Canto had been in the thick of it, not by choice, but his bargain with Tzerpichore the Unwritten had been binding. The squawking bird-brain had ridden a tortoise of iron and crystal into battle, and he had hurled witch-fire from a golden palanquin mounted on the golem’s shell. His acolytes had joined him, their heads bobbing like a harmony of song-birds as they lent their petty centuries’ worth of accumulated arcane knowledge to their master’s design.
Tzerpichore had been collecting daemons, the weaker kind, those unaligned, amorphous entities which clung to the undersides of magical storms and mighty rituals. The sorcerer had been plucking them from the aether that collected above such battles, where they circled like carrion birds. Canto had been there to protect him from the madness of battle.
In retrospect, he hadn’t done a very good job.
Garmr had bulled through the chaos of battle, hacking his way towards Tzerpichore, who by his very nature, was offensive to the Gorewolf. Canto had tried his best to delay the killing-mad warlord, but he’d been swatted aside again and again, only the enchantments woven into his armour saving him from death. Garmr had leapt up on the tortoise and for a moment, it appeared as if Tzerpichore’s magics had undone him. Fire had wreathed Garmr, consuming him. Then he stepped through it, his axe singing out, and Canto watched as Tzerpichore’s head had bounced across the ground towards him, a vaguely accusing look in the fast-dimming eyes.
After that, the tortoise had plodded on, uncontrolled and abandoned as Garmr had lifted Canto’s chin with his axe and given him an ultimatum. Canto had agreed quickly enough.
Sometimes, though, he wondered what had happened to the tortoise.
‘Well,’ Canto said, thinking of the tortoise, ‘that’s that.’ He looked at the shattered bridge in frustration. He’d been counting on Kung to take it. Without it, Karak Kadrin was effectively inviolable.
Khorreg the Hell-Worker frowned and turned to watch as the ogres dragged the third of the war-engines into position. The Dreadquake mortar had done its work well, hammering most of the outer fortress flat. Now the weapon was being reloaded in preparation for bombarding the mountain that threw its shadow over them. Privately, Canto had doubts that the war machines, effective as they were, would do any good given the current situation.
‘It’s not,’ Khorreg said, eyeing him with smug assumption. Behind the Hell-Worker, Khul stood silently, axe gripped horizontally in his hands, his featureless helm fixed on the enemy bastion.
‘What?’ Canto said, irritated.
Khorreg gave a rasping laugh. ‘It can be brought down.’
‘By your devices,’ Canto said.
‘Possibly, or others,’ Khorreg said, his cracked and unpleasant features twisting into an expression of cunning. ‘More deals could be struck, more engines brought from the east, with such a prize to be gained.’ He gestured towards the massive double doors across the chasm.
‘Unfortunately, Garmr is not here to make those deals or bargain for those engines, Hell-Worker,’ Canto said. He clasped the hilt of his sword and shook his head. ‘Besides, I doubt the dwarfs will sit around and wait for us to knock down yet more of their walls.’
Khorreg snorted. ‘They are weak, and content to sit and wait where braver folk attack.’ The Chaos dwarf chuckled, and the glowing cracks on his face widened disturbingly. ‘They will not come. We have time.’
‘Maybe,’ Canto said. He turned and saw Yan approaching, a number of other champions behind him, including Skrall and Hrodor. The latter duo looked wary, but Yan was grinning insolently, his fingers dancing across the pommel of his falchion. His armour was covered in dried blood and soot, but he looked as fresh as if he’d newly arrived to the field of battle. ‘Then, maybe not,’ Canto said. ‘What news, Yan?’
‘There’s little to pillage here,’ Yan said, shrugging. ‘Nothing useful, at any rate, and the men are getting restless. With the bridge gone, there’s no reason to stay.’
‘Except that Garmr ordered us to take Karak Kadrin,’ Canto said.
‘Except that,’ Yan said. His eyes drifted down to Kung’s broken form then back up to Canto. ‘I have accepted the sworn oaths of Kung of the Long Arm’s warriors. They are grateful to join a warband whose leader is not so great a fool, they assure me.’
‘Do they?’ Canto said. Yan nodded.
‘Your men, meanwhile, asked me to speak with you,’ he continued.
‘Did they?’
‘There is nothing to be gained by staying here, Canto,’ Yan said, loudly. Canto could feel the eyes of Chaos marauders and Chaos warriors alike drawn towards them. It was less an ambush than a long-delayed thrust from an expected quarter. With Kung dead, that left only they two in control of the army. It didn’t matter who the other champion was – it could have been Kung or Hrolf, for all that Yan cared. He would have chosen his moment regardless.
