“Impaled by ratman spears — he died a noble death, protecting his kinsdwarfs.”
“May he be remembered,” Uthor uttered, his guilt was like an anvil trussed around his neck.
“Aye, may he be remembered,” Halgar added.
Emelda was divested of her armour and instead wore the plain purple robes of Valaya she had beneath her chain and platemail. The clan daughter had even removed the runic cincture — it glowed dully, nearby, in the reflected light of the vast forge pit.
She was alone at the forgemaster’s platform in the foundry. Dunrik’s cold body lay before her on the anvil. The rest of the reunited throng were sat below, most in hunched silence, contemplating their plight.
“Dunrik,” she whispered, placing her hand on the dwarfs clammy brow. His flesh was pale now; much like it had been when he’d escaped from Iron Rock. She had tended his wounds then as part of her training — for the priestesses of Valaya were battle-surgeons in times of war — and the bond between them had been forged. After that, he’d become her bodyguard and confidant — there was nothing Dunrik would not have done for her; he’d even defied the will of his king to get her to Karak Varn. How she wished to take that back: to be at Everpeak dreaming of glory and restoring the great days of the dawi to the Karaz Ankor, instead of preparing his corpse for interment.
“Are you ready, milady?” said a small voice.
Emelda turned to see Ralkan stood, head bowed, beneath the archway to the platform. She smeared away the tears on her face with the sleeves of her robes.
“Yes,” she said, mustering some resolve.
Silently, Ralkan walked forward. He carried pails of water, one in each hand, gathered from the vast cooling butts stood against the foundry walls. Setting the buckets down, he helped Emelda remove Dunrik’s battered armour. The clan daughter wept as she struggled, with Ralkan’s assistance, to pull some of the armour away from the embedded spear hafts. Beneath mail and plate, Dunrik’s tunic and breeches were so badly sodden with blood that they had to be cut free. Emelda did this, careful so as not to pierce the dwarf’s flesh or defile the body in any way. Next came the extraction of the embedded spear hafts. Each was like a wound against the clan daughter as she removed it.
Naked upon the anvil, Dunrik was washed head to foot and his beard combed. Emelda wrung blood soaked bundles of rags regularly and sent Ralkan back for fresh water on several occasions. After these ablutions Emelda stitched the spear wounds closed and redressed Dunrik tenderly with a borrowed tunic and breeches, uttering a pledge to Valaya as she did it. Ralkan had washed the original garments as best he could, but they were still wretched with blood and cut nigh-on to ribbons, so could not be salvaged.
Gromrund — working at one of the forge troughs below with Thalgrim operating the bellows — had repaired Dunrik’s armour, and even given the shortness of time and the state of its degradation it still shone as if new. The hammerer brought it up the platform and left it there without a word.
Emelda dismissed Ralkan and clad Dunrik in his armour by herself. After a few moments, it was almost done and as she affixed the final clasps of Dunrik’s left vambrace she went to retrieve the dwarf’s helmet. Emelda paused before she placed it on him, setting it down on the anvil next to his head, and traced her finger down the scar the orcs of Iron Rock had given him long ago.
“Brave dawi,” she sobbed. “I am so sorry.”
“What is that beardling doing?” snapped Halgar, suddenly.
Uthor was grateful of the distraction, so grim was his mood, and looked over to where Rorek — who was anything but a beardling — was tinkering with a globelike object made of iron and copper. To one side of the engineer there sat a doused lantern. While Uthor watched, the Zhufbar dwarf picked it up and carefully poured the oil into a narrow spout fashioned into the globe. He then set the globe down and started to unravel a section of rope from that which was usually arrayed around his tool belt.
“I know not,” Uthor answered.
“Mark my words, he’ll be for the Trouser Legs Ritual before long or maybe a cogging,” the longbeard grumbled.
Uthor was about to reply when Hakem approached them. His wound had been cleaned and redressed by Emelda in abject silence, before she had gone to tend to Dunrik.
“They are ready,” he uttered.
“Here lies Dunrik, may Valaya protect him and Gazul guide his spirit to the Halls of the Ancestors,” Emelda declared, her voice choked.
