[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker

by Nick Kyme - (ebook by Undead)

“Zharrum,” whispered Thorig with a glint in his eyes. “The mixture of soot and oil is particularly volatile when exposed to a flame,” he added, echoing the words of Rorek.

  “Your clansdwarf will be for a quaffing,” Halgar grumbled quietly.

  Thorig shrugged and passed a ball to each of the other dwarfs. He then took the flaming brand proffered by Azgar, crushing it into the ground until only glowing embers remained. The slayer then led them back to warren entrance.

  A shallow gurgling of blood and the two skaven at the cavern entrance were dead with slit throats. Azgar and Halgar laid their kills down almost in perfect unison and began the stealthy advance into the chamber. The dwarfs trod in single file, Halgar at the front marking a path through the slumbering slaves. Should any of them be disturbed and manage to raise the alarm then the dwarfs would be quickly surrounded and fighting for their very lives.

  Azgar followed on after the longbeard, sweeping his gaze left and right for any sign of movement, chained axe held low in his grasp. So intent was he on what was in front of him that he didn’t see the rat tail flick beneath his boot. The bulky slayer stepped on it and the slave to whom it belonged would’ve screamed but for Azgar reaching down like lightning, wrapping his chain around the creature’s neck and snapping it with a vicious twist. Like before, he laid the body down carefully and the dwarfs moved on.

  As they came close to the birthing pens and the guards that protected them Halgar bade them silently to spread out, using the shadows and the soporific state of the rat-kin to creep up on them. There were six guards in total; a pair for each of the three pits and one each for Halgar, Azgar, Drimbold and the Grim Brotherhood. Thorig stooped out of sight, fearful that the embers of the torch would rouse the skaven.

  When they were all in position, Halgar rose up from a crouching stance and cut the first guard down. One of the Grim Brotherhood smothered the second with a meaty palm over the mouth and then broke its neck. Azgar and another of his slayers, looming out of the mist like ancient predators of the deep, dispatched the other two with equal and deadly swiftness. Drimbold and the third slayer finished the remaining guards, one with a well-flighted axe throw; the other with an axe spike to the throat. So silent was Drimbold that the other dwarfs didn’t even see or hear him approach. The assassins shared a nod to acknowledge the task was done and crept over to the birthing pens.

  Halgar peered into the deep pit and almost gagged.

  Sat on its fat rump, its rolls of fat spilling over each other, was a vile skaven birth mother. The bloated female was mewling faintly with its scrawny legs spread wide in preparation for the expulsion of yet more skaven offspring. She was surrounded by bone carcasses: dwarf, goblin and even ratman were all in evidence. A host of diminutive rat-kin spawn suckled hungrily at a raft of small, pink teats sticking out of the birth mother’s torso. Several of the spawn were dead and some of the stronger babies were devouring them, noisily.

  In one corner of the pen there was a crude, iron brazier. Thick, billowing mist exuded from it as some foul-smelling skaven concoction was burned down within — doubtless, it was the source of the sulphur fog. Attached to the lip of the brazier cup was a thick tube. It ran all the way to a metal pipe that was affixed to the birthing mother’s spittle-flecked muzzle. Judging by the inert nature of all the skaven in the chamber, Halgar surmised that the gas was used to sedate the disgusting creatures for when they were birthing the rat-kin multitudes.

  Skaven slaves were also present in the pits. They carried long wooden poles at the end of which were filthy-looking sponges. As the dwarfs watched, the slaves dolefully patted the birth mothers down with the sodden sponges, presumably in an effort to keep them cool throughout their exertions.

  Halgar could barely contain his revulsion and as he sneered contemptuously one of the birth mothers looked up at him with her beady eyes and squeaked a frantic warning. All around the room, the skaven stirred.

  Halgar roared and buried a throwing axe in the birth mother’s skull, splitting it open like an over-ripened fruit. The skaven slaves screeched first in honor at the blood fountaining from the birth mother’s ruined skull and then with rage as they saw her murderers above. They dropped their poles and drew rusty blades, rushing towards an earth ramp that would get them out of the pit.