He chose his next words carefully. ‘Is that cowardice I hear? I should have expected such from one called the Foul.’ His voice was deeper than Yan’s, and louder. It echoed from shattered pillar to cracked post and more men joined the rest in watching the confrontation. More softly, Canto said, ‘These aren’t your words, Yan. They’re Ekaterina’s or I’m a Slaaneshi concubine. Is that why she insisted that you be sent, rather than Vasa or the Bone-Hammer? You’ve been trotting in her shadow since we crossed the Howling Chasm.’
Yan snorted. ‘She is strong, Unsworn. She is blessed and beloved. My folk know of the deadliness of queens.’
‘And Garmr is not?’
Yan made a face. ‘Garmr is not here. Ekaterina is not here. We are here and there is nothing for us.’ He swept out his falchion, gesturing across the chasm. ‘They hide from us. We cannot reach them and we cannot pluck their skulls, so why do we stay? Let us find battle, Unsworn, unless your heart is too craven to do so!’
Canto looked around. Two accusations of cowardice; if he and Yan had been different sorts of men, they would have already come to blows. But Yan hadn’t become a Horselord of the Khazags by being rash to action. Even the most warlike nomad favoured the surgical thrust over the bull-headed frontal assault. So where–
Skrall made a sound halfway between a squawk and a cough and raised the boil-covered bone spikes that had long ago replaced his hands. His horned, featureless helm bobbed, and he gurgled something and clashed his spikes over his head.
Canto nodded. So that was it. Yan intended to let Skrall do the dirty work. The red-scaled champion wasn’t quite the berserker Hrolf had been, but he was dangerous nonetheless. His spikes could rip through stone and puncture iron as easily as they did flesh. Canto knew that he couldn’t simply kill Skrall, not as he had Alfven. Once was a lesson, twice a blasphemy. So it was to be a fight, but that didn’t mean it had to be a long one.
‘We don’t have these problems among my people,’ Khorreg said helpfully.
‘Yes, assassination and enslavement is so much easier,’ Canto muttered. Khorreg nodded agreeably.
‘You manlings are inefficient as well as stupid. Frankly, you need overseers,’ the Chaos dwarf said and laughed, clapping his hands to his belly.
Canto ignored the horrible chortling of the stunted
Daemonsmith and drew his blade. Skrall gurgled again and gesticulated with his spikes. Canto had never bothered to learn how to translate the champion’s speech, so couldn’t say whether he was being cursed at or whether Skrall was simply reciting his pedigree. Nevertheless, he didn’t wait for him to finish. His sword licked out, carving a scar across the cheek-piece of Skrall’s helmet, startling him. A spike punched towards him, driven by a muscular, scaly arm. The overlapping scaly plates that covered Skrall’s body were as effective as any dwarf-forged armour and Canto’s riposte crashed harmlessly off the champion’s upper chest.
Men were cheering now and stamping their feet. Yan watched with a wide smile. Hrodor was circling around the fight, armoured fingers tapping at the dagger sheathed on his belt. Canto took it all in at a glance, his well-honed sense of self-preser
vation screaming a warning at him. Nomads always went for the hidden thrust and, truth to tell, if the situation had been reversed, he might have tried something similar. Skrall came in again, bisecting the air with his spikes, throwing his arms out in a wide, sweeping gesture and forcing Canto to step back. Hrodor, the nails in his skull glistening weirdly, drew his blade and lunged, seeking to plant the dagger in the small of Canto’s back.
Except that Canto wasn’t there. The blade plunged into Skrall’s throat, lodging itself in the reptilian scales there and causing the champion to reel and gag. He staggered back, pawing ineffectually at the blade’s hilt with his spikes. Hrodor gawped in confusion, but his hand was already dipping for his sword hilt instinctively as he turned to see Canto beside him, the edge of the latter’s sword pressed tight to Hrodor’s throat. Skrall sank to his knees, still pawing at the blade. It wasn’t a fatal wound, but it would make it hard to concentrate on anything else. Canto lifted a boot and kicked the hilt of the dagger, lodging it further into Skrall’s larynx and knocking the champion onto his back. Then he looked at Yan, whose grin was stretched tight and becoming a rictus snarl.
‘They call me the Unsworn, Yan, not the Unobservant,’ he said.