She stood at the edge of the great fire pit beyond the statue of Grungni. Dunrik was before her, resting upon a cradle of iron. The Everpeak dwarf was fully armoured, the metal gleaming thanks to the efforts of Gromrund and Thalgrim, and wore his helmet. His shield lay by his side. Only his axe was missing. Emelda carried the ancient weapon as she invoked the funerary rites of Gazul, drawing the Lord of the Underearth’s symbol — the great cave and entrance to the Halls of the Ancestors — upon the flat blade. Though Emelda was a priestess of Valaya, she was also learned in all the rites of the ancestor gods, even those lesser deities such as Gazul, son of Grungni.
“Gazul Bar Baraz; Gazul Gand Baraz,” she intoned, honouring the Lord of the Underearth, beseeching his promise to guide Dunrik to the Chamber of the Gate. The ritual conferred the dwarf’s soul into his axe, and when it was buried in the earth Dunrik would pass from the chamber and be allowed to enter the Halls of the Ancestors proper. Only in times of dire need was such a measure undertaken. Since there was no tomb, no sanctuary for Dunrik’s body, Emelda would not leave it in the foundry to be defiled. This was the only way he might know peace.
Inwardly, she pitied those others who had fallen, bereft of honour — left to wander the underdeep as shades and apparitions, ever restless. It was no fate for a dwarf to endure.
The rattling of chains attached to the makeshift bier arrested Emelda from her remembrances. It was time.
Sweating from the emanating heat haze, Thalgrim and Rorek pulled a chain, hand over hand, through one of the pulleys suspended above the pit of fire. Hakem and Drimbold pulled another, the merchant thane managing despite only having one hand. Each chain was split at the very end and branched off into two sections attached to the ends of the iron cradle. As the dwarfs heaved, Dunrik was lifted slowly off the ground. Once he had reached the zenith of the chamber, the chains were locked in place and a third chain dragged by Uthor pulled Dunrik high over the pit of fire. Now in place, and through means of ingenious dwarf engineering, he could be lowered slowly into the raging flames.
As Uthor did so, very slowly, Halgar stepped forward and Emelda, head bowed respectfully, retreated back.
The longbeard’s expression was one of solemnity as he opened his mouth and sang a dour lamentation in a sombre baritone, all the while Dunrik getting closer to the forge fires.
In ancient days when darkness wracked the land,
’twas Grimnir ventured north with axe in hand.
To the blighted wastes he was so fated
to slay daemons, beasts and fell gods much hated.
Thunder spoke and tremors wracked the earth
Grimnir the Fearless fought for all his worth.
With the gods of ruin arisen all around,
with rhun and axe did Grimnir strike them down.
He closed the dreaded gate and sealed the darkness in
lest it curse the Karaz Ankor again.
Go now brave dawi, go if you are able
to Grungni’s table — he is waiting.
In the Halls of the Ancestors with honour at your breast,
you will find your final rest.
Lo there is the line of kings arrayed,
your place among them is assured — they await you.
Go now brave dawi, the hammers ring your passing,
the throng amassing in the deep — your soul will Gazul keep.
Go now brave dawi, in glory you are wreathed, unto the Halls of the Ancestors received.
As Halgar finished, Dunrik’s body, already wreathed in fla
me, was plunged deep into the sea of coal and fire. In moments, he was consumed by it.
“So then does Dunrik, son of Frengar, thane of Everpeak and the Bardrakk clan pass into the Chamber of the Gate to await his ancestors,” said the longbeard.
“May he be remembered.”
“May he be remembered,” the throng responded in sombre unison, all except Emelda who kept her head bowed and stayed silent.
Ralkan, standing near to Halgar, inscribed Dunrik’s name in the book of remembering the massive tome held up for him by two dwarfs of the Stonebreaker clan.
As Halgar fell silent, Uthor stepped forward and turned to the gathered assembly. In his left hand he held a dagger. With a single, swift gesture he drew the blade across his palm, making a fist immediately afterwards, and then passed the dagger to Halgar, who wiped it clean. Uthor then waited for Ralkan to come forward. The lorekeeper carried a small receptacle and held it beneath the thane’s cut hand. Uthor clenched his fist and allowed the blood to drip into the receptacle. When he was done, Emelda bound the wound as Ralkan went back to the book of remembering. The entire ritual was conducted in total silence.
