“Word was sent through the Underway and, from all the kingdoms of the dwarfs, warriors came. Oaths had been sworn to the people of Sigmar and they would be kept. In every valley, on every hill and crag, we gave battle to Zahaak’s legions, grinding them away like flint upon steel. The mountains themselves aided us, denying Zahaak the open ground to assemble his armies and bring the full weight of their strength against us. By the dozens and the hundreds, we destroyed them, until, at last, in a place which is still called Drung-a-Uzkul, Zahaak Kinslayer fell beneath our hammers. His legion broke without him and the western attack never appeared. Sigmar was free to march against the Black One and the lands of men were kept safe.”
“But now this wight, this Zahaak, has returned,” General Hock said. “Perhaps your ancestors were not as successful in destroying him as you claim.” A dangerous quality shone in Skanir’s eyes as he listened to the general.
“They say strange lights shine once more in the towers of Nagashizzar,” the dwarf replied, his voice a deep growl. “They say that the Black One stalks the halls of his fortress once more. Perhaps your Sigmar was not as successful at vanquishing him as your priests claim.”
“The undead are an abomination in the sight of Morr,” Father Vadian said, interposing himself between the glowering general and the surly dwarf. “There is no peace for such unholy creatures. Their spirits are forever denied passage into the Gardens of Morr and the rest that is the reward of the righteous. They are condemned to wander the earth forever, without form or substance, tormented and abhorred.”
The old priest raised one of his talon-like fingers. “It is not unheard of that such damned souls can regain physical form, however. They can infest the bodies of those who practise the black arts, possessing the flesh of a living vessel. At certain times, when the powers of the profane are at their strongest, when Morrsleib is at its fullest and fell winds blow from the north, the bones of the accursed can rise once more with blasphemous mockery of life. If this Zahaak was indeed a minion of he whose name it is obscenity to speak, then the black powers of his master would have been strong in him. Even if Captain Durgrund’s ancestors did slay him, who can say how long a grave may hold such a creature.”
“The question remains,” Ernst said, looking from priest to dwarf, “how do we, as mortal men, destroy something empowered by such ancient evil?”
“You must seek out the stone fang.” The words were spoken in a hoarse whisper. The Crone of Morr had risen from her stupor, leaning against the powerful body of the Black Guardsman for support. Her voice seemed drained, withered, lacking in vitality. Gone was the ethereal energy that had coloured her earlier speech, the icy chill that had drawn light and warmth from the room. It was the voice of a woman now, not the voice of an oracle.
The crone shivered against the armour of her guard, cringing away from the attention her words had drawn to her. Almost, it seemed, she would not explain her cryptic statement, but finally the soft whisper spoke again from behind the heavy folds of her hood. “Many nights have I consulted the spirits of the dead, seeking to divine the nature of this evil that persecutes our land. From them, I learned that Zahaak has been destroyed before. Long ago, the dwarfs crafted a weapon against him, something they called Zonbinzahn. It was this the king of Karag Dar used in his final battle to destroy the wight and return him to his grave.” The woman bowed her head as she finished speaking, turning her face aside from the expectant visages of the men seated at the table.
“So we must find this weapon to destroy the wight?” Ernst asked the woman. She did not look at him, but simply nodded her head. “How do we do that? What manner of weapon is this Zonbinzahn?” He addressed this last question not to the crone, but to Skanir. The dwarf shrugged his shoulders.
“The name is not known to me,” he said, “but much of the lore of Karag Dar was lost when the stronghold was overrun by grobi centuries ago. It translates as ‘Sun-in-Tooth’, if that has any meaning.”
The dwarf’s words caused Marshal Eugen to rise to his feet, a look that was equal parts awe and disbelief on his face. The knight rounded the table, walking closer to the seated dwarf. “You are sure that is what it means? ‘Sun-Tooth’?”
“I should know how to speak my own language, manling,” Skanir growled back. The comment brought a few chuckles from around the table.