‘They’ll call you nothing at all, soon enough,’ Yan snarled, slicing the air with his falchion. ‘I’ll take your skull for my banner and lead this army to war–’
Khorreg said something in his own language. There was a spurt of heat as the magma cannon belched and strained in its chains, spattering onlookers with burning dollops of liquid fire. At some point during the confrontation, Khorreg had signalled that the cannon be turned about to face the gathered Chaos forces. The ogres were already dragging the Deathshrieker launcher around as well. Khorreg’s two assistants had joined him, and they chuckled and laughed harshly at the dumbfounded expression on Yan’s face as he took in the steaming, dripping barrel of the magma cannon. The champion lurched towards Khorreg, blade out, but the armoured bulk of Khul interposed itself.
The Ironsworn was only half the height of the champion, but thrice the width. Yan stopped dead. Khul raised his axe slowly, letting the fading light of the day catch on the runes of death and pain that had been wrought into the blade.
Yan licked his lips. ‘You only get one chance, dwarf,’ he said. ‘There are more of us than you can kill quickly enough with those weapons. We’ll take your beards as surely as we took those of these others,’ he added, gesturing around at the fallen keep.
‘Either way, you’ll lead an army without our help, manling,’ Khorreg rumbled. His eyes glinted with ageless malevolence and cunning. ‘And you do need us, if you want to reap the skulls and spill the blood your puny god has demanded.’
‘We need no cowardly weapons such as these,’ Yan protested.
‘I wasn’t talking about weapons, manling,’ Khorreg said. He hiked a thumb over his shoulder at the chasm separating the Chaos army from their chosen prey. ‘I was talking about a bridge.’
‘What do you need?’ Canto said quickly, not taking his eyes from Yan.
‘Slaves, raw materials,’ Khorreg said, stroking his beard. ‘One will serve as the other, in a pinch.’
‘Take these two and what remains of their warband,’ Canto said, nodding to Hrodor and Skrall. ‘They’ll be useful one way or another. Unless you’d like to disagree,’ he added, looking at Yan.
Yan opened his mouth, but then closed it with a snap. His eyes were on the hold across the chasm, and his mind was on the glory to be reaped and the skulls to be collected. Canto nodded in satisfaction. ‘How long?’ he said to Khorreg.
‘A few days,’ the Chaos dwarf said. ‘Depends on the strength of the materials,’ he added wickedly, leering at Hrodor.
‘Good enough,’ Canto said. Then more loudly, to the cheers of the surrounding warriors, ‘And then we pull Karak Kadrin apart stone by stone!’
9
Karak Kadrin,
the Slayer Keep
‘They’ve gone below,’ Thungrimsson said as he entered the blockhouse.
Ungrim Ironfist looked up from the map. He had not left the blockhouse since the great doors had closed, needing to be as close to the battle as possible, Thungrimsson knew. ‘How long will it take for them to reach their goal?’
‘A matter of hours, if Copperback can be trusted,’ Thungrimsson said.
‘Are your warriors ready?’ Thungrimsson and his hammerers would be at the forefront of the second sortie, the edge of Karak Kadrin’s axe as it cut into the army at their gates. It was an honour to be the first to battle, and his chest swelled slightly as he thought about it. He had fought in dozens of campaigns over his lifetime, battling grobi and ratkin and worse things, and he had never failed in his duty.
‘Are you?’ Thungrimsson said. They were alone in the blockhouse, by the king’s command, so there was little need for formality. Outside, weapons rattled and the stone vibrated with the tread of booted feet as the defenders of Karak Kadrin readied themselves for battle anew. Past the walls, horns wailed and beasts howled as the Chaos army was brought under control and aimed once more at their enemies. Something was going on out there, over the chasm, but no one had figured out what yet.
Ungrim snorted. ‘Need you ask? I ache for battle, old friend.’ He stepped away from the table, hefting his double-headed axe. ‘My axe is thirsty.’
‘Speaking of thirsty,’ Thungrimsson muttered, striding to the keg set upright near the table. He filled a mug and threw it back. Wiping foam from his mouth, he looked at his king. ‘Gurnisson is quite charismatic, when he wants to be.’
Ungrim grunted, watching the lantern light play across his axe. He said, ‘And what of my son?’ Thungrimsson fell silent. Ungrim grunted again, and sighed. ‘I know,’ he said.
‘He will learn,’ Thungrimsson said, setting his mug aside. ‘You have taught him much.’
