[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

  “If we are to flood the hold,” Rorek continued, “then we must destroy the overflow mechanism.”

  An uncomfortable undercurrent of shock and disapproval rippled through much of the assembly. To deliberately set out to sabotage dwarfen craft was almost unthinkable and something not to be undertaken lightly.

  “Dreng Tromm,” said Henkil, “that it should come to this.”

  “That is not all,” said Uthor. “Once we have ruined the overflow, so that it stays shut, we must open the Barduraz Varn as far as it will go.”

  “The rat-kin are not without wit,” said Hakem, sat across from the thane of Kadrin. The Barak Varr dwarf now wore a bronze hook, fashioned by Rorek and strapped onto the stump in place of his severed hand. “Even if we are able to block the grate and open up the hold to the Black Water, they will flee before it into their tunnels and return once the flood has drained away.”

  “Which is why we must start a second inundation, only from above,” Uthor replied, now looking to Thalgrim.

  The lodefinder was busy scrutinising a small rock; the thane of Kadrin fancied he was even conversing with it. Thalgrim snapped upright when he realised the eyes of the council were upon him.

  “Yes, above,” he said quickly. “The temporary shoring we found in the third deep as made by Engineer Dibna can be brought down; it ruptures slightly even now. A shaft from that chamber leads all the way to the under-deep and to the overflow tunnel.”

  “We must divide our throng into three skorongs,” Uthor said, picking up the slack. “One will head for the Barduraz Varn; a second will go in the opposite direction, first to the overflow and then to Dibna’s Chamber, thus starting the flood.”

  “And what of our enemies?” asked Bulrik. “They will not be gathered together. How are we to ensure they are all destroyed when the waters come?”

  “If this plan is to succeed,” Uthor said, “then we must draw the skaven to one place and channel the bulk of the rushing Black Water to it, ensnaring them until the flood can do its work. Like any rat trap,” he added, “it requires bait. This is where the third skorong comes in, and theirs is a grim task indeed.” Uthor’s face darkened. “They will hold the rat-kin, here, in this very chamber.”

  “And be drowned along with the skaven.” Bulrik finished for him.

  “It is possible that some might survive, and any of us who do must take word of this to the High King with all haste. But, yes it is likely most will die.” Uthor’s tone was sombre but firm.

  “It will be a noble sacrifice.”

  “How then are we to goad them?” asked Henkil. “If the slaughter in the Wide Western Way taught us anything, save for the treachery of skaven”—a bout of spitting accompanied that remark—“it is that their warlord has some intelligence. Likely they will not come of their own accord.”

  “Halgar?” Uthor turned to the longbeard.

  The venerable dwarf scratched at the grobi arrow stub embedded in his chest, before leaning forward.

  “I have fought fiercer and wilier foes — that is for certain, but this vermin chief is not without base cunning,” he said, chewing on the end of his pipe. “Like most creatures, even those wretches that prey upon us dawi in the dark and usurp our lands, the rat-kin nest. I can smell the stink of their lair even now, rotting below us like a rancid carcass,” Halgar added, sneering with disgust. “In my younger days, I once came upon such a nest — I feel its canker crawling over my skin as I remember it. Litters of the foul things were all about, spewed from rat-kin birth mothers that were fattened on urk and dawi flesh. My brothers and I brought flame and retribution to the foul dwelling, slaying the birthing rats first of all. It drove the rat-kin into frenzy and they came upon us with such fervour that we fled back whence we came. Grokki, my clan brother, and I, realising we would not outrun the vermin, cut down the braces to the tunnel in which we were in and brought the weight of the mountain down upon us and our pursuers. Of my kin, I was the only one to survive. This,” he said, holding up his ruined hand, “and the deaths of Grokki and the rest of my brothers upon my conscience, was my reward.”

  The longbeard allowed for a moment of sombre silence, before he went on.

  “Much like then we must find the filthy rat-kin nest and destroy all that lay within. That will bring them to us, mark my words on that.” With that the longbeard leant back, a heavy plume of pipe smoke issuing into the air around him.

