[Warhammer] - Dreadfleet

by Phil Kelly - (ebook by Undead)

  Another awkward silence held sway. Roth’s face was grey with anger and frustration.

  Aranessa glanced up at him, and her expression softened a little. She sat back heavily in her chair.

  “Look, Jaego, I don’t like the Sea-Curse any more than you do, and if killing Noctilus is the way to end it, then you can count me in. I’d love to see this spiral gone from the world, I really would. Manann knows I see enough of the damned thing every night. But we can’t just charge in there without a plan and hope for the best.”

  “She has a point,” said the Magus, winding up his clockwork toy to set it dancing again. “The magnitude of this phenomenon is such that it cannot be fought, not truly, and certainly not by the weapons of the material world. I merely propose that we imbalance it.”

  “Imbalance it?” said Aranessa. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  The Magus grinned like a hyena. “Observe.”

  The sorcerer leant down and blew softly onto the spinning dancer. The exhalation sent it wobbling, then spinning out of control, skittering onto the map before it slewed to a stop over the depiction of the toothed whirlpool.

  The Magus sat back, pleased with his little piece of theatre.

  “Just as a well-placed puff of air will send a spinning top skidding to an eventual halt. I believe that if we are to disturb the maelstrom’s momentum with the correct application of magical force, it will unravel and Noctilus’ power will be undone. The curse will end, and the oceans will no longer be polluted by its taint.”

  “Is that right?” said Aranessa dubiously.

  “It is indeed,” said the Magus, spreading his hands and smiling widely. “Trust me, my dear. I have studied such things for, oh, rather a long time. Let’s say decades.”

  “And you’re going to be the one that stops this thing, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” said the Magus. “Though I do believe I have some artefacts in my possession that may aid us in our most noble quest. Three grand urns that I have collected over the years, each sealed by a far greater sorcerer than I. The greatest, in fact, to have ever lived.”

  He preened, his kohl-rimmed eyes wide for dramatic effect, but neither Roth nor Saltspite took the bait.

  “I would prefer it if you didn’t ask me to mention his name,” the Magus continued, waving away the question despite the fact that no one had asked it. “It is bad luck to do so. Suffice to say, he makes Noctilus look like an apprentice by comparison. That which resides inside these urns is… of regal potency, shall we say? Oh yes. And yet I fear that one urn’s contents alone would not be powerful enough to tip the balance.”

  He wound up the spring of his clockwork dancer, this time placing it at the centre of the toothed spiral on the parchment. It whirred round and round, purring as it went.

  “According to your father’s notes, Jaego, the maelstrom is not just powerful—it is power, raw magical energy made manifest. If the contents of all three of my urns were set free within it, however, they might just tip it into dissolution. We would have to break them at the right time, in the right place, of course.” He directed a pudgy finger at his spinning dancer. “Right here, in point of fact.”

  He picked up his little clockwork toy as it wound down and kissed it delicately on the head before tucking it away in the voluminous folds of his golden robes.

  “How do you know all of this?” asked Aranessa, shaking her head in puzzlement.

  “I do not, my dear. It is merely a theory of mine, and quite a new one at that. Nonetheless, sometimes one just has to fight with whatever tools one has available—in this particular case, my royal urns. Jaego understands, I believe, being a man of action. Which is fortunate, because it is Jaego that is going to unleash them.”

  “He is?” said Aranessa, looking at Roth.

  “I am?” said Roth, looking at the Magus.

  “Yes indeed,” said the sorcerer. “I am far too old and fat for dashing heroics.”

  “But how do we even get to the bastard thing in the first place?” said Aranessa.

  The Magus looked expectantly at Roth. “Jaego, old fellow? Would you care to elucidate your own theories to your impeccably mannered paramour?”

  Roth held up the complex moondial, glaring at the Magus as he held its glinting apertures and fascias up to the light.

  “My father’s last act was to preserve this map, this moondial and this spyglass. Pretty much everything else he ever owned was burnt to ash, priceless artefacts I know for a fact were close to his heart. And yet these three items, items I’ve never seen or heard of before, he saw fit to protect above all else.”

  Roth rubbed his eye for a moment and adjusted his lens before continuing.