Eugen paid the laughter less attention than he did the dwarf’s ill-humour. He faced Count Eberfeld. “The Sun-Tooth!” the knight exclaimed. Still his enthusiasm met with only quizzical looks. “Grudge Settler!” he elaborated. “The Sword of Solland, the land of the sun! It was called ‘Sun-Fang’ in the old ballads. ‘Sun-Tooth’ and ‘Sun-Fang’! Don’t you see, the lost runefang of Count Eldred!”
The knight’s statement summoned a chorus of arguments and protests around the table. Count Eberfeld kept silent, staring at the jewelled hilt of the sword he wore, the Runefang of Wissenland. His fingers stroked the cold metal, feeling the ages seep into the skin, feeling the long history of the sword flow into him. The echoes of forgotten battles rang in his ears, and the smell of old blood stung his nose. When he closed his eyes, he fancied that he could see the long line of his ancestors, battered and bloody in their armour, fists clenched firmly around the runefang’s hilt. There was a watchful, expectant quality in their eyes as they looked back at him, like spectral judges waiting to test his soul.
With an effort, Count Eberfeld pulled himself from the illusion. He opened his eyes and the din of battle faded from his ears, the smell of blood vanished from his nose. He heard General Hock’s deep voice booming above the babble of argument. “We don’t even know that the weapon the witch describes is the runefang! She has not said so, nor has the dwarf offered any support to your claim!”
“Is it possible, Captain Durgrund?” Eugen asked the dwarf. “Could Zonbinzahn be the lost runefang?”
The dwarf looked uncomfortable with the question. “Maybe,” he decided at last. “The witch did say a stone fang, which could mean a steel sword. Iron is brother to stone, and steel is its son. If stone can have fangs, then most certainly they would be swords.”
“Then you do think it could be the runefang?” Count Eberfeld asked, a quiet intensity in his voice.
“It is possible. Alaric the Mad did help the warriors of Karag Dar during the campaign against Zahaak. He might have bestowed one of the swords crafted for your Sigmar on the king of Karag Dar, since the blade was to be used to defend the lands of men more than the halls of dwarfs. It could be just like the knight here says.”
Count Eberfeld digested Skanir’s words, nodding as he considered them. At last he reached his decision. Rising, he drew his sword from its ivory scabbard. The weapon glistened in the sunlight filtering through the canvas of the tent, seeming to almost glow with a steely blue light. He kissed the cool steel of the blade, and then set the weapon reverently on the top of the table.
“The matter is decided then,” he told his officers. “We must gather our strength and ride against this horror once more. This time with me in the vanguard.”
An expression of horror filled General Hock’s face. The old soldier grabbed the count’s arm, the strength of his grip rumpling the soft fabric of the sleeves. “My lord, you can’t risk yourself! Think of your people! They cannot endure without their sovereign!”
“I fear if we do not destroy Zahaak, I won’t have any people left to rule,” Count Eberfeld admonished him, pulling away from the general’s grip.
“But if you failed, excellency,” Grebel warned, “think of what it would mean. The sword of Wissenland would be lost with you! The very sovereignty of our land would be challenged. Averland and the Reik already gaze upon Wissenland with covetous eyes. The loss of the runefang would weaken our legitimacy. Would you have Wissenland absorbed by other lands, have it vanish the way of Solland?”
“There is a more practical consideration,” Skanir said, drawing the count’s attention back to him. “If the witch is indeed speaking of the rune
fang that was given to Solland, and if it was indeed used to destroy Zahaak, then the runes Alaric placed upon it might be very different from those on your sword. The spirit of each blade is its own.”
“You mean that our runefang might not be able to kill Zahaak?” Ernst asked. The dwarf nodded his head grimly.
“Then there is nothing else for it,” Count Eberfeld concluded. “We must find the Solland Runefang.”
“How can we do that?” scoffed Baron von Schwalb. “The sword was stolen by the orcs when they killed Count Eldred and sacked Pfeildorf! It hasn’t been seen by human eyes for centuries!”
