Shoulder to shoulder with warriors from the Firehand clan, Gromrund and Hakem fought a mob of spear-armed urk. A dense forest of sharpened stone tips thrust at them as the orcs pressed. One Firehand dwarf fell, gurgling blood as a spear pierced his mail gorget.
Hakem smashed one haft in two and parried another away with his shield, a third struck his pauldron and he recoiled but quickly righted himself to fend off a deathblow aimed at his neck.
Without the room to swing his great hammer, Gromrund used the weapon like a battering ram making pummelling drives with the hammer head. Wood splintered and bones cracked before his weighty blows but more orcs came on. Nearby, he could hear the battle-dirge of Halgar above the din of clashing steel.
Uthor stood with Thundin, his axe carving through troll hide as if it were nothing. Every wound left a searing mark, hissing as it struck the hideously pale grey flesh. Trolls were known for their miraculous ability to regenerate from even the most heinous of injuries. Even now, one of the gruesome beasts recovered from a host of axe wounds inflicted by three of Thundin’s ironbreakers. One was battered into the dirt by the creature; a second swatted into his kinsdwarfs before the veterans came at the troll again and proceeded to dismember it. Wherever the blade of Ulfgan fell skin did not re-knit or bones reset; where it fell was death and it was the reason the dwarfs were winning.
“You fight with the fire of Grimnir; may his axe be ever sharp,” Thundin said as he ducked a vicious sweep of a troll club and moved in to open its bloated gut. The beast recoiled in pain, bellowing in fury. The iron-beard rushed passed it, armour clanking, having created the opening he needed.
Between blows, Uthor watched as Thundin came face-to-face with the orc beastmaster. The snarling creature sent out its barbed whip hoping to tear chunks off the ironbeard, but Thundin caught the lash around his armoured wrist and yanked the orc towards him. The beastmaster was nearly barrelled over. Thundin beheaded it, a gout of crimson gore erupting from its ruined neck as it fell. With the rest of the ironbreakers pressing and Uthor’s axe blade carving ruination, the trolls broke, their long, gangly legs taking them back into the hills.
“It seems I am not the only one,” Uthor replied, having fought his way to Thundin’s side.
The ironbeard followed his gaze to the two nobles from Everpeak.
They fought like slayers at the head of the Stonebreaker clan, hewing greenskins with controlled fury. Several goblins had already lost heart and were scampering away from their flashing axe blades.
All across the line the dwarfs fought. Some had fallen and their names would not be forgotten, recorded in Ralkan’s book of remembering, which the lorekeeper still carried, strapped onto his back. Though they were tightly packed, and the orcs assailed them on two sides, the greenskin dead were ten-fold that of the dwarfs. They piled in great stinking heaps, the brethren who still possessed the will to fight clambering over the rotting corpses. With a stout row of mountain crags at their backs, and shields locked to the front and sides, the dwarf formation was virtually impenetrable. The greenskins would not break it.
We will win this fight, Uthor thought.
An ululating war cry broke suddenly above the roaring battle-din, echoing through the narrow pass. Uthor’s gaze swept west to the crags at the dwarfs’ backs.
“Valaya’s golden cups,” he breathed.
“May they be ever bountiful,” Thundin concluded, having followed Uthor’s gaze.
A second horde of greenskins, vastly outnumbering the first, barrelled down the opposite slope howling like daemons.
Uthor saw the chieftain Lokki had fought at Black Water riding a snorting, thick-hided boar. He was surrounded by a guard of stoutly armoured orc warriors, also riding boars who were much bigger and darker-skinned than the rest. One carried a ragged banner adorned with skulls and black chains, the symbol of a clenched and bloodied greenskin fist daubed upon it. The glint of massive spear-tips twinkled in the moonlight like ragged stars and Uthor realised the greenskins had brought machineries of their own.
Rorek saw the goblin bolt throwers, ramshackle war engines hammered together with crude greenskin craft and carrying a massive spear of thick, black iron. Too late, he bellowed, “Turn!”
