Hakem did not respond.
“How will we know when we have reached our destination?” Uthor’s voice was tinny and resonant within the close confines of the giant “diving” helm, Rorek had constructed.
“It is simple,” the engineer remarked, even the muscles in his face straining as, together with his companions, he half lugged, half pushed the immense hollow helmet of bronze. “We either reach the trapdoor at the south wall or we don’t. The air will not last in here indefinitely,” he said.
At that Uthor looked down briefly at the water that had now reached his upper torso. It had been rising ever since the helm had crashed on top of them; its descent arrested by the numerous barrels that Rorek had assured them provided flotation. Despite that, though, the three dwarfs still needed to heave and push the helm forward, occasionally grinding its severed base against the flagstones beneath when the massive chunk of statue dipped.
Thanks to the Zhufbar dwarf’s ingenuity, the dwarfs were able to traverse the murky depths of the lagoon through Brondold’s Hall in what the engineer termed a “submersible”. The thane of Kadrin had no clue to the word’s meaning, nor had he any desire to discover it. All he knew was that a pocket of air was trapped in the upper reaches of the hollowed helm that allowed them to breath, whilst submerged far below the waterline.
“Your assurances provide much comfort, engineer,” Uthor growled.
“Speak less,” Rorek snapped abruptly. “There is only a finite amount of air and the more we use, the less we will have,” he added, indicating the steadily rising waterline.
“Bah,” Uthor muttered. “Dawi were not meant to be submerged in a tomb of bronze and iron.”
Emelda kept her mouth clamped shut throughout the exchange. Sweat peeled off her forehead in streaking lines that ran down her face. Not from exertion; she too was a warrior born and the equal of any male. No, it was from wide-eyed fear of being trapped here in the watery gloom, of her last breath being a mouthful of rank and foul-tasting water. There was no honour in it. As she worked, just that little bit harder than Uthor and Rorek, to get them to their destination, she surveyed the inner hollows of the diving helm nervously. Tiny fissures had already begun to appear in the aging bronze, and tiny rivulets of water ran weakly through the smallest of cracks. One of those cracks grew wider, even as she maintained her fearful vigil, so wide the water was nigh-on gushing. She opened her mouth to shout a warning but no sound came out at first. Desperately, and through a supreme effort of will, she found her voice.
“It is splitting!”
Rorek saw the danger instantly and redoubled his efforts. “Heave,” he bellowed, the timbre of his voice thunderous and urgent inside the helm. “The south wall cannot be far.”
Uthor grunted, shouldering as much of the burden as he could. A dull screeching sound, muffled by fathoms of flood water, came to the surface as the dwarfs leant their weight to one side of the helm and pitched it at an angle against the flagstones underfoot.
They panted and gasped with the intense effort. The water level rose, hitting their shoulders. In a few more seconds of frantic endeavour it had reached their necks.
“For all your worth!” Uthor cried smashing his body into the side of the giant helm, spluttering as the water came over his mouth and nose.
Muffled silence filled the statue helm as the last of the dwarfs’ air was expended. Not only was it their lifeline, but it had also provided additional buoyancy. Without it, the three dwarfs took the full weight of the massive bronze helm.
Uthor felt as if leaden anchors had been attached to his ankles as he dragged one heavy foot in front of the other, his urgency suddenly blighted with agonising slowness. His lungs burned; there was little air left in his body. Then he felt the ground beneath his feet change subtly. Stamping down, something bent and yielded beneath him. He tried to peer through the gloomy water but all he saw was a cloud-filled murk. He raised Ulfgan’s axe; it was like lifting a tree. The runes etched on the blade shone diffusely, like a submerged beacon, as he struck down towards his feet.
The ground broke away, broad spikes of it funnelled upward into the water-filled helm, and Uthor fell. Rorek and Emelda were lost to him in the clinging, green-tinged darkness. Something pulled at him, a forceful current propelling the dwarf to Valaya knew where. He barrelled and spun at first, smacking into unseen obstacles. Pain flared in his side as something sharp and jagged bit into him.