  “An expedition must venture from the foundry, once the other skorongs are under way,” Uthor said by way of further explanation. “It will be small, designed to infiltrate past whatever guards the rat-kin will undoubtedly have in place and delve into the very heart of their nest. Rorek,” added Uthor, looking over to the engineer, “has fashioned something that will get the ratmen’s attention.”

  The Zhufbar dwarf grinned, revealing white teeth in his ruddy beard.

  “A fine plan,” Henkil concurred, “but who is to do what?”

  “Our most experienced warriors will be in the first two skorongs. The way will be perilous and should either fail then all our efforts will be for nought,” Uthor replied, “Gromrund shall lead those heading for the overflow and Dibna’s Chamber,”—the hammerer nodded his assent—“together with Thalgrim, Hakem, Ralkan and no more than three warriors from the Sootbeard clan,” he said with a glance at Thalgrim to make sure he was paying attention.

  “You, Henkil,” the thane continued, regarding the clan leader, “will accompany Rorek, Bulrik, Halgar and I to the Barduraz Varn, which leaves the rest to hold the skaven at—”

  “No lad,” said Halgar, his face illuminated briefly by his pipe embers before it was cast back into shadow. “I am too old to be running around the underdeep. I will stay here. I like the smell of the soot and metal; it reminds me of the Copper Mountain,” he added. “Besides, they will need my nose to find the rat-kin nest,” he said, tapping one of his nostrils.

  “But venerable one…”

  “I have spoken!” Halgar bellowed, but his expression soon softened, “I have fought in many battles, more than I can recall; let this be my last, eh?”

  Uthor’s shoulders sagged. To be without Halgar as he ventured to the gate was almost unthinkable. “Very well,” the thane said softly. “Drimbold, you will join us to the gate.”

  “I wish to stay here, too,” said the Grey dwarf, “and fight alongside my kin.”

  Halgar raised an eyebrow, but gave no other indication as to what he thought of Drimbold’s pledge.

  “Very well then,” Uthor said with a little consternation, “Kaggi, you shall accompany us.”

  Kaggi was about to nod but was interrupted.

  “Kaggi should remain with his kin,” said a voice from outside the circle.

  Uthor’s temper was rising it was quashed in an instant when Emelda moved into the light cast by the statue of Grungni, her armour resplendent before it. She had removed the face mask from her helmet and in her hand she held Dunrik’s axe. “We shall take Halgar’s place.”

  Uthor did not have the will to protest. In truth, he welcomed Emelda’s presence. Whenever she were near he felt the burden of his past, of his duty to his clan that he now knew he would fail, lift slightly. Her prowess, too, was unquestionable.

  “Then please sit, milady, for this last part is crucial,” Uthor said and Emelda took her place amongst the circle, those dwarfs sitting next to her reddening about the cheeks and swiftly smoothing their beards.

  Once order was restored, Uthor went on.

  “None amongst the first two skorongs must release any flood waters until they hear Azgar’s warhorn.” Uthor’s jaw tightened only slightly at the mention of the name. “Only then will we know the rat-kin are committed to the attack. After that, and by closing off tunnels, wells and door dams throughout the lower deeps as we go, the Black Water will be unleashed and channelled into the foundry.”

  Uthor allowed a silence to descend as he regarded each and every dwarf in the circle in turn.

  “Ma
ke your oaths,” he said, getting to his feet, “in an hour we go to meet our destinies.”

  The throng mustered together for one last time. Each and every clan dwarf was decked in their armour and brandished hammers and axes proudly.

  At the foundry gate, Uthor and Gromrund, with their retinues, made ready to leave. Their paths would converge for a time, until they reached the triple forked road and then one would head eastward to the mines and the shaft that led to the underdeep, whilst the other would go westward, relying on Ralkan’s prior instruction, to the Barduraz Varn.

  “If memory serves, the route to both the gate and overflow should be fairly clear of obstruction, fifty years of rat-kin occupation not withstanding, of course.” Ralkan had said as the council were breaking up.

  “Of course,” Uthor had replied with a wry glance at Gromrund, the thane noticing that other dwarfs in earshot made similar exchanges.