The whipping retort of six bolt throwers loosing in quick succession found Rorek’s ears on the fitful breeze. The sound of splintering wood followed quickly and the engineer gaped in horror as he realised he was crashing to the ground, one of the watchtower’s supports brutally severed. Another bolt pierced the throwing arm of Alfdreng just as it was being frantically rotated into position and its arm tautened. A crewman was flung into the air screaming as the wutroth snapped and flipped backwards. A second dwarf was killed by the rope wound on the spindle as it lashed out and garrotted him.
Three more bolts buried themselves in the Zhufbar ranks, piercing armour as if it were parchment, pinioning three and four dwarfs at a time.
Night was near as the orcs from the western slope fell upon them, the sun dipping beneath the mountain peak, washing the sky with blood. It fell swiftly as the dwarfs fought, the last diffuse vestiges of day giving way to twilight and then dusk. The orcs became primeval in it, the false light casting them in an eldritch aspect.
The orcs and goblins swarmed, Rorek was lost from sight and many of the Zhufbar dwarfs would now be dining in the Halls of the Ancestors — this was not how Uthor had envisaged his glorious return journey to Karak Varn.
With the onset of darkness the greenskins became further emboldened, until a discordant note rang out, resonating around the high peaks.
The greenskins at the back of the western horde were turning, their screams rending the air. An urk in the fighting ranks noticed it too and turned for but a moment. Uthor cut it down contemptuously. He was about to press his attack when the front rankers started to waver and fall back, distracted by the events unfolding behind them. Then Uthor saw them, a band of at least thirty slayers, axes sweeping left and right, their blazing orange crests like a raging firewall even in the darkness. The orcs quailed before them and trapped between two determined foes their will broke. The chieftain’s guttural cry split the air again, but this time it was to signal retreat. Dwarfs on both sides redoubled their efforts until both the east and west greenskin hordes were repulsed and the few that remained were cut down.
Uthor wiped a swathe of orc blood from his face and beard, chest heaving painfully so that his voice was barely a whisper. “Thank Grungni.”
* * *
“Borri, son of Sven,” the beardling replied gruffly and over-deep. Uthor suspected the dwarf was compensating for his youth. The beardling wore a full face helmet, metal eyebrows and a beard fashioned into the design all supplemented by a long studded nose guard. Although the shadows cast by the mighty helm shrouded Borri’s eyes they flashed with fire and pride.
Small wonder he fought with such vigour, thought Uthor at the steel in the beardling’s expression.
With the battle over, the dwarfs were gathering up the wounded and burying their dead. A careful watch was maintained by the slayers, with whom Halgar had much to say, throughout. An early count by Ralkan estimated that the throng had lost almost sixty, the slain mostly amongst the Zhufbar clans, and around another thirty grievously wounded. They’d found Rorek amidst a pile of wooden wreckage, inconsolable at the destruction of Alfdreng but otherwise alive and not badly injured. Gromrund, Hakem and Drimbold had all survived the battle, too.
While the dwarfs made ready, Uthor felt it was his duty to recognise the efforts of his warriors and speak with the mysterious group of slayers whose timely intervention had turned the tide. He resolved to get to them later.
“Barely fifty winters, eh?” Uthor said, “and yet you fought like a hammerer.” Borri nodded deeply.
“As did you,” Uthor added to Borri’s older cousin, Dunrik of the Bardrakk clan.
This dwarf had clearly seen much of battle, Uthor realised immediately. A patchwork of scars littered his face and his beard
was long and black, banded with grudge badges. He wore a number of small throwing axes around a stout, leather belt and shouldered a huge axe with a deadly looking spike on one end. It was much like Lokki’s. Incredibly, given their efforts, both had emerged from the fight almost completely unscathed.
“Son of Algrim,” growled the voice of Halgar.
Uthor turned to face the venerable longbeard and bowed his head as always.
“Meet our ally, Azgar Grobkul.” Halgar stepped to one side, allowing Azgar to come forward.