Fighting hard, Uthor got his bearings and started to swim, pumping legs and arms determinedly as the last of his air was used up. He was in a tunnel. So narrow and tight it could only be the one that Ralkan had spoken off. The way seemed long, black spots beginning to form in Uthor’s hazy vision. Soon he too would be lost. His legs felt heavy, his arms seemed to hang limply at his sides and the sense of falling, falling deep into the abyssal gloom overwhelmed him…
Light flared, dim and washed out. Air rushed, unabated, into his body as Uthor was suddenly lifted free of oblivion, coughing and spluttering into renewed existence.
A figure stood over him, serene and benevolent, her arms outstretched and welcoming. Long, golden hair cascaded down her shoulders and a halo rimmed her head, her countenance refulgent in its reflected glory.
“Valaya…” Uthor breathed, bleary-eyed and slightly incoherent.
“Uthor,” said the figure. Strong arms shook the thane of Kadrin.
“Uthor.” The tone was urgent but low.
Emelda crouched over him, her face creased with concern.
Uthor came to senses, abruptly aware that Rorek supported his back. He’d lost his helmet somewhere along the way, his shield too — Thank Grimnir he still had his axe. Together, his two companions held him up, above the shallow water of a vast and expansive reservoir. Hraddi’s reservoir, just as the lorekeeper had described. They had reached the site of the Barduraz Varn.
Uthor got to his feet and found the low-lying water came up to his knees.
“Keep down,” Emelda hissed, Rorek moving silently to her side, so low only the tips of his shoulders pierced the waterline.
Uthor did as he was told and crouched next to the clan daughter on the opposite side.
“We are not alone,” she hissed, pointing across the massive, flat reservoir.
Uthor followed her gesture. There, just beyond the edge of where the water ended in a rat-kin made platform of shovelled rock and earth, slaves toiled and hooded Clan Skryre overseers chattered. Thickly-armoured, black-furred skaven carrying curved swords and a number of their smaller brethren equipped with spears milled around in rough cohorts. Two other Skryre agents stood close by the bulkier skaven guards, drenched in filthy robes and carrying bizarre-looking staffs seemingly fashioned from a riot of crude skaven technology. Crackling energy played across spinning diodes and jutting forks. Uthor was reminded of the skaven sorcerer they had faced during their flight from Karak Varn all those months ago. He bit back the memory of Lokki’s death during that dark retreat and re-focussed his attention.
Mercifully, the ratmen were intent on their labours and had not seen the dwarfs emerge from the underground river.
Uthor’s eyes widened as they tracked further and took in a massive, infernal construction that dominated the back of the immense chamber. Huge, wooden wheels bolted together with crude strips of copper and iron were connected to the towering, ramshackle device. They ran rapid and wild with the frantic efforts of the slaves and giant rats imprisoned within.
Arcs of eldritch lightning flew across spiked prongs far above as the desperate slaves were urged to greater endeavour with the lash and crackling staves of the Skryre agents. All the while in the background, behind a raft of clumsy observation towers and platforms, great pistons thudded up and down in relentless unison and the water in which the device was sat, where the makeshift skaven embankment fell away, gradually drained.
“Valaya preserve us,” Uthor breathed. It was a huge pump; the rat-kin had devised a way to clear the flood waters from Karak Varn. H
is heart stammered when he perceived what was stood behind the wretched skaven contraption. It was the great sluice gate itself — the Barduraz Varn.
Gromrund cursed loudly, striking his head for the seventh time as he and Thalgrim climbed up the narrow shaft of Dibna’s Drop.
“You would find the going easier if you removed that warhelm, hammerer,” the voice of the lodefinder echoed down to Gromrund.
“I shall never remove it,” came the caustic response of the hammerer, the warhelm of his ancestors still ringing loudly in his ears. “Some oaths were not meant to be broken,” he added in a murmur.
They’d left Hakem and Ralkan behind, waiting at the crossroads beneath the lofty shaft through which the two dwarfs now toiled. Ralkan was in no condition to climb, the book of remembering was a weighty burden to bear and with only one hand a climb upwards was too difficult for Hakem. Besides, as he’d muttered when Thalgrim and Gromrund had departed, someone needed to stay behind and guard the lorekeeper. The first part of the climb had been conducted via the lodefinder’s rope, tied off at the mine shaft of the Rockcutter Waystation; the second meant scaling a length of thick chain hanging down from Dibna’s Chamber, doubtless a remnant of when there had once been a lift cage.