“Let it be known,” uttered Uthor, Ralkan scribing the words in the thane of Kadrin’s own blood into the tome in front of him, “on this day did Dunrik of the Bardrakk clan fall in battle, slain by skaven treachery. Ten thousand rat-tails will avenge this deed and even then may it never be struck from the records of Karak Varn and Everpeak. So speaks Uthor, son of Algrim.”
Emelda raised her head and peered into the flames of the vast pit, the axe of Dunrik clutched firmly in her hands.
“An oath was made,” said Uthor, addressing the throng — less than half that which ventured from their holds to reclaim Karak Varn.
It had been several hours since Dunrik’s interment and Uthor had spent that time consulting deeply with Thalgrim and Rorek. Halgar and Gromrund had been privy to their discussions too. Uthor had wanted Emelda to be present as well, but the clan daughter had retreated into herself following her kinsdwarf’s passage to the Chamber of the Gate and was not to be disturbed. Once they were done, their decision made, Uthor had bade Gromrund to gather the throng together in readiness for his address.
Uthor was standing on the forgemaster’s platform, beneath the arch, and all the dwarfs were arrayed below in their clans. The Bronzehammers, Sootbeards, Ironfingers and Flinthearts of Zhufbar, dark of expression, their numbers thinned by attrition. Alongside them were the Furrowbrows and the Stonebreakers of Everpeak, crestfallen and sullen. The latter bore the standard of the slain Firehands in dour remembrance. Gromrund stood amongst them, slightly to the front. The hammerer knew what was coming and was stern of face. At the back of the group was Azgar, surrounded by his fellow slayers. The Grim Brotherhood were as fierce and threatening as ever. Uthor paid them, and Azgar, no heed as he continued.
“An oath to reclaim Karak Varn in the name of Kadrin Redmane, my ancestor, and of Lokki Kraggson…”
The thane of Karak Kadrin looked over at Halgar, stood beside him, leaning on the pommel of his axe and scowling deeply at the warriors below.
“To wrest the hold from the vile filth that had infested it, the same wretches that took dawi territory, took their very lives in spite of our dominion of the mountain.”
There was muttered discord at that, as all around the throng chewed and pulled at their beards, spat in disgust and gnashed their teeth.
“We have failed in that oath.”
Sobbing and vociferous lamentation accompanied Uthor’s remark. Some dwarfs began stamping their feet and drumming axe and hammer heads against their shields.
“And Karak Varn is lost to us.”
Shouting echoed from the back ranks, loud grumblings of discontent and dismay filled the chamber, threatening to turn riotous.
Uthor beckoned for silence.
“And yet,” he said, struggling above the residual din, “and yet,” he said again as the foundry quietened at a glower from Halgar, “we will have our vengeance.”
A great, war-like cheer empted from the dwarfs below and the shield thumping began anew, together with the collective stamping of feet. The noise boomed like thunder, the throng abruptly ebullient and heedless of their enemies.
“If dawi cannot have the karak,” Uthor continued, “then none shall!”
The thunder rose in great pealing waves, ardent voices adding to its power.
“As it was years ago, so it shall be again. The hold of Karak Varn will flood and all within shall perish.” The thane’s gaze was as steel as he regarded his kin. “So speaks Uthor, son of Algrim!”
From fatalism came defiance and the desire for vengeance. It was etched upon the face of every dwarf present as indelibly as if carved in stone.
“Sons of Grungni,” Uthor bellowed. “Make ready. We go to war, again. For wrath and ruin,” he cried, the axe of Ulfgan held aloft like a rallying symbol.
“For wrath and ruin,” the booming thunder responded.
ACT THREE
WRATH AND RUIN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Uthor stalked from the forgemaster’s platform and down the stairs into the foundry plaza.
“Well spoken,” muttered Gromrund, the hammerer turning on his heel to walk alongside the thane. The still cheering throng parted like an iron sea to let them through.
“Aye it was,” Uthor replied, without arrogance then turned to look at the hammerer directly. “Does this mean we see eye-to-eye at last, then?”