“Maybe not,” Skanir agreed, “but quite a few dwarfs have seen it. After the Ironclaw’s defeat at Grunburg, the sword passed into the hands of one of his lieutenants, a warlord called Gordreg Throatripper. The orc was killed after he tried to lay siege to Karak Hirn. His body was carried off by his warriors and entombed somewhere in the Black Mountains.” The dwarf spat on the ground, his words turning bitter. “It’s the custom of the filthy grobi to break into the war-crypts of my people and bury the carcasses of their vile warlords in them.”
“So the Sword of Solland could still be lying in some orc’s tomb?” Eugen asked, uncertain whether the prospect was disgusting or exciting. The indignity of spending centuries with the rotting bones of an orc was hardly the sort of fate the runefang deserved.
“Why not have the witch tell us!” Captain Meitz suggested. “Her spooks and spectres should surely be able to spot it easily!”
The Crone of Morr pressed still closer to the hulking Black Guardsman. “It doesn’t work that way,” she said, her voice small and weak. “One must be careful what one asks the spirits. You never know what else might be listening.” She suppressed a shudder. “I would not dare consult them here, not so close to him!”
“But you could ask them to guide you, at least if you were further away,” said Ernst. “Further away from Zahaak’s army?” The woman gave the faintest nod of her head.
Skanir laughed, straightening in his chair. “Let the witch guide you all she wants. If the grobi put Gordreg in one of our crypts, then you’ll need a dwarf to find it for you. Otherwise you’ll be scratching around canyons and caves for years, and even then you might never find it.”
“Does that mean you are offering your services as guide, Captain Durgrund?” Count Eberfeld asked. Skanir stroked his beard for a moment, and then nodded.
“If you’re set on this treasure hunt, a dwarf is the last person who’d call the idea ridiculous,” Skanir said. “Finding lost treasure is in our blood. Yes, I’ll go. I can leave my uncle in command of the cannon. My fee is five hundred gold crowns and half of whatever other treasure the orcs buried with Gordreg.”
Skanir’s price brought roars of protest from every quarter, but the count brushed them aside. “Done,” he said. He had no intention of wasting time haggling with a dwarf over his fee, something that was commonly measured in days rather than hours. Besides, he had seen a fair sampling of dwarf stonework when he’d visited Karak Norn years ago. If dwarfs had a mind to hide something, then it tended to remain hidden. Without Skanir’s knowledge of dwarf engineering they might never find the crypt.
“And who leads this wild goose chase?” grumbled von Schwalb. Count Eberfeld stared across the table at the man he had already chosen for the job.
“I think Baron von Rabwald would be the best choice, don’t you?” Count Eberfeld asked, enjoying the grimace that flickered across von Schwalb’s features. “He has proven himself a tireless and loyal servant of Wissenland and a most capable commander in the field. I don’t think there is anyone I would trust more.”
Ernst felt his face grow flush as the count heaped praise on him. “Excellency, I must respectfully decline. My place is with my men.”
Count Eberfeld waved aside Ernst’s protest. “I was planning on dismissing your men, baron. Send them back to guard against any move by the enemy towards Rabwald.”
“Are you certain they can be spared?” The count had offered the best bait he could to tempt Ernst: an honourable way to spare his men the horror of fighting Zahaak’s army again. The baron did not fear to do so, but he did not want to see his men cut down in hopeless battle. They could return to their homes, prepare Rabwald’s defences, and maybe make a decent fight of it should Zahaak’s legion press deep enough into Wissenland to threaten the barony.
“I am having new units mustered in the north,” Count Eberfeld replied. “There will be plenty of fresh troops to replace yours. Naturally, you’ll be given a small command to lead, enough soldiers to provide protection, but not so many that the enemy will notice.”
“I’ll handpick the best men from each regiment to accompany the baron,” General Hock offered.