Thalgrim went hand over hand, his pace quick and assured with the ready practice of repetition. The lodefinder seemed to bend and swing from the path of every jutting crag, every errant spike of rock, though the way upwards was largely clear of obstruction.
Gromrund found it harder going in his much heavier full plate, great hammer smacking against his back as he climbed. More than once he slipped, and each time he found his grip again. Thalgrim made no such mistakes and was soon far ahead of him in the soot-drenched darkness, the flame of his helmet candle flickering faintly above like a firefly.
When Gromrund at last reached the zenith of the shaft and Dibna’s Chamber in the third deep, he found the lodefinder waiting with hands in tunic pockets and a smouldering pipe pinched between his lips.
“There,” he said, nodding in the direction of the stone statue of Dibna the Inscrutable, still just as they’d left it, bearing the weight of the room. “A mattock blow to the left ankle, precisely three and three-eighths inches from the tip of Dibna’s boot, will collapse the statue and give us enough time to climb back down.”
“And you know this, just by looking at it?” said Gromrund, a little breathlessly.
“Aye, I do,” Thalgrim replied, supping on his pipe. “That and the rock—”
“Please, lad,” uttered Gromrund, “don’t say it.”
The lodefinder shrugged and test swung his mattock a few times before advancing forward carefully. “Precision and a deftness of touch is the key,” he muttered.
Gromrund gripped his shoulder before he got any further.
“Wait,” snapped the hammerer.
“What is it? This deep is likely crawling with grobi and rat-kin by now, we should not linger.”
“I have not yet heard the wyvern-horn. We cannot release the waters until the slayer and the rest are ready.”
“Then I hope it is soon, for if the vermin come — and come they will — then we will have no choice but to act,” said Thalgrim.
“Then we had best hope they do not,” muttered Gromrund.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Azgar emerged back into the foundry, Thorig at his heels with Drimbold and Halgar bringing up the rear.
“Close and bar the gate,” the longbeard growled, through rasping breaths. He was bent almost double, hands clamped to his knees and wheezing.
Drimbold went to his aid but recoiled before the venerable dwarf’s bark.
“Leave me be, half-dwarf,” he snarled. “I do not need the likes of you to help me stand and fight. I was fighting battles before some of your ancestors were beardlings.”
With a resounding clang, the gates to the foundry were shut and the bar slid across. Enraged skaven cluttering emanating from beyond it was cut off abruptly as the way into the further deeps was sealed.
“Make ready,” bellowed Azgar, a half glance at Halgar to make certain he was still fit and able. The gnarled old longbeard was back upright and swinging his axe to work the cramps from his arm and shoulder.
Good enough, thought the slayer and marshalled the meagre dwarf forces that stood before him in four lines of iron and steel, axes and hammers ready, shields held to the fore.
Towards the barred gate the foundry plaza narrowed to such an extent it was possible to cover its breadth with twenty-five shields. Three further lines, similarly-armed, stood stoically behind it. If one dwarf fell, another would take his place. They were to hold the skaven as long as they could, defending solidly as only dwarfs knew how and infuriate the vermin hordes so they committed all their forces to the attack. Should the lines fail — and fail they would, Azgar knew — then the forgemaster’s platform would be their egress and the site of their last stand, one worthy of a saga the slayer hoped.
“The rat-kin come,” Azgar said as he appraised the dwarfen ranks, “and they are angered,” he added with a feral grin. A rousing cheer met his words.
Relentless thudding came from the foundry gate. Metal creaked and moaned against the determined assault and the bar bent outwards slightly with every blow.
“They will soon be upon us,” hissed Halgar to the slayer, who had taken up his position in the middle of the first line.
“Yes,” Azgar replied — a glint in his eye as he stood alongside the longbeard. His steely gaze never left the gate. When it shuddered and the bar began to split he tightened his grip on the haft of his axe. “Let them come.”
