The troll snarled at Skartooth, and the goblin warlord saw all the years of pain and mistreatment at his hands felt by Ungul anew.
“Oh no,” he breathed, reaching up to neck.
The collar was gone.
Fangrak had removed it.
“Ee ’ates you almost as much as I do,” said the orc chief, three of his warriors alongside him, awaiting the gruesome show.
Skartooth shuffled backwards as the troll stood up, its immense shadow engulfing him like an eclipse.
Ungul roared, beating its chest.
Skartooth back-pedalled as fast as he could but suddenly there was nothing beneath his feet and he fell off the promontory, screaming into the jagged gorge below.
Ungul bellowed in rage, watching the goblin disappear. The subject of its ire gone, it lumbered around and turned all of its anger on Fangrak.
“Aw zog,” said the orc chieftain, hunting around with his eyes to locate the collar. When Skartooth had bitten him he’d dropped it. His last memory of the artefact was of it rolling away across the plateau but now it was nowhere to be seen.
“Get it,” he snarled at his warriors, switching to his makeshift back-up plan. The orcs looked bemused at first, but when they realised Fangrak was serious they charged, roaring, at the troll.
Ungul roared back and vomited a searing spray of corrosive stomach acid all over the warriors, who screamed as the toxic liquid ate them up greedily.
Fangrak — seeing his minions turned to bubbling pools of greenish flesh and viscera — ran but Ungul reached out with its gangly limbs and seized him. The orc chieftain squealed as the troll pulled off both his arms and then went for the legs. As the troll sat down to feast, its anger sated for now, the rest of what was left of the horde fled, deep into the mountains.
The flickering torch flame illuminated the fearsome, scar-ravaged visage of Azgar as he led the warriors down the cramped passage.
“These are not dwarf-made tunnels,” growled Halgar, two paces behind the slayer.
The longbeard ran his hand lightly along the walls, smearing away a thin veneer of slime and crusted filth. A trail of effluvia trickled languidly down the middle of the tunnel along the ground in a shallow and foul-smelling rut. Elsewhere, the skaven underway was littered with excreta and other detritus, and the dwarfs needed to traverse it with care lest they slip on clustered droppings or the rank remnants of a discarded rat-kin feast.
“How long have we been down here?” Drimbold piped up suddenly, trudging just behind Halgar.
“Too long,” the longbeard muttered. The twisting, turning route had led them deep into the earth. On several occasions the way had split, spiralling off into the silent gloom in myriad directions, some so obtuse that only one of the rat-kin could hope to travel them. Halgar knew that much of the skaven labyrinth intersected the paths of the Ungdrin road and even undermined and subsumed them in places. In his youth, he’d heard tales of huge, hairless mole rats that the skaven used to dig vast tracts into the rock and earth — whether or not such rumours held any truth the longbeard did not know. He had to suppress a shudder, though, when he wondered how long these tunnels had been here, unnoticed by Kadrin, Ulfgan and even their ancestors, balking at the thought of just how many were bored into the earth and exactly how deep they went.
Azgar was paying little heed to the conversation and was intent on the way forward when Halgar bade him pause a moment as he sniffed at the air. Wrinkling his nose he said, “The wretched stench of the rat-kin is thickening,” he said. “We are getting close.”
The slayer nodded and the dwarfs continued into the dark.
The dwarfs that remained in the foundry had waited for an hour before heading out. They too were destined for the triple forked road but preparations to meet and resist the skaven horde first had to be made. The delay would also allow Uthor and Gromrund, who had a much farther journey ahead of them, to get well under way. Azgar’s expedition did not dawdle too long, however — in luring the skaven to them, it also meant their brothers en route to the Barduraz Varn and the overflow grate would be less likely to encounter much resistance.
The three dwarfs were not alone as they ventured toward the rat-kin warrens, three of the Grim Brotherhood and another dwarf by the name of Thorig, a warrior of Zhufbar who shouldered a heavy-looking satchel across his back, also accompanied them.