“Your excellency, general, I would also offer the services of my order,” said Marshal Eugen. “Recovering the Runefang of Solland would be the greatest glory our order could ever hope to claim. Indeed, after our losses, perhaps it is the only glory still left to us. Please, my lord, accept the humble services of my men in this. Allow us this final honour. Five knights can mean little to your army, but we may count for much to the baron and his expedition.”
Count Eberfeld shook his head. “The decision is not mine to make, marshal.” The knight turned bowing before von Rabwald’s chair. The baron reached forwards, grabbing his shoulder.
“It will be an honour to have such renowned warriors as the Knights of the Southern Sword riding at my side,” he said. There were actually tears in Eugen’s eyes as the old veteran looked up at the baron.
Count Eberfeld replaced his runefang in its ivory scabbard. “It is settled then. General Hock will visit each of your regiments and draw men and provisions for the baron’s expedition. I expect every man at this table to give the general complete assistance. Time is of the battlefield for long, and when those fiends start marching again, Wissenland will bleed.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Idiot,” the haggard-faced halfling muttered under his breath for what must have been the hundredth time in the last thirty minutes. The ruddy glow of schnapps burned beneath his cheeks, not the cheap ale the village taps had to offer, but rather a sampling of the private (and illegal) stock that he kept hidden in the oversized cart that served as his mobile kitchen. A bit too large a sampling. His head felt as if a pair of weasels were racing around inside his skull. He’d been a bit too flush with his winnings of the night before and the resultant celebration had been a bit excessive. Fine and well, but when he had awakened from his stupor he found that a very important personage was no longer standing guard over his tiny kitchen wagon. If the alcohol hadn’t sickened him, the surge of fear he felt when he found Ghrum gone certainly would have. Tiny hands clenched into impotent fists, trembling as a surge of anger coursed through his body.
“Theodo Hobshollow,” he snarled under his breath, “if you had half a brain you’d be a menace.” The halfling kicked angrily at a small stone lying in the street, cursing still more lividly as his hairy foot discovered the moist stickiness of a dog turd rather than the rigid substance of stone. Theodo rolled his eyes skyward as he wiped the filth from his foot. The streets were bustling with soldiers and townsfolk hurrying to outfit the small expedition that Baron von Rabwald was detaching from the main body of the count’s army. Some of them laughed as they saw his distress, others simply pushed their way past him, brushing him aside with that air of superiority and arrogance that Theodo so despised in the tall folk.
The halfling’s eyes narrowed as he noticed two men slithering their way through the crowd. They were trying to be stealthy, but failing quite miserably at it. The intense, sullen look on their faces gave away any possibility that the men weren’t about some sinister business. Somebody was clearly in a great deal of trouble, Theodo realised as the men continued to squirm their way through the crowd. Then his keen eyes widened with shock as he recognised one of those faces. It was Brueller, one of the less gracious rubes he’d suckered into
his crooked card game the previous night!
Oh yes, someone was most certainly in a lot of trouble. Unfortunately, it looked like that someone was named Theodo Hobshollow. The halfling felt a lump grow in his throat as he spotted the ugly-looking sword hanging from Brueller’s belt.
Theodo darted into the street traffic like a rabbit scrambling into undergrowth, slipping his tiny body between armoured knights and dirty crossbowmen with the nimbleness of a fox. From the corner of his eye, he could see the two soldiers react to his sudden movement, pushing and shoving their way through the crowd, but what progress they were making was far too little and far too slow. Every step seemed to increase the smouldering anger on the faces of the men. A shiver tingled up Theodo’s spine as he considered what they would do to him.
Still, they’d need to catch him first, and as the halfling darted and dodged his way between legs, putting ever increasing distance between him and his pursuers, he didn’t think that was going to be very likely. With his small size, the two men wouldn’t even be able to see him through the press of bodies he was weaving his way through. Just to make sure the men remained off his trail, Theodo turned around, darting back across the road, and started to return back up the street from the other side, doubling back on his route. The two soldiers would be busy chasing after him in the direction they had seen him run off in, and the harder they tried to catch up with him, the more distance they would put between them and their quarry.
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