Rorek was stirring, and it arrested the thane of Kadrin from his melancholy thoughts.
“Where am I?” the engineer asked, blinking his fire-scarred eye, red-raw and blackened from the burning ash. “I… I’m blind,” he said, trying to get to his feet as he started to panic.
Uthor laid a hand upon his shoulder.
“Rest easy, you are among friends.”
“Uthor…?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
“Uthor, I cannot see.” The engineer’s voice was edged with mild hysteria but he lay back down again.
“I know,” the thane of Kadrin replied, sorrowful as he regarded the milky white orb of Rorek’s once good eye. The thane of Kadrin had hoped that the loss of sight might not be permanent but in the harsh daylight the wound looked grievous. He had brought this fate upon Rorek.
“I smell open air, grass and fresh water, and feel wind against my face. Where are we?” the engineer asked.
“Near Skull River, south-east of Karak Varn and, by my reckoning, a day’s trek across the mountains to Everpeak,” Uthor told him.
“Are we escorting the Lady Emelda back to Karaz-a-Karak?” the engineer asked.
“No, Rorek. She fell.” Uthor couldn’t keep the dark edge from his tone.
“Then are we the only survivors?”
“Yes, we are.”
A sound beyond the shrine circle broke the solemn silence. Uthor stood up, axe in hand.
“What is it?” Rorek was panicking again.
“Stay here,” Uthor hissed and stalked out of the circle, crouched low against the ground, using the long grasses and scattered rocks to cover his advance.
Something moved towards him in the shelter of an earthen overhang.
Uthor stooped to grasp a handful of gravel and cast it quickly ahead of him. Then he gripped his weapon in readiness and, ducking into the shadows, waited for his quarry to approach.
“By Grimnir,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “I’ll split your sides.”
Stone crunched as whatever had wandered across their camp tramped over the gravel noisily.
Roaring, Uthor sprang from his hiding place with his axe raised, ready to mete out death.
Ralkan recoiled from the sudden attack and fell back, the blade cutting air in his wake as Uthor swiped furiously.
“Lorekeeper!” said Uthor, lowering his blade and rushing to Ralkan’s aid as he sat, dumped on his arse.
“Am I free?” Ralkan asked, fearfully. “Am I alive?”
“Yes. Yes, you are free and alive.” Uthor extended his hand to help Ralkan to his feet.
“Uthor!” It was Rorek.
The thane of Kadrin turned, as he got Ralkan up, to see the engineer staggering toward him, axe in hand as he supported himself on a menhir. “Is it grobi, rat-kin? Point me to them,” he growled, “I can still shed greenskin blood.”
“Hold,” said Uthor, his voice jubilant. “It is Ralkan. The lorekeeper lives!
“Tell me, Ralkan, do you have word of any of our other brothers?”
The lorekeeper’s face darkened.
“Yes,” he said, simply.
The way back to Everpeak was slow and laborious, Rorek’s blindness making climbing of any significance impossible, and conducted in silent remembrance. In any case, Uthor wanted to avoid much of the mountain crags. They were fell places, rife with monsters and the three dwarfs were in no condition for a fight. Instead, they went southward, following the languid flow of Skull River, keeping to the shallows, and descended into a thick forest. Wolves hunted them under the false darkness of the tree canopy and more than once Uthor had been forced to take them off the trail and hide in the wide bole of some immense oak as he heard the chatter of goblins. It stuck in his craw to skulk in the shadows, but peril stalked their every step and if they were brought to the attention of even the most innocuous predator, their doom would be assured.
Karaz-a-Karak was a mighty and imposing shadow on a sun-bleached horizon when they finally reached it, the fiery orb red and bloody in a darkening sky that threatened the onset of night when the true dangers of the wild were made manifest.
Heavy of heart and of booted foot, the trio of dwarfs trudged down the gilded terracotta and grey stone runway that led to the formidable gate of the dwarfen capital. It had been many months since they’d left Everpeak. It would not be a happy reunion.
Uthor held his head low. He was alone in the High King’s Court, both Rorek and Ralkan were being tended by the priestesses of Valaya in a set of antechambers close by.
