revelation. Only the High King remained stoic, shifting in his seat and leaning forward to rest his chin on one fist. His eyes regarded Uthor intently and bade him continue.

  “Slain by urk at the edge of Black Water; his talisman is proof of this fell deed.” Uthor held it aloft for all to see. Grim faces, etched with grief, looked back at him.

  Uthor gestured to the rest of his companions. “We ventured deep into his hold and found it abandoned, overrun by skaven.”

  The High King scowled at that. Uthor went on.

  “Through death and blood we recovered the book of grudges,” said Uthor and Ralkan came forward, head bowed low, the Karak Varn Book of Grudges held before him on his outstretched arms. It was still spattered in skaven blood from when he had used it as a bludgeon.

  “Ralkan Geltberg, last survivor of Karak Varn.” There were tears in the lorekeeper’s eyes as he said it.

  “It tells a sorry tale indeed,” Uthor interjected. His face fell as he returned to a dark memory. “One of our party… Lokki, son of Kragg, royal thane of Karak Izor, died retrieving it.”

  Halgar straightened; the mention of his charge’s name still felt like a raw wound to the longbeard.

  “Venerable Halgar Halfhand of the Copperhand clan was his kinsdwarf,” Uthor explained.

  Halgar came forward now, removing his helm and bowing in the time-honoured fashion, but with his fist across his chest as was the custom in years gone by.

  High King Skorri nodded his respect to the longbeard.

  “Fell deeds to be sure,” he said. “The great holds fall and our enemies grow ever bold. This slight will not be forgiven and will be forever etched in the great kron.”

  “Noble King Morgrimson,” Uthor said boldly, the entire assembly shocked by his impertinence at speaking before being asked to. “We seek vengeance for our kinsdwarfs and the means to take back the hold of Karak Varn from the wretched rat-kin. Each of us has sworn an oath in blood!”

  Incensed at this act of disrespect, Bromgar stepped forward but a glance from the High King stayed the gatekeeper’s hand.

  Passion blazed in Uthor’s eyes so bright and powerful that none could have helped but be moved by it. Skorri Morgrimson was no exception.

  “Your cause is noble,” said the High King levelly, “and no oath is ever to be taken lightly, but I cannot help you in this deed if it is the might of my warriors you beseech. There are precious few to spare; our kin have been ever dwindling against the attacks of the grobi and their kind. There are other, more pressing matters that demand the strength of Karaz-a-Karak. Alas, the plight of Karak Varn is dire, but one that will have to wait.”

  “My king,” said a voice from the council below. It was a female dwarf, one of the attendants of the high priest of Valaya. She had been shrouded in the shadow of the matriarch and Uthor had not noticed her before. Long, golden plaits cascaded from her head and a round stubby nose sat between eyes of azure. She wore a purple sash over simple brown robes, but also bore a talisman bearing the rune of the royal clan.

  The High King turned to her, incredulous at the interruption.

  Many of the longbeards on the council grumbled loudly about the impetuousness of youth and their lack of respect. Even the matriarch turned to scowl at her attendant.

  “My king,” she repeated, determined to be heard, “with Karak Varn in ruins, surely Everpeak must act.”

  The High King fixed the maiden with his gimlet gaze and, noting the courage in her eyes, breathed deeply.

  “With war to the north beckoning and the retaking of Karak Ungor, I can spare but a handful of warriors to this cause, my clan daughter,” said the High King, content to relent and indulge her for now, before turning to regard Uthor once more. “Sixty warriors is my pledge and that is a generous offer.”

  “My liege,” the attendant continued, “I must protest—”

  The High King cut her off.

  “Sixty warriors and no more,” he roared. “And I will hear no more of it Emelda Skorrisdottir. The High King of Everpeak has spoken!” The High King’s glowering gaze went to Uthor and the others, ignoring his clan daughter’s indignation.

  “Take these dwarfs back to the audience chamber,” he growled. “There they shall await my warriors, but I warn them…” the High King stared at Uthor sternly, “…this is a foolhardy mission and one that I do not condone; they would fail it at their peril. Now…” he said, leaning back in his throne, breathing in deeply as he puffed up his mighty chest, “Dismissed!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “He is reckless,” growled Gromrund, “a reckless fool,” he said. “Sixty dwarfs to retake a hold full of skaven… It is madness.”