  “You are certain its note will carry to the lower deeps?” Halgar asked as he watched the dwarfs slowly depart through the gate.

  “The wyvern-horn will make itself heard, you can mark that — its note will carry,” Azgar answered deeply, with a furtive glance at Uthor. The thane of Kadrin was having a final private word with Drimbold. When he was done speaking into his ear, the Grey dwarf nodded and headed back to be amongst the other warriors.

  “You fight with honour, slayer,” said the longbeard, watching him. “But we all go to our deaths, now. Perhaps there might be some accord between you and your brother in this moment?”

  A slight, near-imperceptible, tremor of shock registered in the slayer’s eyes as he looked back at Halgar.

  “I have known it from the first time I set eyes upon you,” the longbeard said. “He even fights like you.”

  Azgar considered Halgar’s words before he spoke.

  “I am sorry, venerable one. You are wise, but there can be no accord between us. I have seen to that.”

  The slayer bowed deeply and took his leave.

  “Aye,” Halgar said regretfully when he was gone, off to rejoin his Grim Brotherhood and make ready for the coming battle. Uthor, too, had now vanished into the dark, the foundry gate thundering shut in his wake. “You’re probably right.”

  Drimbold heard the foundry gate slamming to and the thick bolts scraping across its metal surface as he headed for the weapon racks. The mattock he carried was chipped and battered, and he was unaccustomed to its weight. A stout hand axe, that was what he needed; even Halgar would condone him borrowing one.

  Reaching the racks, he looked over to the longbeard who was wheezing badly and rubbing at the old wound in his chest. He only did it when no one else was watching, but Drimbold was skilled at secret observation and had seen him struggle often. The Grey dwarf remembered Uthor’s words to him as he had left.

  “I won’t let you down,” he said to himself. Really, he had no choice. If this was to be the end, then honouring his pledge to Uthor was his last chance at redemption.

  Thratch wiped the flat of his blade on a skaven slave. The wretched creature was so emaciated that it nearly bent double with the warlord’s heavy paw pressed on its back. Satisfied that his weapon was clean of goblin blood, despite the pathetic tufts of fur poking between the slave’s patches of scar tissue, the warlord kicked the whimpering creature to the floor and stalked away to talk to his chieftain returning from the upper deeps.

  “Most of the green-things are dead-dead, my lord,” Liskrit said, cowering slightly before his master, despite his well-armoured bulk.

  “And the rest?” snarled Thratch, sheathing his sword as he paced over to the nearby door through which the dwarfs had made their escape.

  The warlord had returned to the Great Hall with Kill-Klaw and the majority of his warriors once they had defeated the greenskins. Despite the victory, Thratch had lost many clanrats and almost all of his slaves. The few that did survive were shovelling dwarf and goblin corpses into crudely-made barrows to be taken below to the warrens to feed the birthing mothers.

  When the nerve of the goblins finally broke — and Thratch knew it would — he’d sent a small cohort of elite stormvermin and slaves to harry them as far as the upper deeps. No creature, be it dwarf-thing or green-thing would usurp his domain — this was Thratch’s territory now.

  “They ran, quick-quick, yes.”

  “Good,” said the warlord then screamed suddenly, “No, no,” smacking the back of a warrior’s head into the door as he probed at it with his spear.

  “We don’t go that way,” Thratch roared, noticing the thin trickles of water eking through the cracks with a slight prickling of fear. The skaven warrior’s muzzle had been crushed into its brain with the impact and it did not answer. Suddenly aware of the fact, Thratch about turned and stalked back to his chieftain.

  “You stay-stay, make sure the green-things do not return,” he commanded. “I must check on Clan Skryre, yes,” he added, stalking off again. The progress on the pumping engine was going much slower than Thratch liked and he was debating which one of the Skryre acolytes to kill next when his chieftain spoke.

  “Noble Lord Thratch,” said Liskrit, obsequiously.

  “Yes-yes, what it is now?” Thratch whirled around, deciding whether or not to have Kill-Klaw gut the impudent chieftain now or wait until later while it slept.

  “The dwarf-things… should we follow them?”