‘I have little left to teach him,’ Ungrim said. ‘And what I have taught him, I fear, has made him less than he should be.’ He looked at Thungrimsson. ‘I should not have let him take the vow.’
‘That is not for me to say, my king.’
‘You are my hearth-warden, and my Reckoner, and come to it, my Remembrancer, Thungrimsson. Of all those who serve me, you alone have leave to say what you wish, when you will,’ Ungrim said. ‘I should not have let him take the oath.’
‘No, you should not have,’ Thungrimsson said.
Ungrim looked up, eyes blazing. He bit off a retort and then released an unsteady breath. ‘He insisted,’ he said. It was less an excuse than a simple statement of fact. Garagrim had insisted, and Ungrim could deny his only son nothing. Not even the decision to take on an oath that would doom him. Thungrimsson nodded.
‘He had his reasons,’ he said.
Ungrim’s face twisted. ‘Oh aye, he had reasons, and foolish ones at that. The king of Karak Kadrin carries the burden of our shame, not the prince. He thinks to buy my freedom with his death, and I’ll not pay that price, not for all the gold in these mountains.’
‘Have you told him that?’
Ungrim slumped. ‘What good would it do, Snorri? Would he listen? Has he ever listened?’
Thungrimsson had no answer for his king. Ungrim stumped back to the table. ‘If Gurnisson makes good his vow, we will know it. Nonetheless, we need to keep them occupied and looking at us.’ He stroked his beard, losing himself in the sway and flow of future battle. Thungrimsson couldn’t help but admire his king. Ungrim Ironfist possessed the finest battle-sense of any dwarf king yet ruling a hold, and Karak Kadrin had been shaped over the centuries by that sense. It was as much a war machine as any catapult or bolt thrower, when Ungrim saw to its defences.
‘There are paths from the inner keep to the outer,’ Ungrim said, referring to the hidden, sloped tunnels that acted simultaneously as drainage as well as strong-points for the defenders of the hold to launch blistering guerrilla attacks. The paths weren’t large, and once revealed, would have to be sealed after the dwarfs had retreate
d. If they had to retreat, if any of them were left to retreat.
‘Thunderers,’ Thungrimsson said.
‘Mm,’ Ungrim said noncommittally. ‘No, axes, I think. We’ll wait for those blasted gronti to get close,’ he said, referring to the siege-giants.
‘That’ll be a suicide mission,’ Thungrimsson said softly.
Ungrim nodded grimly. ‘There are over a hundred Slayers left in the hold, maybe more. Gather as many as you can find. They’ll be happy enough to do it.’ There was no way to keep an accurate count of Slayers at the best of times, let alone in a siege. They came and went as it pleased them, and there were always more hanging around than was entirely healthy to Thungrimsson’s thinking. Not without reason was Karak Kadrin called Slayer Keep. Nonetheless, the way Ungrim spent them like quarrels from a crossbow did not sit well with him, even in circumstances such as this.
Ungrim saw his expression and sighed. ‘I know your feelings, old friend. But you are not a Slayer, and Grungni willing, you never will be. They – we – are already dead and we have been since our names were inscribed on the pillar in the temple of Grimnir. Some, like Gurnisson, are simply more stubborn about it than others. Bringing down one of those thrice-cursed walking siege-engines will be a doom equal to Agni Firetongue’s.’ Ungrim’s eyes glinted. ‘I’d go myself, if I thought you’d let me.’
Thungrimsson tensed, but Ungrim waved a hand. ‘I know. My oath as king supersedes my personal shame. I will lead the second sortie, and, Grimnir willing, you will crown Garagrim as king and strip the dye from his hair and perhaps Karak Kadrin will have a proper king again.’
‘It has a proper king now,’ Thungrimsson said. Ungrim didn’t reply, his eyes on the map. His king was no longer listening. He rarely listened. At times, Thungrimsson thought that there was very little left of the beardling who’d taken the throne, his jowls and pate stained with dye. He’d been much like his son, devoted and determined. Now, he was obsessed. Under his unflagging leadership Karak Kadrin had grown in prestige and power. For many in the city, the hold was the fulcrum about which the world revolved, and it was at Karak Kadrin that the last battle before the end of the world would come. When war was on the wind, the Slayers came, hungrily hunting doom in defence of the bar that kept the cursed north at bay. But even as he’d made an impregnable fastness of the hold, he’d become more and more doom-hungry himself.
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 17