  Three months they’d been at Everpeak as the warriors were gathered and prepared. Careful note had been taken of the cost of weapons and armour afforded to the clans and made in the reckoner’s log, so that it might be levelled against the coffers of Karak Kadrin, Norn, Hirn, Izor and Barak Varr. With everything in order, at last they had made for Karak Varn once more. The throng was bolstered by forty warriors of the Firehand, Stonebreaker and Furrowbrow clans, and a coterie of twenty ironbreakers led by the ironbeard Thundin, son of Bardin, and the king’s emissary in the mission to reclaim the karak. He walked alongside Uthor, clad in thick gromril, his ironbreakers keeping measured step behind him. Thundin was possessed of a warlike spirit and had been eager to join the throng to recapture Karak Varn. His helmet device, a miniature hammer striking
an anvil, rocked up and down vigorously in time with the great wings on Uthor’s warhelm as the dwarfs forged on in search of glory.

  “Doubtless he will add Gunbad next to his list of conquests,” Gromrund grumbled, as they were led west along the Silver Road.

  Mount Gunbad was a pale shadow on the northern horizon and the dwarfs were keen to avoid it on their journey back to Karak Varn. The great and prosperous gold mine there had fallen over three hundred years ago, sacked by grobi, and no attempt had yet been made to retake it — at least none that was in any part successful. The richest mine in all of the Worlds Edge Mountains and the sole repository of brynduraz, the rare “brightstone” sought by miners and kings with equal fervour, and it was lost to the greenskins.

  “And what of his plan?” the hammerer continued, “We know nothing of that.”

  “You would not renege on your oath?” said Hakem, who had been travelling with Gromrund since Everpeak. Ill-suited as they were, Gromrund at least felt he had an ally in the ufdi, despite his garish sensibilities and boastfulness. In truth, since Karaz-a-Karak, the dwarf had said little of the “wealth and glory of Barak Varr”, and it meant the hammerer could stomach his presence.

  “I am no unbaraki,” hissed Gromrund, keeping his voice low as he said the word. To be an “oathbreaker” was the worst insult to any dwarf and to even say it in company was frowned upon. “But I seek neither personal glory, nor to settle my own account before I stand in front of the gates to the Halls of the Ancestors… It is for Lokki we do this deed,” Gromrund added solemnly with a glance at Halgar.

  The longbeard walked alone, a few feet away. No one spoke to him, none dared for he wore a scowl the likes of which might be forever ingrained onto his face and a deep burden that fell like an eclipsing moon across his eyes.

  “For Lokki then,” said Hakem — he too was looking at Halgar — full of honourable bluster. “By the Honnakin Hammer it is sworn.”

  “For Lokki,” murmured Gromrund, as the throng left the Silver Road, following a tributary of Black Water and, once they’d reached that great pool of jet, back to the hold once more.

  Drimbold walked amongst the throng of warriors from Everpeak, with Ralkan beside him. The Grey dwarf didn’t know what had happened to the lorekeeper. He never fought in the final battle to escape the karak; he had long since taken his leave by then. But though he was no longer the shell he had been, he didn’t carry much in the way of gold either, so Drimbold wasn’t interested either way.

  Reclamation, that’s what he was doing and he was determined to return to Karak Varn so he could continue his endeavours, but he’d rather do so with a band of stout warriors than by himself, although alone he could probably enter undetected as he had done previously. For now though, other thoughts occupied his mind.

  For several days the Grey dwarf had kept a close watch on two of the travelling throng, intent on their wares. Both were nobles of Everpeak, a beardling and his older cousin if Drimbold’s memory served, and possessed of a desire to honour their clan by retaking Karak Varn. In a way, he thought, we are all reclamators really.

  As they trod amongst their kinsdwarfs Drimbold eyed the ringed fingers of the elder dwarf, the bands of polished bronze bent around his warhelm and vambraces. Drimbold’s eyes widened as he caught the flash of something bright and shiny around the beardling’s waist. It took but a moment for the Grey dwarf to realise what it was.

  Gold no less! These Everpeak dwarfs are rich indeed, thought Drimbold. He picked up his pace, just a few steps behind them and reminded himself of something very important: on the road, there’s always a chance that things will get dropped.

  Uthor turned and gave the signal for the throng to leave the Silver Road at last. The tributary that would lead them to Black Water beckoned, and though the terrain would be fraught with crags, clawing bracken and scree underfoot it was the most expedient way to Karak Varn en masse.

  A warhorn resonated down the short marching line of the dwarfs, five abreast, and the column wended north-east following Uthor’s lead, Thundin and the ironbreakers in tow. It wasn’t long before the shadow of Karak Varn loomed large once more, though they faced a different aspect to that which Uthor had confronted on their first foray to the hold. But it was another sight — an altogether more welcome one — that caught his attention this time.

  * * *

  “Behold,” said Rorek to the thong of dwarfs gathered around him, “Alfdreng — Slayer of Elves!”