  Thorig had already sped from his hiding place and lit Azgar’s zharrum with the torch’s embers. The fuse burned down quickly and the slayer tossed the sphere into the pit where it exploded, the catch releasing on impact and spraying flaming liquid all over the slaves and the birth mother’s corpse. The stink of burning fur and the wrenching scream of dying rat-kin filled the air as Drimbold threw in his zharrum too and the pit became a bowl of raging fire.

  Halgar rushed over to the second pit, two of the Grim Brotherhood in tow. One of the slaves was coming off the end of the earth ramp, a wicked barbed spear in hand. The longbeard booted it in the groin and sent the creature back down again before he threw his zharrum in after it, engulfing the birthing pen in flame. The third and final pit was immolated shortly after, Thorig tossing two of the fire bombs into it before any of the skaven within could react. Through fire, thick with oily black smoke from burning body fat, the writhing shapes of the birth mothers and their slowly cooking offspring could be seen. The rancid stink of roasting rat meat brought tears to Halgar’s eyes.

  “Come on!” he bellowed. “Our work is done. Back to the foundry.”

  The dwarfs gathered together, cutting down slaves as they went. From the back of the chamber a cohort of previously unseen clanrats wielding spears and halberds had mustered. They squeaked ferociously and came at the dwarfs with muzzles frothing. Thorig threw a fire bomb into them and the sheet of flame reduced the first rank to flailing torches. But a second rank came on. A thrown spear passed Halgar’s ear and “chunked” into the wall behind him.

  “Out! Out now!” he cried, rallying the charge once the dwarfs were reunited.

  Azgar and the other slayers went first, cleaving a path through a welter of slaves that had sprung up in their path. Thorig was behind them and, with Drimbold at his side, the Zhufbar dwarf cast more fire bombs into the chamber at will, determined to raze the wretched nest to the ground. As he ran, he coaxed the embers of the torch into life and soon the brand was aflame. Halgar was the rearguard, backing away quickly as the clanrats closed on them, trampling any slaves in their way such was their fury.

  Barrelling through their skaven assailants the dwarfs crossed the threshold of the massive cavern, now wreathed in fire as a mighty conflagration took hold, and out into the tunnel again. The clanrats were almost upon them when Thorig turned and thrust the flaming brand into the satchel. Casting the spent torch aside he whirled the burning satchel around his head like a sling and threw it, fire bombs and all, into the nest entrance. A huge wall of fire sprang up from where the satchel hit the ground, so dense and ferocious that the pursuing skaven came to an abrupt halt and became hazy silhouettes through it.

  “Well done, lad,” said Halgar, coughing some of the smoke from his lungs and smacking Thorig on the back.

  The Zhufbar dwarf nodded exhaustedly, and lifted his helmet to wipe a swathe of sweat from his forehead.

  “But we must not linger,” the longbeard continued, eyeing the inferno that prevented the rat-kins’ immediate pursuit. Even now, vaguely discernible through the blaze, slaves heaped great clods of dirt into the wall of fire in an effort to extinguish it. “Destiny awaits us,” he added, grinning.

  The dwarfs fled back whence they had came, Azgar to the fore retracing his steps flawlessly. Only the Grim Brotherhood remained. Drimbold noticed the warriors, standing solemnly before the raging fire wall, axes held in readiness.

  “Come on,” the Grey dwarf cried at them, slowing his flight, “the rat-kin will soon give chase!”

  Azgar saw Drimbold falter and tracked back to drag him onward.

  “But they will surely be slain,” the Grey dwarf said.

  “As is their oath,”
Azgar told him. “They knew their part in this. Their sacrifice will stall the rat-kin long enough for us to make ready in the foundry.”

  “They are your warriors; you have not even bid them farewell.”

  “That is not our way,” Azgar replied. “They go to meet with an honourable death.” The slayer’s tone was almost longing. “Soon they will be received in Grimnir’s hall, to fight the endless battle,” he added, fixing Drimbold with his stony gaze. “I envy them, Grey dwarf.”

  “This is not as the lorekeeper described it,” said Rorek, scratching his head.

  “It bears the name of the brewmaster, though,” Uthor replied, pointing out a stone plaque in which the words “Brondold’s Hall — His Brew Will Be Remembered” were carved in Khazalid. “This must be where Ralkan meant for us to go.”

  “It more resembles a lake than any drinking hall I have ever seen,” added Emelda.