  “I think he left them for me. He saved them so that if I ever found his body I could avenge his death. This thing,” he said, proffering the complex machine to Aranessa, “this will show us how and where to get in. I’ve been studying it for the best part of two weeks. The phases of the moons, represented here… the various sections coincide, overlap at certain times. I think if we wait at the right latitude and longitude at the right time, just as Mannslieb is completely obscured by Morrslieb, then we can sail straight through the veil into the world beyond.”

  Aranessa blinked hard. “Go on,” she said.

  “We might have to ride out that storm we saw to do it, but I think that’s how my father crossed into Noctilus’ lair all those years ago. That’s what Black Socket said, at least. It’s in Morrslieb, the magic to get us across. That’s what this thing does. It tracks the phases of the Chaos moon.”

  “Well done indeed!” said the Magus, clapping his ring-encrusted hands together with a bright chime. “Quite so, Jaego, quite so. I feel sure that together we can work out how to use it. I have no little expertise in such matters, as you know, and what may seem complex to you is child’s play to a man of learning such as myself.”

  “The problem is,” said Aranessa, slowly. “The problem is that the Dreadfleet just ran rings around us, and that was in our territory, not theirs. We need repairs, at the very least.”

  Roth slumped back into his chair. “Sadly, we’ve outstayed our welcome in Tilea, and I don’t think we have time to refit ships of this size in Sartosa.”

  “I hate to be the one to say it, Jaego,” said the Magus, “but even if we did have time on our side, I am not entirely sure I would trust a burnt-out den of thieves to repair your ship, let alone mine.” He picked up Roth’s moondial and examined it, nodding his head sagely. “Besides, if my readings are correct, which of course they are, then the appropriate conjunction is due in less than eight days. We would do well to be in place.”

  The clanging of a relay bells echoed from the corridors outside, summoning the captains to the bridge.

  “Right,” said Roth, “decision time. By my calculations, it’ll take at least half a week to get under the stars as they’re shown on that thing. I say we head for the site of the conjunction and catch Noctilus in his lair before he crosses the veil again. We can study this little lot as we go. Nessa, are you in?”

  Aranessa opened her sapphire eyes wide, blowing out a long breath through pursed lips.

  “All right, yes. Let’s do it. I was going to end up in that bloody graveyard sooner or later. I might as well arrive in style.”

  The Heldenhammer sailed through the open seas, the Swordfysh and the Flaming Scimitar in its wake. Word had already spread by the time the captains had returned to their posts. Another sighting—not a sail this time, nor a storm, but smoke.

  Roth emerged from his quarters and shook out his spyglass as he climbed the long stairs onto the topdeck. Scarcely ten miles distant, a plume of smoke could indeed be made out drifting upon the horizon. It mingled with the underlit clouds of the sunrise, trailing upwards lazily until the winds teased it into nothingness.

  “Ghow,” shouted Roth, but the islander was already at the helm. Roth stormed along the deck towards his first mate.

  “Ghow, we are absolutely
nowhere near any land mass, correct?”

  “Aye sir, that’s a mystery out there, so it is. Must be a steam-ship. Must be. But even them lot don’t make that much smoke.”

  “It’s the Black Kraken, that’s my guess,” said Roth. “It must be badly damaged to give out that much smoke. Has to be good news for us. Then again,” said Roth, looking eastward with a thoughtful expression, “Barak Varr’s not too far from here. All right, Ghow. Hard-a-starboard with all speed.”

  The Heldenhammer’s prow eased its way through a mile-wide slick of oil, the ocean’s rainbow skin reflecting the dawn light in a hypnotic display of colour. At the slick’s shimmering centre jutted a series of giant metal shapes. The forms were unrecognisable at first, but as the Heldenhammer drew nearer he saw that it was the remains of an armoured war vessel of colossal size. It looked like it had been mangled beyond recognition by the hands of the sea god himself. Though the last sections of the wreck were slowly sinking under the water, the uppermost parts of the hull were still on fire. Columns of greasy smoke billowed from the machinery that could just be glimpsed inside.

  Through his spyglass, Roth saw great furrows where the metallic tentacles had tightened their grip upon the beleaguered steamship.