“You are not the only one who has much to atone for, son of Algrim,” came the terse response. “If it is to be wrath and ruin, then so be it.”
Uthor smirked at that.
“Good enough,” he said then added, “summon the clan leaders and gather the engineers. We know what we must do; now we must devise how it is to be done.”
* * *
“Make no mistake,” Uthor told them, “most of us are likely to die in the enactment of this plan.”
The thane of Karak Kadrin sat upon a small wooden coal chest within a circle of his kinsdwarfs, next to the statue of Grungni. All of those who had first ventured into the hold were present — all except Lokki, of course. Thalgrim joined them, too, for the Sootbeards. As an expert in geology, his knowledge of the vagaries of rock and stone would be invaluable. Azgar took his place amongst the council as representative of the Grim Brotherhood — much to Uthor’s chagrin — though if death was to be their fate then the slayer would have little qualms. The other clan leaders were present also, for the decisions the dwarf assembly was about to make would affect them all. Only Emelda was absent, still seeking solitude for her grief.
Further off into the plaza there was a flurry of activity as dwarfs sharpened axes, beat the dents from armour and made their final oaths to the ancestors. Strangely, the mood was not one of grim melancholy; rather it was jovial and comradely as if the spectre of some unknown doom had been lifted.
“Better to die with honour than festering in the uncertain dark, awaiting a long and drawn out demise,” growled Henkil of the Furrowbrows, supping on a long-necked pipe.
“Aye, let us meet our doom with axes to the fore,” said Bulrik — who represented the interests of the Ironfingers — brandishing his axe. The other lords and leaders muttered their approval of these remarks and stamped their booted feet in agreement.
“It is as well,” said Uthor as the bravado died down, “for I do not expect to live out the rest of my days and neither should you.”
Grim resolution settled over the group. Only Halgar was unmoved, the old longbeard having seen and heard it all before.
“All we can hope for is to do our part and die well. Lorekeeper,” added Uthor, “tell us all how.”
Ralkan, who had been silent up until now, shuffled forward on his own coal chest and, producing a thick wedge of chalk from within his robes, started to draw onto the flagstones.
“Karak Varn has ever stood beside the Black Water,” he explained, his frantic scrib
ing seemingly irrelevant to his rhetoric. “In the Golden Age it was a great boon to the hold, for the crater in which the lake’s depths resided were thick with seams of ore and precious gromril.”
Ralkan looked up at that and observed the awe-struck expressions of his kin with satisfaction, their eyes alight with the lustre of great days past.
“It was during the reign of King Hraddi Ironhand that the Barduraz Varn was fashioned, a great sluice gate that when opened would yoke the strength of the Black Water to drive wheels that powered the forge hammers of the deeps and allow the prospectors of the hold to sift for minerals. Hraddi was a wily king and well aware of the dangers that such a gate presented, should it fail or it be opened too far,” the lorekeeper continued, his audience enrapt. “He instructed his engineers to build a deep reservoir beneath the Barduraz Varn in which the water could flow and at the lip of this magnificent well he bade miners hew tunnels that would carry the water to an overflow in the form of a vast and heavy grate. Such was the ingenuity of Hraddi’s engineers that the grate would always open in the exact same increments as the Barduraz Varn, so that no matter how wide the sluice gate opened the hold would never flood.”
Throughout the explanation, Ralkan pointed to his crude rendering— leastways, it was by dwarf standards — of the gate, reservoir, tunnel and overflow grate.
“But was the gate not destroyed during the Time of Woes?” Kaggi of the Flinthearts interrupted.
Ralkan regarded the clan leader in sudden befuddlement.
“I believe the gate is still intact,” Rorek interjected on the lorekeeper’s behalf. “The flooding we have seen has been isolated to certain chambers. Were the gate to be ruined then the extent of the water would be much greater and there are the records of the hold to consider—”
“Yes,” said Ralkan abruptly, remembering his place again. “My lord Kadrin did lead an expedition to the Barduraz Varn and found it to be in working order, though he did not linger. Much of the chamber was inundated and the lower deeps — although many of the skaven and grobi had been driven out — still held hidden dangers not so easily persuaded to leave.” The lorekeeper suppressed a shudder as if in some fearful remembrance.
[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Page 19