Halgar rubbed at his eyes as the dwarfs stopped in a sloped section of the labyrinthine tunnel network, a two-legged fork in front of them. Azgar brandished the torch light in front of it. His lip curled into a feral sneer as he recognised the foul script of the skaven scratched into the wall above each road. He turned to the longbeard and saw him kneading his eye sockets with his knuckles.
“Are you all right, old one?” asked the slayer.
“Yes,” Halgar snapped, “this infernal flame is ruining my sight,” he complained, scratching at his chest wound again.
“I am not fond of it either,” Azgar agreed, “but ’tis necessary,” he added, thumbing over his shoulder in the direction of Thorig, “for what the engineer has planned.”
Halgar grumbled, his words indiscernible. He pointed to the left-hand opening of the fork, tasting the air as he did so. “The stink is heaviest there,” he said more clearly, blinking several times before trudging onward. “Are you coming?” he snarled back at the others.
“We will need a rope,” cried Uthor above the raging din of the waterfall.
The dwarfs had been going steadily on a western course just as Ralkan had told them to. Already they had shut several door dams, which Rorek assured the thane of Kadrin would help channel the lower flood waters up to the foundry. They had also sealed a number of wellways, heaving large stones into their necks to act as stoppers. It was tough and time-consuming work but necessary. The road had led them downwards after that, the Barduraz Varn getting ever closer, to a sheer rock face and a sheet of shimmering, cascading water.
“Can we go around?” Emelda shouted, her voice dulled by the incredible noise of the thundering torrents.
“It is the only way into the flooded deeps and the Barduraz Varn,” Uthor replied, eyeing the rushing waterfall from the ledge where the dwarfs were standing. The ledge narrowed abruptly after that, where the waterfall began and had worn it down. Over the edge, the thunderous water fell away into a deep, dark chasm. Uthor imagined the vast expanse of the Black Water swelling far above them, its power evident even this far down and felt humbled.
Rorek unwound a rope from his tool belt, one of several, and brandished it in front of Uthor. “This will hold. Dawi twine is not so easily broken,” he said, errant spray spitting at him and moistening his beard with jewels of water. He threw one end of the rope to Uthor, who caught it easily.
“Tie it around your waist and make the knot tight,” Rorek told him then turned to Emelda. “You should do the same, milady.”
The dwarfs were moved into single file, first Uthor then Emelda followed by Rorek, Henkil and finally Bulrik. Slowly, with Uthor taking the lead, they worked their way towards the rushing waterfall.
As Uthor touched the narrowed ledge he instantly felt the slickness beneath his boots. It would be easy to slip and fall into the endless depths below, with a forest of razor sharp rocks at journey’s end. The thane of Kadrin resolved not to look down. Instead, he dug around in a leather pouch Rorek had given to him and pulled out two broad spikes of iron. He put one in his mouth — the taste of metal was reassuring — and reached over to drive the other into the sheer rock. At first he faltered — unaccustomed to the battering force of the water, and recoiled — breathing hard, his beard, face and arm drenched. Then he gathered himself and tried again, taking an extra step as he did so.
Icy water smashed Uthor, robbing him of breath and setting his teeth chattering as he fought against the thunderous swell. Taking a small hammer from his belt, the thane drove the spike into the wall, where it held fast. Using the spike as a handhold, he eased himself further across the ledge
and drove in another. Then came a third and a fourth, and Uthor reached the centre of the ledge, where a small crevice in the rock wall allowed him a moment’s respite from the onrushing deluge.
Catching his breath, acutely aware that the others were following slowly in his wake, he was about to continue when he felt a sharp tug against the rope cinctured at his waist. The thane turned, his boots slipping on the drenched rock, and saw Emelda losing purchase on one of the spikes and falling backward. She was but an arm length away and Uthor quickly reached out to her, grabbing her by the wrist as she flailed, and heaved her towards him. The royal clan daughter thumped into Uthor’s body with the momentum of her rescue and the two of them fell back against the narrow crevice in the rock wall, breathing hard.
“My thanks,” said Emelda, her long plaits dripping wet as she blinked away water droplets from her eyes. A smile starting to form in the corners of her mouth changed dramatically to a grimace as Uthor felt her pulled back again. He held her fast, gripping a wall spike with all his strength as he tried to see what was happening. Beyond the foaming, white veil of water blurred shadows presented themselves and dulled cries carried through the raging downpour.