  A vicious snarl crept across the warlord’s snout, revealing glistening fangs, still slick with goblin blood.

  “Dead-dead they are, yet they do not know it. Any that are left I will kill-kill or chase down into the dark for the fire-worm to eat.” The snarl twisted into a malicious grin and Thratch walked away, the creeping shadow of Kill-Klaw following silently behind him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Skartooth was displeased. His cunning attack against the skaven had been thwarted — largely by Fangrak’s incompetence, he was sure — the dwarfs had escaped his wrath and his army, together with all his grand designs, was in tatters.

  “Idiot!” the goblin warlord shrieked, pacing up and down the flat plateau of rock to which the remnants of the greenskins had fled. The path they had taken led them high into the mountains and three sides of the plateau fell away into a craggy gorge.

  Several of the surviving orc tribes had already left, retreating silently into the mountains as Skartooth had led the flight to the lofty promontory. Only he, Fangrak and a meagre horde of other orcs and goblins remained. That and Ungul, of course. The pet troll was sat on its bony backside and paid little heed to the argument brewing between his master and Fangrak, too obsessed was it with watching the viscous drool dripping languidly from its maw and pooling on the ground in front of it.

  “It was your plan to ambush the ratties and them stunties at the same time,” growled Fangrak, stood stock still as his warlord paced in front of him.

  “There was nuthin’ wrong with my plan,” squeaked Skartooth. “You just didn’t listen to my ordas, did ya?” he added, pointing his diminutive blade in the orc chieftain’s direction.

  “What ordas? ‘Get ’em’?” said Fangrak, building up to a roar. “Is them your zoggin’ ordas, eh?”

  “I knew you were useless, you and your ole stinkin’ lot,” snarled Skartooth. “And now you’ve ruined everything… Everything!” he cried, apoplectic with rage, the veins in his forehead popping to the surface.

  “I’ve ’ad enough of this,” Fangrak grumbled, turning away from the goblin warlord, “I’m off.”

  “Don’t turn your back on me!” Skartooth shrieked, so high-pitched that Ungul waggled a finger in his ear to stop it ringing.

  “Zog off,” said Fangrak, already walking away.

  Skartooth roared, the goblin’s anger getting the better of him as he launched himself at Fangrak, ready to plunge his sword beneath the orc’s shoulder blades. But before he could strike the blow, Fangrak whirled around and grabbed Skartooth’s scrawny arm in one meaty fist then quickly clamped his other hand around the
goblin’s neck. With a twist he snapped Skartooth’s wrist and the sword tumbled from the goblin’s nerveless grasp, clanging loudly as it hit the ground.

  Fangrak drew Skartooth close as he started to squeeze his hand around the goblin’s neck, slowly choking the life out of him.

  Skartooth glanced over towards Ungul, fear in his eyes but the beast was quite far away and digging deep into its nostril at something that didn’t want to be dislodged.

  When he looked back at Fangrak, he realised that this had been the orc’s plan all along. As that knowledge passed over his face, Fangrak smiled.

  “What are you gonna do now?” he murmured sadistically, squeezing just a little tighter and taking great amusement in watching the blood vessels pop in Skartooth’s ever widening eyes.

  The goblin warlord soiled himself, a long streak of foul smelling dung streaming from his robes to spatter on the ground and Fangrak’s leg.

  “You filthy—” the orc chieftain began, slightly loosening his grip as he stooped to inspect the mess trickling down into his boot.

  It was all the distraction Skartooth needed. The goblin wrenched himself free enough to bite down hard against Fangrak’s hand. The orc chieftain howled in pain and threw Skartooth to the ground as if he’d gripped the wrong end of a branding iron. The goblin warlord scuttled backwards on all fours to the safety of Ungul’s presence, the troll having suddenly blinked awake, as if for the first time.

  “Kill ’im!” Skartooth squealed, his diminutive voice croaky after nearly being strangled by Fangrak.

  Ungul didn’t respond. It merely looked dully at Skartooth as if trying to remember something.

  “What are you waitin’ for? Kill ’im!” the goblin squealed again, smacking Ungul on the nose with his good hand.