  The three dwarfs were standing upon a stone-slabbed platform, which fell away at the edge into a vast expanse of turgid, greenish water, many hundred feet long. The murky lagoon of crud was still, like tarnished glass, the upper portions of columns protruding through it all the way to the high ceiling. Foamy deposits lapped around the pillars where they split the surface, and clustered at the edges of the walls. Braziers still flickered, just above the waterline, an incredible feat given that they must have been lit for over fifty years or more. They were a further example of the miracle fuel of the dwarf guildmasters. The light illuminated massive bronze heads, belonging to submerged statues and depicting the ancient brewmasters and lords of the hold, the tips of their beards dipping into the rancid reservoir.

  Save for the stone epithet dedicated to the long dead brewmaster, numerous wooden barrels, kegs and steins held fast in the stagnant, reeking water made it clear this was indeed the drinking hall that Ralkan had described.

  “You will reach Brondold’s Hall, arriving from the northern portal,” the lorekeeper had said. “Beneath the south wall there is a trapdoor. Though bolted, it will lead into the drainage tunnels below. Traverse this tunnel and you will emerge in the reservoir of the Barduraz Varn.”

  Uthor recalled the words dimly — Ralkan had said nothing of a vast, un-crossable lake. Regarding the massive expanse of flood water, he noticed a dwarf skeleton clinging to one piece of floating detritus like some macabre buoy. It was the first time the throng had seen any of their slain brethren in the entirety of the hold, save for the remains of King Ulfgan. Uthor felt a tingle of dread reaching up his spine as he watched the dead dwarf, bobbing lightly in the rank water despite the illusion of stillness, and was reminded of the recent loss of Bulrik and Henkil. He tried to crush the memory quickly, but couldn’t prevent his mind wandering back to those frantic moments at the waterfall, the pallid face of Rorek appearing through the spray with news of the clan leaders’ deaths.

  The rest of the way down the narrow path had been conducted in silent remembrance. So much death, and so needless — I have brought this fate upon them. I have brought it upon us all, Uthor thought darkly, averting his gaze to peer into the impenetrable murk. A raft of unseen terrors that might be harboured in the water’s depths sprang unbidden into his mind. All dwarfs knew of the slumbering beasts that lay in the bowels of the Black Water, awaiting prey foolish enough to quest there.

  “Let us quit this place with all haste,” said Emelda quietly at Uthor’s shoulder. The thane of Kadrin turned to her and saw the concern for him etched upon her face.

  “Yes,” Uthor agreed, his grim disposition diminishing before her countenance. “But how are we to cross,” he added, moving away from the clan daughter to stand at the edge of a grand stairway that had once led down to the revelry of the hall but was now swallowed by a greenish mire. “I can see no rafts.” Uthor crouched down and dipped one finger into the water, removing a thin piece of clouded film that overlaid the surface of the unnatural lagoon.

  “We cannot swim it,” Emelda replied, gazing out across the stagnant plain, “the distance is too long.”

  “We would not get far in our armour, anyway,” Rorek piped up, “even using the barrels for buoyancy.” The engineer was inspecting a statue that had collapsed on the stone platform, leastways the detached head and part of the torso had. Rapping it lightly with a small hammer from his tool belt, a dull gonging sound resonated around the chamber.

  “Hollow,” Rorek muttered, scrutinizing the statue head further. The fall had made a clean break at the neck and he was able to peer inside its massive confines. “Perhaps… Uthor,” he added suddenly, turning to the thane, “we’ll need those barrels after all.”

  The engineer proffered a length of rope with a small metal grapnel attached. “Have you ever been fishing?” he asked.

  The “thwomp” of whirling rope cut through the air, followed by a snap as Uthor let fly. His aim was true but the barrel shattered under the impact of the grapnel… again.

  “You are a warrior born, son of Algrim,” said Emelda, who’d been watching the thane’s efforts for several swings, while Rorek busied himself with the statue head. She had no clue what the mercurial engineer was planning, but she felt certain it would not adhere to the strictures of the Engineers’ Guild. “Even fishing for barrels, you cannot resist the killing stroke.”

  Uthor looked askance at Emelda, slightly ruffled and reddening at the cheeks. He was about to swing again when he stopped himself and turned to face the clan daughter.