“Uthor, son of Algrim,” boomed the voice of Skorri Morgrimson, High King of Karaz-a-Karak. “You have returned to us.”
“Yes, my king,” Uthor uttered with proper deference. The thane of Kadrin went down on one knee. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he dared not meet the High King’s gaze.
“And the fate of Karak Varn?” the High King asked.
Uthor mustered his courage as he tried to find the words to relate his failure.
“Speak quickly,” the High King chafed. “We march to Ungor this very night!”
Uthor looked up.
The High King was sitting upon the great Throne of Power and dressed in his full panoply of war. Clad in shimmering rune armour as forged by the venerable Skaldour in ages past, the dragon crown sat proudly on his beetling brow and with the axe of Grimnir clutched in one hand, Skorri Morgrimson was a truly fearsome sight. In the other hand, he held a quill, the end of which was dark with what appeared to be crimson ink. In front of the High King, upon a gilt and ornate cradle, was the Dammaz Kron. The Great Book of Grudges was open at a blank page.
The king’s son, Furgil, stood behind him, also ready for war. The Council of Elders had been dismissed, only the High King’s loremaster, his hammerer bodyguard, and Bromgar, the gatekeeper Uthor had met many months ago, were present.
“Karak Varn has fallen. Our expedition failed.” The words were like hot blades in Uthor’s heart as he remained genuflect before his king.
“Survivors?” asked the High King, noting the presence of only the thane of Kadrin in his hold.
“Only the three of us that reached Everpeak.”
Skorri Morgrimson’s face darkened at that admission.
“My lord,” said Uthor, his voice beginning to choke as he held out the runic cincture. “There is something you do not know.”
The High King’s eyes widened when he saw and recognised the cincture.
“No…” he breathed, tears welling in his eyes.
“My lord,” Uthor repeated, gathering his resolve. “Emelda Skorrisdottir, clan daughter of the royal house of Karaz-a-Karak joined us in our quest but fell to the rat-kin hordes. She died with honour.”
“Dreng tromm,” the king muttered, pulling at his beard, tears streaming down his face. “Dreng tromm.”
Bromgar approached Uthor and took the cincture from him to present solemnly to his king. Skorri Morgrimson traced the blood-flecked runes upon its surface as if touching the face of Emelda herself.
“Take it away,” he whispered, averting his gaze from the bloodied artefact. Staring back down at Uthor, all semblances of grief and anguish drained away from the High King’s face as it became as hard as stone.
“At least you can look me in the eye and say it,” the High King stated coldly. “You are exiled,” he added simply, getting louder and more vengeful, “cast out of the Karaz Ankor. You and the names of your companions will be etched in the Dammaz Kron in blood, never to be struck out — Never!” he raged, getting up out of his throne and snapping the quill in half in his clenched fist.
Uthor quailed before the High King’s wrath but stayed his ground.
“Now leave this place, unbaraki. You are hereby expelled!”
Hammerers came from the wings and escorted Uthor away, who had to be helped to his feet, so great was the shame upon his shoulders.
The next morning as the great gates to Everpeak boomed shut in their wake, Uthor cast his gaze skywa
rd. Flurries of snow were building amidst darkening cloud and a tinge of chilling frost pricked at the wild grasses. Autumn was ending and, in a few more weeks, winter would be setting in. Uthor thought of Skorri Morgrimson as the High King led his army to Karak Ungor, great marching columns of dawi intent on vengeance and retribution, standards reflecting the glimmer of the low lying sun, drums beating and horns blaring. There was a time when the thane of Kadrin would have relished being part of such a muster; now he could not wait to be as far away from it as possible.
“What do we do now?” said Rorek, guided by the vacant-looking Ralkan. The engineer had a blindfold over his eyes foregoing his patch, which now seemed surplus to his needs.
Ralkan no longer bore the book of remembering. It had been taken by the loremasters of Everpeak as a record of what had happened. Ralkan had done much to fill it with all the dwarfs’ deeds in the time it had taken to the reach Karaz-a-Karak in the hope that the names of the slain would be remembered, if nothing else.
The three of them had been returned their weapons and other belongings, and even given provisions and fresh clothes before being summarily ejected from the hold. Only Dunrik’s axe remained behind for the priests of Gazul to inter and set at least his spirit to rest in the Halls of the Ancestors.