The slayer’s bare chest bore numerous tattoos and wards of Grimnir. A spiked crest of flame-red hair jutted from his skull that was otherwise bald, barring a long mane of hair that extended all the way down his muscled back. Across his broad, slab-like shoulders, Azgar wore a troll-skin pelt, stitched together by sinew. A belt around his thick waist was cinctured by goblin bones and adorned with a macabre array of grisly trophies. The call to arms he had issued in the throng’s defence was made by a wyvern horn he slung across his body on a strap of leather and he gripped a broad-bladed axe — a chain linking it to his wrist by means of a vambrace — in one meaty fist.
“Tromm,” the slayer muttered, his voice like scraping gravel as he met Uthor’s gaze steadily.
The slayer’s eyes were like dark pits, exacerbated by the tattooed black band across them but Uthor knew them, and knew them well.
“It is ever the burden of those who take the slayer oath to seek an honourable death in battle, in the hope to atone for their past dishonour,” Uthor replied, his expression tense.
“Perhaps I will meet it in the halls of Karak Varn,” said Azgar, dourly. “It seems a worthy death.”
Uthor’s fists were clenched. “Perhaps,” he muttered, relaxing, “Grimnir willing.” Uthor nodded once more to Halgar and then stalked away to find Thundin.
“He bears a dark burden, lad,” said Halgar, momentarily lost in his own thoughts, “think nothing of it.”
“Indeed,” said Azgar, a noble cadence to his voice despite his wild appearance. “Indeed he does.”
The slayer watched Uthor walking away. His face betrayed no emotion.
ACT TWO
OATH AND HONOUR
CHAPTER SIX
The dwarf throng reached the outer gate of Karak Varn in confident mood. The greenskins had been put to flight and, though only some two hundred or so strong, the army was now bolstered by a band of ferocious slayers. It also seemed word of the orcs’ defeat had spread, for no such creature opposed them as they made camp in the long shadow of the mountain.
The dwarfs gathered in small groups, heavy armour clanking noisily as they came to a halt and took in the impressive sight of the hold. Mutterings of wonderment and dour lamentations could be heard on the silent breeze that such a jewel in the crown of the Karaz Ankor could have fallen into depredation. Others, those older members of the clan who had seen greater glories, merely sighed in relief that the first part of the journey, at least, was over.
Strangely, the orcs had closed and barred the great gates left open in Uthor and his companions’ flight several months ago, and so, with a day passed since the battle in the ravine and night approaching once more, the dwarfs pitched tents. They were large, communal structures that were used to house some twenty or so dwarfs at a time. Standards of bronze, copper and steel were staked in the ground at the encampments of each individual clan to indicate who lodged there. Warriors removed weapons and helmets as they huddled together, looking for casks of ale to moisten parched throats, and shake the grit from their boots. It had been a long march through the mountains. Tonight they would rest, before making their initial excursion into the karak come the morning.
“There is but one sure way to secure the hold,” stated Gromrund, “we clear one deep at a time and seal all ways in and out.”
“There is little time for that, hammerer,” Uthor argued.
Several of the dwarfs gathered in the largest of the tents, a broad but squat affair made of toughened leather and supported by stout metal poles. So low was the roof that Gromrund’s warhelm would occasionally scrape the ceiling. There were a few muttered comments between dwarfs as to why the hammerer did not remove it, but as of yet no one had asked him. No guide ropes were required to keep the tents up, such was the ingenuity of the design, and each took on the bulky and robust appearance of rock. A shallow flume was cut into the roof and through it the smoky vapours of a modest fire billowed. Red meat on a trio of spits dripped fat and oil into the flames, making them sizzle and hiss sporadically. A large, flat table had been erected and each of the assembled war council sat on small rocks around it, drinking from tankards and firkins, and smoking pipes.
“According to the lorekeeper,” Uthor said, gesturing to Ralkan who sat quietly and supped at his ale, “there is a great hall in the third deep, big enough to accommodate our forces. It is defensible and a fitting place to stage our reconquest.”
Uthor switched his attention to the rest of the gathered dwarfs. Halgar, Thundin, Rorek and Hakem all sat around the table, watching and listening to the two dwarfs debating.
“We get to it and secure a bridgehead,” Uthor continued. “From there we can launch further attacks into the hold, striking deep at the skaven warrens, and reclaim Karak Varn for good!” He thumped his fist down on the table — the assembled throng wary of such outbursts, astutely raised their tankards a moment before — for emphasis.