  “It’s a dwarf ironclad, or used to be, at any rate. Out of Barak Varr, by the crest on the tailpiece. A victim of the Kraken, I’ll wager.”

  “Mother of pearl,” murmured Ghow, looking down at the wrecked ironclad and then up at Sigmar’s Wrath, scratched and gouged but still largely intact. “We got off lightly, then.”

  “Yes indeed,” said Roth, brow furrowed.

  There was a distant shout, right on the cusp of hearing. The first mate turned to Roth, puzzlement on his blunt features.

  “Sir?” said Ghow.

  “Aye,” said Roth. “I heard it. Hoy, I can see them. There, down by the propellers. Survivors, by the looks of it, and quite a few of them. Excellent. If we play this right, Ghow, we might get our second wind after all.”

  “How so, captain? I mean… even if they’re dwarfs, there’s only a dozen of the little grumblers at most. Maybe less. Even if they all join us…”

  “Think, man,” cried Roth, loud enough that the rest of the crew on the forecastle could hear. “Barak Varr is little more than a day’s sail away from here, and if we fish out this lot we’ll have a way in. Dwarf naval engineers, Ghow. You know what they say about that lot. Humourless swine, the lot of them, but they can build ships like no one else.”

  Roth lowered his voice so that only Ghow could hear him.

  “They absolutely cannot stand being in debt, especially to outsiders, and by all accounts their liquor can keep a man hearty even as he sails into the jaws of death. With a fair wind I’ll have us back in the fight in no time.”

  Roth jumped up onto the capstan with the agility of a man half his age.

  “Hark, lads! Deploy the Alaric and get those beard-lovers out of the water as quick as you can. It’s dwarf beer for us tonight!”

  Dripping wet and fuming, the stocky dwarf captain of the destroyed steamship stomped towards Roth. Ghow Southman ran out ahead, eyes wide as if he feared an axe might be planted in his spine at any moment.

  “Oi!” shouted the irate dwarf behind him, red of hair and even ruddier of face. He wrung his apron of a beard onto the deck, combing it with his fingers so that it was more or less straight. “You there with the feathery hat. I take it you call yourself the captain of this ridiculous great contraption?”

  In one smooth motion, Roth pulled out his thrice-pistol, cocked it and aimed it squarely at the dwarf’s groin.

  “I do indeed, and unless you want to bellow your next question in a voice a good sight higher I suggest you address me with a little more respect.”

  The two captains glared at each other for an uncomfortably long time, their men gathering behind them. After a minute, Roth’s arm began to tire from aiming the antique pistol, but he’d die before he showed weakness, especially to an arrogant cur like this one.

  Eventually, the dwarf’s thunderous expression eased.

  “Aye, lad. I suppose I’d ask some courtesy of you, had I just fished you out of the brine.”

  The dwarf looked mournfully out to sea as the last of his wrecked ironclad sank beneath the waves.

  Anger burned under the dwarf’s bushy brows. “We were attacked unseen from below,” he said. “Not much we could do about it. Dirty, underhand tactic, attacking unseen from below. Sort of thing you’d expect from a damned grobi.”

  He hawked and spat over the gunwale in disgust, which Roth thought was quite some feat given that it was thirty feet away.

  “Grimnir’s bloody axe,” muttered the dwarf, bitterly. “It has not been a good night.”

  “I can sympathise. My name is Captain Jaego Roth. This ridiculous great contraption is called the Heldenhammer. Welcome aboard.”

  “Huh. You don’t look the religious type. You’re a pirate, I can smell it on you, despite all your fancy trimmings. I’ve no quarrel with pirates, lad, don’t get me wrong. Your honour is your own affair. Besides, many of my own folk see me as much the same. You heard of Red Brokk?”

  “I have indeed,” lied Roth. “You’re out of Barak Varr, aren’t you?”

  “That I am, lad. Brokk Gunnarsson.”

  “Gunnarsson, that’s right,” said Roth, without missing a beat. “They say you forge marvels. In fact, I heard they call you the Engine Master back in Tilea.”

  Ghow rolled his eyes upwards, but Roth’s face was as serious as the grave.

  Gunnarsson straightened up somewhat, his barrel chest swelling.

  “Huh. Engine Master, is it? Hear that, lads?”