Uthor kept an eye on the horizon as he replied.
“We go northward, to Karak Kadrin and the Shrine of Grimnir. There is but one more vow we must make, and I would make it there before my father if he still lives.”
With that the dwarfs trudged away from Everpeak lost in their thoughts. The wind was gathering in the north. A storm was coming.
EPILOGUE
Skartooth awoke in a deep gorge. His hood was torn, the rat skull ripped free and lost in his plummet over the edge of the plateau. Noises, like crunching bones and sucking meat, emanated from above. Dazed and bruised, sporting numerous small cuts and grazes, the goblin warlord struggled to his feet. Something dug into his bare foot that was swaddled with dirty, black bandages. Skartooth grimaced in pain when he saw it had drawn blood. He looked down ready to vent his diminutive wrath upon whatever rock or sharp stone had cut him. His mouth gaped open. Beneath his foot was the iron collar, the one that Fangrak had stolen!
Gathering the artefact quickly to his breast, Skartooth hurried away. The goblin was acutely aware of the deepening shadows in the nearby caves and though he disliked the blazing sun overhead he was nervous of what things might dwell in those places. There was also the possibility of disaffected orcs and goblins to consider. Likely they would not take kindly to Skartooth after their abject defeat, despite any protestations that the failure was all Fangrak’s doing.
Skartooth took a wending trail down the gorge, picking through overhanging crags and avoiding the worst of the sun’s glare. It didn’t last long, something lurking in the gloom set his heart racing and his teeth on edge. He took his chances within a deep cave, its entrance so narrow that no beast of any great size could possibly reside there.
Leaving a cooling trail of piss in his wake as he failed to master his fear, Skartooth wandered into a large cavern. Shafts of hazy sunlight drifted down from a natural amphitheatre and illuminated a large patch of ground. Skartooth’s heart was in his mouth again when he saw the bleached bones collected there.
Something stirred behind the goblin, something unseen as he’d wandered aimlessly into its lair. Hot breath lapped at the back of his neck. Skartooth turned slowly and came face to face with a massive, lizard-like creature with a thick, scaled head like a battering ram and broad, flat wings. Skartooth knew the creature’s like: it was a wyvern. The shaman he’d stolen the iron collar from rode such a beast.
The wyvern hissed, baring its fangs. Skartooth soiled himself and backed away into the light, clambering over the bone nest, kicking skulls and rib bones loose as he fled. The wyvern followed. Skartooth noticed it only had one horn; the other had been shorn off at the nub. The beast snarled and flicked a rasping tail that ended in a savage-looking, poisonous barb. As it opened its mouth, preparing to devour the meagre morsel that was Skartooth, the goblin warlord held up his arms in a vain attempt to fend it off, eyes closed as he waited for the end.
At once the wyvern backed down and hissed its obeisance.
Skartooth opened his eyes, realising he wasn’t languishing in the wyvern’s gullet he saw that the creature had retreated. The collar glowed warmly in his outstretched hand. Skartooth brandished it experimentally in front of him.
“Bow to me,” he murmured tentatively.
The wyvern went down onto its knuckles and lowered its head submissively.
An evil grin spread across the goblin’s face.
“Skartooth got a wyvern.”
GLOSSARY
Barduraz Varn - Literally meaning “stone river gate”.
Beardling - Young dwarfs, no more than fifty winters old, are known as beardlings, since beard length is an indicator of experience and wisdom.
Brynduraz - Literally meaning “brightstone”. Using the ancient secrets of dwarfen geology, this rare rock can be made to give off brilliant illumination and is used in many holds for just such a purpose. Once mined at Gunbad, the source of this exceptional and rare mineral was lost when the mines fell to goblins.
Chuf - A mouldy, extremely pungent, piece of cheese found beneath a miner’s hat that is only ever eaten in emergencies.
Cogging - One of the punishments of the Engineers’ Guild, believed to involve the placement of an exceptionally large cog around the recipient’s neck and then, stripped naked, the incumbent would tour the entirety of the hold’s workshops.