Rorek watched, powerless, as Bulrik fell. The Ironfinger dwarf stumbled against a jutting rock and slipped. His death-scream was swallowed by the roar of the waterfall, his tumbling body lost from view in the churning mists.
Wisely, the dwarfs had left several feet of rope between each fastening around the waist but even so, Henkil only had a few seconds to un-tether himself or he too would be lost to the darkness. The leader of the Funowbrows pulled frantically at the knot he had made. His clan were rope makers, he had boasted as much to Rorek before they had descended the stairway, and as such knew much of knot work, so much so that he had congratulated himself when he’d tied this particular binding unthinking that he might have to untie it in haste.
Henkil’s fingers slipped, the slack of the rope pulling taut and he looked up at the engineer when he realised all was lost. The Furrowbrow was yanked violently off the ledge to his doom, Bulrik an unwitting anchor. The rope started gathering again. Rorek was tugged forward at first, some of the slack piled at his boot, but then he stepped free of it. He pressed his back against the rock wall and braced his legs — no way could he bear the weight of two fully-armoured dawi. Like most of the throng, Rorek carried several throwing axes and with the trailing rope tightening before his very eyes, he pulled one free. With an oath to Grungni that his aim might this once be true he cast the blade, which span end over end scything through the water and smacking into the ledge, cutting the rope with no more time to spare. There it remained, firmly embedded, as the severed trail disappeared into the gloom following Bulrik and Henkil.
“Is it much farther?” groaned Hakem as he climbed down another few feet, through the cramped confines of Dibna’s Drop.
The dwarfs had entered the shaft via the mines and were descending gradually to the underdeep and from there to the overflow tunnel — thanks to Thalgrim’s rope, secured safely above — which resided a long way below. The going had been hard; much of the shaft was collapsed and in places, sharp rocks jutted out where adjoining tunnels had broken through the shaft wall like stone battering rams. Mercifully, the ancestors of Karak Varn had built a series of short ledges at intervals down the long shaft. Gromrund took advantage of this piece of engineering ingenuity gladly setting his boots onto the stone outcrop for a breather.
“Not sure. I think we are about halfway,” the hammerer reckoned, peering into the gloom below between his legs.
“In the halls of Barak Varr, gilded lifts allow passage up and down the deeps,” Hakem moaned, struggling to un-tether his hook from the rope as he too found one of the ledges.
“You must be feeling like your old self, again,” Gromrund remarked with a wry smile in the merchant thane’s direction, “to boast of your hold’s magnificence. Or do you seek to outdo Halgar with your grumbling?” he added.
Hakem gave a half-hearted and ephemeral laugh. The loss of the Honakinn Hammer still dogged his thoughts. The memory of it vanishing into the darkness beyond his grasp and the subsequent death of Dunrik was like a sudden knife-blade in his heart and his expression darkened.
Gromrund saw it and averted his gaze upward to where Ralkan, Thalgrim and the three Sootbeards descended. Each of them found purchase on the ledges in short order; the relief of Ralkan though was almost palpable.
“How long can we rest?” gasped the lorekeeper, unused to such physical exertion, casting his gaze skyward and scarce believing he had come such a distance.
“Not long,” said Gromrund, “a few minutes, no more.”
Thalgrim was in his element, as were his clan brothers. They chatted freely, taking the opportunity to eat what rations they had in their packs. One of the miners even dangled his feet over the edge, dropping a small piece of rock into the gloom. Thalgrim turned his ear towards it as it struck the bottom with a shallow and faraway “plink”.
“One hundred and thirty-one feet,” said the lodefinder to the rest of the group, “give or take a few inches.”
“There,” said Gromrund, looking back at Hakem. “You have your answer.” Hakem scowled.
“Definitely more like the longbeard,” Gromrund muttered beneath his breath.