  “You think you can do better?” he asked, offering the rope and grapnel, now lathered in the water’s stagnant residue.

  Emelda smiled and took the rope and hook. She then walked over to the edge of the platform and tested the weight of them in her hands. Taking a step back, she swung the rope around swiftly in a wide arc with practiced ease, the clinging filth attached to it flicking outwards in a vile spray. Emelda then let fly. She noticed Uthor watch it as it landed just behind a barrel.

  “A good effort,” said the thane, puffing up his chest slightly and trying to keep the grin from his face.

  Emelda didn’t take the bait; she merely gathered the rope slowly, allowing the grapnel to trail through the water and snag on the end of the barrel, after which she drew it in effortlessly. When the barrel bobbed against the edge of the platform she turned to Uthor.

  “A defter touch was required,” she explained.

  Uthor muttered gruffly to himself as he stooped to pick up the barrel and set it on the platform.

  “Where did you learn that?” Uthor asked as Emelda cast out again and snagged another barrel.

  “My father taught me,” she replied, dragging her catch through the murky water. “Fishing in the mountain streams and lakes of Everpeak.”

  “You mean the High King?”

  “No,” said Emelda, bringing the barrel to the water’s edge for Uthor to retrieve. “The High King is not my father.”

  “My apologies, milady, when I saw you in the court of Karaz-a-Karak, I thought—”

  “My father is dead.” The rope sagged briefly in Emelda’s grip and she looked at Uthor. “He was the king’s cousin. When he was killed, King Skorri took me on as his ward in recognition of an old debt between them.”

  “Dreng tromm,” uttered Uthor, head slightly bowed in respect. “May I ask, milady, how did he die?”

  “He was inspecting our family’s mine holdings and there was a tunnel collapse. We lost thirteen brave dawi that day. When the prospectors recovered their bodies they found that some of the braces had been gnawed upon and a second section of tunnel undermining the upper shaft.”

  “Rat-kin,” Uthor assumed.

  “Yes.” Emelda’s expression was pained but also flushed with contained rage. “So you see I not only came here to ensure that the great days of the Karaz Ankor return, but on a matter of personal grudgement also.”

  Uthor fell silent and then took his leave when Emelda turned away. He went over to Rorek to find out what he wanted with the barrels. The whip and pull of the rope and gra
pnel followed in his wake as Emelda worked out her anger.

  “Do you have any beer skins?” Rorek asked intent on an inverted distilling funnel set into a metal frame.

  “You seek to drink us a way across the lagoon?” Uthor countered, a bemused look on his face as he reached onto his belt. “Here,” he added, “though they dried up long ago.”

  “Good,” Rorek replied, taking the skins Uthor offered without looking. “No use in wasting grog,” he added, working meticulously.

  “That is the last of them,” said Emelda, appearing behind Uthor with one more barrel. The thane avoided her gaze for the moment, the weight of her grief adding to his own. She set the barrel down. When she rested her hand upon his shoulder, Uthor felt his mood lighten instantly.

  “We are almost ready,” said Rorek, interrupting the silent exchange as he got to his feet and revealed the contraption he’d been labouring over. The small funnel was set over a tiny fire that burned with a white-hot flame. Vaporous heat was visible emanating from a shallow, metal cup in which the fire was contained that fed into one of Uthor’s beer skins affixed to the narrow spout of the funnel. Uthor’s eyes widened as, in seconds, the leather skin inflated and became fat with heat vapour.

  Satisfied, Rorek bent down and plucked the skin from the spout and stoppered it quickly. He then raised the skin to his ear.

  Uthor was nonplussed and exchanged a worried glance with Emelda. “Grungni’s rump, tell me you are not trying to converse with that skin. I thought only the lodefinder was prone to such madness.”

  “I am listening to hear if any air is escaping,” Rorek explained then lowered the skin to look at Uthor, again. “It is not,” he added.

  “Fascinating, I am certain,” Uthor stated, “but how is this to get us across the lagoon?”

  “Alone, it will not,” Rorek told them. “We need this.” The engineer pointed to the bronze statue head. The Zhufbar dwarf had lashed all of the barrels, save the last, retrieved by Emelda, to the outside and had bored a hole through the very top of the statue’s helmet, wide enough for a rope to pass through.