  A stout, wooden stone thrower sat behind the engineer lashed to a heavy-looking cart hauled by three lode ponies. Thick metal plates were bolted to its carriage and they in turn attached it to an iron-plated circular platform inset into the base of the cart itself. A crank, wide enough for two dwarfs to work it, was driven into a second plate next to the circular platform and a supply of expertly carved rocks sat in a woven basket at the end of the cart. Each stone bore runic slogans and diatribes directed at the race of elves. During the War of Vengeance, the stone throwers the dwarfs had used to bring down the walls of Tor Alessi had been renamed grudge throwers as the practice of inscribing the ammunition they flung came about, reflecting the deep-seated fury the dwarfs felt against their once-allies during those days.

  There were mumbles of approval as the engineer paraded the ancient grudge thrower before the warriors of Karaz-a-Karak and his erstwhile companions. The dwarf had also brought with him no less than two-hundred warriors from Zhufbar, a pledge from the king. The Bronzehammer, Sootbeards, Ironfinger and Flintheart clans all plumped up their chests and twiddled their moustaches and beards as they regarded the appreciative gestures of their Everpeak kinsdwarf.

  “Only an engineer would bring a machine to a tunnel fight,” muttered Gromrund to anyone who was listening. “We dwarfs have been fighting battles without such contrivances for thousands of years; I fail to see how it would advantage us to do so now.

  “Elfslayer you say,” Gromrund bellowed.

  Rorek nodded proudly, one foot rested on the side of the cart and striking a dynamic pose.

  “We go to kill grobi and rat-kin, not elves,” the hammerer grumbled.

  “Bah,” said Rorek, taking a long draw on his pipe, “it will crush grobi and ratman as well enough as elf. So speaks Rorek of Zhufbar,” he added, laughing, backed up by a chorus of cheers from his kinsdwarfs.

  The greenskins attacked quickly and without warning, descending down the steep-sided ravine like a bestial tide. Night goblins, hooded and cloaked, poured from hidden mountain burrows and sent black-fletched arrows into the dwarf throng. Three warriors fell in the first volley, before the dwarfs had shields readied. Hulking orcs, led by their black-skinned brethren, surged forward cleavers upraised, spears outstretched, and crashed into a hastily prepared shield wall of Karaz-a-Karak clan warriors. A horde of trolls, lashed and goaded into battle by a cruel orc beastmaster, fell among the ironbreakers at the head of the group, stamping and goring. A belt of foul-smelling stomach acid wretched from one, engulfing one of the veteran ironbreakers, his stout armour no proof against the foul stuff.

  In a few, brutally short moments the dwarf army was embattled.

  “Gather together!” Uthor bellowed, shielded from the trolls for now by Thundin and his ironbreakers. A nearby warrior, his kinsdwarfs fighting hard against the pressing orc horde, heard the order and blew a long, hard note on his warhorn. A second note from farther up the line responded and the throng began to form up in a thick wedge of steel and iron. Beset to the front and on one flank, it was slow going and some dwarfs got left behind as they fought.

  Goblin wolfriders, howling and hooting as they scampered into view from behind a dense cluster of crags on their lupine steeds, harried the rear of the dwarf column, shooting short bows and making daring lightning raids on the stragglers.

  From atop a viewing tower fixed to the side of the cart, Rorek bellowed furious orders to his crew below. Two dwarfs pumped the crank frantically and Alfdreng was rotated on the circular platform to face
the hordes spilling forth from the ravine sides like malicious ants.

  “Brace!” he cried and six metal clamps with broad teeth at the ends swung down from the cart and dug deep into the ground, securing it firmly. The lode ponies snorted and kicked in agitation but Rorek gave them no heed.

  “Hoist!” he bellowed and the giant throwing arm of the grudge thrower was wound back on a stout wooden spindle. The wutroth of which the arm was carved, bent and creaked under the strain; Rorek felt it tense even in the watchtower.

  “Load!”

  A heavy boulder was rolled into the throwing basket, by two sweating crewmen, its grudge runes angled to face the enemy.

  Through his good eye, the engineer fixed his gaze on the rampaging night goblins and a wave of orcs about to hit the dwarf column. The tension of the throwing arm persisted, resonating throughout the wooden structure.

  “Wait…” he said.

  The hordes were thickening into a densely packed mob, goblins and orcs taking up positions with short bows.

  “Wait…”

  The greenskins halted at a rocky ridge and began to draw back their bow strings. “Fire!” yelled Rorek.

  A belt of air whipped past him and a dark shadow became a blot in the darkening sky before the boulder crashed into the dead centre of the ridge, crushing orc and goblin alike. With the sound of wrenching stone, the ridge collapsed, and several more of the greenskins were buried.

  A terrible aim with a crossbow he might be, but the engineer was a deadeye with any machinery.

  A cheer went up from the crewmen and the Zhufbar dwarfs surrounding the war engine protectively, but Rorek had no time to celebrate as he eyed more greenskins.

  “Five degrees to the left,” he bellowed. “Crank!”