Thalgrim led the rest of the way down Dibna’s Drop. The darkness was particularly thick here it seemed and he and the rest of the Sootbeards lit candles stuck to their mining helmets to help light the way for the other dwarfs. There were no more stops and after what felt like several more hours to some, they reached the end of the shaft and the ancient rock of the underdeep.
The lodefinder landed with a dull splash, water coming up to his ankles and wetting the mail skirt of his armour. The underdeep was partially flooded. Tramping through the water to make way for the others he gazed in wonder at the vast subterranean halls at the lowest habitable levels of Karak Varn. Massive archways ran down the curved ceiling at precise intervals and stout columns, carved with runic script and the images of fabulous beasts, held the roof aloft. A fizzle of flame got his attention as the rest of the group made landfall. He realised it was his candle and craned his neck to regard the ceiling directly above. Liquid dripped intermittently from a shallow crack, an isolated pocket of flood water obviously trapped beyond it and trying to force its way through. Thalgrim was possessed by the sudden urge to hurry.
“Which way, lorekeeper?” he asked, turning back to the group, all of whom had now exited the mineshaft.
They were standing at a confluence of four tunnels, the crossroads stretching off into the distance seemingly without discerning features.
Ralkan regarded each avenue in turn, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember.
“I thought you knew how to get to the overflow,” said Hakem, with a furtive glance at Gromrund.
The lorekeeper scratched his head. Much of the tunnels were damaged: collapsed columns jutted from the water like miniature stone islands and some of the archway decoration had fallen away leaving them jagged as if gnawed upon. It was not how Ralkan remembered it, though he had seen the desolation before.
“We go north,” he said at last, pointing towards one of the tunnels.
“That way lies south,” said Thalgrim, his expression perplexed.
“South then,” replied the lorekeeper, a little uncertainly. “Come on, the grate is not far,” he added and started tramping down the tunnel, the bottom of his robes water-logged.
“South it is,” muttered Hakem, exchanging a worried look with Gromrund as the dwarfs followed.
The foul stink of skaven was overpowering as they reached the entrance to the warrens; even Azgar and the others did not need the nose of the longbeard to smell it.
Halgar slowly and quietly pulled his axe from his belt as he approached the ratman chamber. Azgar was beside the longbeard and he turned to the slayer, first putting his finger to his lips and then showing the slayer his palm in a gesture to
wait. The longbeard crept forward to the threshold of the room, his stealth incredible for a dwarf of his age and so armoured, and peered into it.
The skaven warren was made in a large, roughly-hewn cavern around three hundred beard lengths in each direction. Structurally, there were a number of raised stone platforms and Halgar also noticed the edge of several deep pits in the centre of the chamber. Rat-kin guards stood around them, wearing cracked, black-leather hauberks and carrying broad-bladed spears — they must be the birthing pens, where the bloated skaven females gorged upon the flesh of the dead and spawned litters of the mutated ratmen. The thought turned the longbeard’s stomach and he gripped his axe haft for reassurance. Two more guards sat near the entrance, noses twitching but otherwise oblivious to Halgar’s presence.
Slumbering slaves took up most of the rest of the floor space, heaped on top of one another in clots of fur and cloth, partially obscured by a low-lying, sulphurous fug. Halgar noticed it came from the birthing pens.
A languid, almost comatose, atmosphere persisted. Piles of excreta lay everywhere, along with bones and other debris. Urine stained the walls and sweat clung to the air, on top of the nostril-prickling stench of the sulphur fog. Halgar had seen enough and backtracked to his awaiting kinsdwarfs.
The longbeard beckoned Thorig forward and the Zhufbar dwarf did so quickly. Halgar nodded to him and Thorig unclasped the satchel he’d been carrying since they’d left the foundry. Delving deep, he produced a fist-sized ball of copper and iron. A faint seam was visible in the flickering torch light that ran across the ball’s circumference, a hinge at one end and what appeared to be a spring-loaded catch at the other. A spout protruded from one hemisphere with a short length of twine sticking out of it.
Halgar took the ball in his hand and tipped it, the tinny sound of liquid sloshing inside could be heard very faintly. The longbeard raised an eyebrow at the Zhufbar dwarf.
[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Page 21