Another crash and the gate shook hard. The dwarfs remained in silence, jaws locked and hearts racing in anticipation of the imminent battle. For most, if not all, it would likely be their last.
The gate was rocked again.
It was met with stony silence. The tension was almost unbearable.
“Shed blood with me,” Halgar cried out suddenly to the throng. “Shed blood and be my brother. We are the sons of Grungni. Alone we are rocks; together we are as enduring as a mountain!”
“Aye!” came the response as almost a hundred dwarf voices responded in unison.
The gate shuddered for the last time and was ripped outwards, wrenched almost off its hinges. From the black void of the unknown came the skaven, squeaking and snarling in apoplectic rage.
“Quarrellers!” Halgar bellowed, and a host of crossbow-bearing dwarfs of the Flintheart clan came forward from the second rank, their clan leader Kaggi amongst them.
“Loose!” cried Kaggi and the snapping retort of flung quarrels filled the air. So densely packed, a rat-kin fell to every bolt but the skaven did not falter and the dead and dying were crushed. With no time for a second volley, the Flinthearts retreated behind the first rank shield wall to draw axes and hammers.
The furred skaven wave fell upon the throng without pause and engulfed it. Blades clashed, shields clanged and blood slicked the flagstones of the foundry plaza in torrents. The dwarfs reeled before the sudden, furious onslaught. Many warriors fell clutching grievous wounds, only to be stomped to death by the relentless rat-kin masses driving forward. Other dwarfs, the Flinthearts amongst them, fought hard to fill the gaps in their shield wall but the skaven pressed with unremitting wrath, their frenzy evident in their foaming muzzles. Halgar was at the centre of it, separated from Azgar somehow but with Drimbold now at his side.
“Remember, King Snaggi Ironhandson at the Bryndal Vale,” the longbeard bellowed as he fought. “Remember his oaths, my brothers, as I remember mine. Sing your death songs loud, bellow your defiance to the deep, ’til the sound echoes throughout the Halls of the Ancestors!” he said, hacking left and right, using his shield as a bludgeon, his axe stitching a red haze in the air around him. “Join me now, brave dawi. Join me in death!”
A rallying cry empted from the dwarf ranks with all the power and thunder of a landslide. Clan warriors dug their heels in and repul
sed the skaven horde with all the steel they could muster. Halgar drove at the vermin with added purpose to let the other dawi see his defiance. The stink of killing got into his nostrils and he felt empowered. Perhaps it was infectious, even the Grey dwarf seemed full with battle lust.
What Drimbold lacked in skill, he made up for with effort. He guarded Halgar’s side with such vehemence that even the longbeard couldn’t help but notice his fervour.
A surge to the left of the skaven horde got Halgar’s attention as he cleaved another clanrat down. He felt it ripple down the front rank. Following the source of the tremor he saw the right dwarfen flank collapsing as the rat-kin scurried their way around the edges of the shield wall.
“Reinforce the flank,” the longbeard bellowed above the roar of combat. “Don’t let them get behind us.”
Kaggi saw the danger and, shouting commands, gathered his warriors to bolster the failing flank. As the brave clan leader led the way a spear flung by some unseen hand skewered him in the neck. Kaggi fell, clutching the wound, his lifeblood spilling eagerly. He was quickly lost to Halgar but the clan leader’s warriors, enraged at Kaggi’s death, pressed with fury and the line was re-strengthened again.
Halgar averted his gaze. The sorrow pricking at his heart turned to fury as he cut a black-furred skaven from groin to sternum.
“Uzkul!” cried the longbeard, wrenching his axe free in a swathe of dark blood.
“Uzkul!” echoed Drimbold, mashing a clanrat in the maw with the butt of his axe before finishing it with an overhand swipe to the head.
Still the rat-kin came on and Drimbold slipped and fell on the fluid-slick stone. A host of hate-filled skaven faces bore down on him but then recoiled before a swirling mass of steel.
Azgar wove amongst them, slightly ahead of the first rank and swinging his chained axe in a brutal, repeating arc. Limbs rained down upon the plaza floor as the grim-faced slayer was showered in blood.
[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Page 24