Dammaz kron - Literally “book of grudges”, though the word has two meanings and can refer to the Great Book of Grudges, which resides in the dwarfen capital of Karaz-a-Karak and records all the wrongs and misdeeds ever perpetrated against the dwarf race, or it can also refer to a particular hold’s book of grudges as each and every dwarf realm has one to record that hold’s specific grievances.
Dawi - Literally meaning “dwarfs”.
Deeps - The levels into which dwarf holds are divided.
Drakk - Literally meaning “dragon”.
Dreng tromm - Translates literally as “slay beard”. It refers to a very serious lamentation during which a dwarf expresses his profound sorrow and desire to tear at his beard in shared remorse. The sentiment can also be conveyed more solemnly to indicate when something is a great shame or to acknowledge a profound loss or misdeed.
Dringorak - Literally translates as “cunning road”, often referring to a secret door or hidden door.
Dunkin - Annual dwarf bathing ritual.
Frongol - Cave mushrooms, often used in stews.
Gazul Bar Baraz; Gazul Gand Baraz - Invocation of Gazul, Lord of the Underearth. Literally meaning, “A bond to Gazul’s gate” and “Gazul help them find the gate”. It refers to the pledge made to Gazul that he might guide the dead to his gateway chamber where they will await judgement before entering the Halls of the Ancestors.
Gnollengrom - This greeting is a mark of respect afforded to a dwarf who has a longer and more spectacular beard. Commonly, it is a term used when in the company of longbeards or ancestors, but there are instances of it being used to address a dwarf of high station such as a king or runelord (who is likely to be a longbeard in any event).
Grobi - Meaning “goblin”. The word grob, of which grobi is derived, also means green and can refer to greenskins in general.
Gromril - Also known as “hammernought” or “starmetal”, gromril is the hardest substance in the known world and can only be fashioned by the craft of the dwarfs. The metal is incredibly rare and exceptionally valuable.
Goblin Wars - Period after the Time of Woes when goblins, orcs and other creatures attacked the dwarfs in their weakened state and sacked or took over many holds.
Gorl - Especially soft gold that is yellow in colour.
Grumbaki - Literally meaning “a grumbler” or “whiner”.
; Grundlid - Meaning “hammer tongue”, Grundlid is a secret language known in particular by miners and lodefinders. It consists of a series of taps or scrapes against rock and carried through to the listener to discern message and meaning.
The Halls of the Ancestors - These are the legendary feast halls where the ancestor gods, Grungni and Valaya sit for eternity. All dwarfs believe that, upon their death, they will pass on to the Halls of the Ancestors where they will feast with their ancestors forever more. Only if a dwarfs tomb is desecrated or some past deed undone will they be unable to enter the great halls, which is why the dwarfs view the sanctity of the dead with such seriousness.
Hazkal - Impetuous youth or fiery young warrior dwarf. It is a word that also refers to recently brewed ale.
Karaz Ankor - The ancient realm of the dwarfs, encompassing all the holds of the Worlds Edge Mountains and beyond.
Khazukan Kazakit-ha! - War cry of the dwarfs, literally meaning “Look out, the dwarfs are on the warpath!”
Khazuk - The shortened version of the war cry “Khazukan Kazakit-ha!”
Kruti - Derived from the word krut, which is an uncomfortable disease contracted from mountain goats and meaning “one who suffers from krut”. It is also used to refer to goat-herders and as such is regarded as an insult.
Kulgur - The art of cooking troll flesh.
Kuri - A form of meat stew boiled up with whatever ingredients are to hand. Commonly used by travelling dwarfs when other food stuffs are in short supply. Troll meat is popular, occasionally spiced and flavoured wild berries.
Narwangli - An insult. A word used to describe a dung-collector or a dwarf that smells of dung, or anything else of an unsavoury nature.
Quaffing - A punishment of the Engineers’ Guild in which the incumbent must drink a copious amount of oil, meaning they will be unable to taste or enjoy ale or food for several weeks, even months.
Rat-kin - Slang name for the skaven, a race of mutant ratmen that build their burrows and warrens beneath the earth and are constantly at war with the dwarfs.
[Warhammer] - Oathbreaker Page 29