  The dwarf turned to his fellow crewmen, eyes creased in a smile. A few of the sodden dwarfs just shook their heads, muttering in khazalid, and one tried to light a long-necked pipe.

  “Marvels to you manlings, perhaps,” Gunnarsson continued. “But not marvellous enough. I just lost three-score good hands, not to mention the Forge, the first ironclad to run quiet as a mouse. Lost ’em to that traitorous, honourless dog at the helm of the Gulgraz Krannak, may he forever suffocate in flame.”

  Roth nodded sombrely as if he understood completely.

  “I just led several hundred men to their deaths in an attempt to kill the Bloody Reaver,” said Roth. “The fiend at the helm killed my family, and I’ll destroy him or die in the attempt.”

  “Aye? The Reaver, eh?” said the dwarf, taken aback. He cocked his comprehensively hirsute head to one side, looking Roth up and down as if he were examining a piece of machinery.

  Roth saw the opening and sailed towards it at full speed.

  “We’re in bad shape. We need repairs, but there’s no port near here that can deal with warships of this size.”

  “You humans,” said the dwarf, snorting.

  Roth took it as a cue to continue.

  “That floating palace over to port is Flaming Scimitar. Don’t underestimate her, she’s a great deal more dangerous than she looks. That’s the Swordfysh away to starboard, one of Sartosa’s finest, and with a she-devil at the helm. But even with three of the most powerful sailing ships on the high seas, we couldn’t take down our quarry. The master of the enemy fleet, Count Noctilus, has ghosts and krakens at his command. And then there’s the Reaver itself.”

  The dwarf’s eyebrows shot up at the mention of krakens and he scratched his broad chin beneath his magnificent russet beard. Metal tools and strange devices bound into the thick facial hair clinked and jingled under his stout chain gauntlets.

  “Krakens, eh? That’s what you manlings call the Krannak, isn’t it?”

  “My khazalid isn’t up to much,” said Roth. “Care to explain?”

  “Would it happen to be a giant submersible in the likeness of a deep-sea beast? Gromril tentacles strong enough to crush an ironclad? Inefficient engine distribution?”

  “That’s the one. It was tearing chunks out of the front of my ship not less than
twelve hours ago,” Roth pointed to the ravaged wood of the bow, “though it looks like it saved its strength for tackling yours.”

  Roth casually pointed his thrice-pistol out to sea, checking the sights as he talked. “I’m going to blow the thing to pieces, as soon as I sink the Reaver. I’ll hunt them to their lair if that’s what it takes. Though after the last two battles I feel like I’m walking blindfold into a den of trolls.”

  “Blow it to pieces, eh?” said the dwarf. “You concentrate on the Reaver, lad, that’s your duty. Let me worry about the Krannak. I’ve my own scores to settle.” He nodded, slowly, his broad chin stuck out. “Reckon you’re the kind of man who’d understand that.”

  The dwarf stared at the captain once more, his eyes not moving from Roth’s for another long minute.

  “Long time back,” said Gunnarsson, eventually, “I worked in the same forge as the wretch at the Krannak’s helm. I tell you now, Roth, he don’t fight fair. Hackhart’s his name, may he drown in the filth of his own lies. Calls himself the master of the submersible. Ha! The only thing he’s mastered is how to cheat and steal and sell his damned soul for a scrap of glory.”

  The dwarf rubbed the rivets that stitched across his face with his thumb, his cheeks flushed as red as his masterpiece of a beard.

  “That thing don’t work like a normal steam-ship, Roth, I’ll tell you that. A dark power lies within. Some foul pact has been made since he and his machine were booted out of the Engineers’ Guild. I’m going to kill that damned thing, and the yellow-bellied grobi at the helm, too, grudge be done.”

  Gunnarsson scowled at Roth for a moment before sharing a brief conversation in khazalid with the bedraggled group of his fellow survivors, then he turned his attention back to Roth.

  “Listen well, Captain Jaego Roth of the Heldenhammer. You and your men here would do well to see us back to Barak Varr. You won’t regret it, and you got my word on that, strong as gromril. We’re not much for wood or cloth, too flimsy by half, but we’ll have your wind-runners watertight inside a day. Armoured better than before, too.”