“Delving so deep without knowing the dangers ahead and behind us is folly.” Gromrund would not be dissuaded. “Have you forgotten the battle in the King’s Chamber and how quickly we were surrounded?”
“We were but a party of eight back then.” Uthor stole a glance at Halgar. Yes, eight old one, he thought, when Lokki was still alive. “Now we are many.” A fire glinted in Uthor’s eyes at that remark.
“I maintain we will stand a better chance if we take the deeps one at a time. We have Thundin’s ironbreakers to consider, far better employed as tunnel fighters than holding a single massive chamber, and let’s not forget the Grim Brotherhood—”
“The slayers will do as they will, but they seek to die in this mission,” Uthor snapped, a bellicose demeanour possessing him suddenly. “I for one do not want to be honoured posthumously, hammerer.”
Gromrund snorted his breath through his nostrils, and what part of his face that was visible behind his warhelm’s face plate flushed red.
“A vote then,” the hammerer growled, through clenched teeth, slamming down his ale to the rapid upraising of tankards around the tent. He held up a coin that shimmered in the firelight. On one side was an ancestor head; the other bore a hammer. “Heads, we clear the deeps one by one—”
“—or hammers, we head for the Great Hall and make our stand there,” Uthor concluded.
Gromrund slammed his coin down first, head facing upward.
“Venerable Halgar,” said Uthor, matching the hammerer but with his coin, hammer upturned, “yours is the next vote.”
Halgar snorted derisively, grumbling at some unknown slight and set his coin down upon the table, but left his hand over it to conceal his decision.
“The vote is secret, as it was in the old days,” he snarled, “until all parties have made their choice.”
Hakem nodded, placing his coin down and covering it. In turn the process repeated, until each and every dwarf present had placed his voting coin.
“Let us see, then, who has the support of this council,” Uthor intoned, eyeing the table with the concealed coins upon it eagerly.
As one, the assembled dwarfs revealed their decisions.
* * *
Gromrund left the tent muttering heatedly under his breath and went off in search of his own lodgings for the night. Drimbold, who was sitting a short distance from the tent, watched him as he ladled a stew over a low fire. Gromrund stalked right through the Grey dwarf’s encampment, tripping on the stones surrounding the fire and accidentally kicking over a steaming pot of kuri.
&nb
sp; “Be mindful!” Drimbold said as his meal was unceremoniously splattered over the ground.
Gromrund barely broke his stride as he snarled, “Be mindful yourself, Grey dwarf.”
“Grumbaki,” Drimbold muttered. If the hammerer heard him, he did not show it. Must be that warhelm clogging up his ears, he thought with a wry smile. Looking down at his spoilt food he scowled but then dipped his finger into a portion of the kuri he’d made with troll flesh, before putting it in his mouth. He chewed the cured flesh for a moment, the fire putting paid to any regenerative qualities the meat might have once possessed, then sucked at the juices, grinding the added dirt and grit in his teeth. “Still good,” he said to himself and dipped his finger in the spilled stew again.
Drimbold ate with a small group of Zhufbar dwarf miners of the Sootbeard clan, sitting around a fitful fire. Not all of the dwarfs were sleeping in tents tonight and, as none had wished to share with him on account of the fact that several personal items from around the camp had already gone missing with a fairly strong suspicion as to who the culprit was, he was amongst those unlucky few. The Grey dwarf didn’t mind, and neither, it seemed, did the Sootbeards, one particularly enthusiastic and slightly boss-eyed dwarf by the name of Thalgrim regaling them with tales of how he could “talk” to rocks and the subtleties of gold. The latter subject interested Drimbold greatly, but Thalgrim was currently entrenched in matters of geology, so the Grey dwarf paid little attention to the conversation and instead contemplated his evening beneath the stars.
In truth, Drimbold was as at home looking up at the sky as he was beneath the earth at Karak Norn. He came from a family of kruti and had worked the overground farms of his hold since birth. His father had taught him much of fending for oneself in the wild and the art of kulgur was one such lesson.
[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Page 10