‘They struck the Peak Pass here,’ Ironfist said. ‘Then they split up, with one force continuing on to Karak Kadrin, and the bulk of the army retreating towards the pass.’
‘The question is, why?’ Thungrimsson said, leaning forwards on his knuckles.
‘A better question would be, was it intentional? These barbarians can barely organize a horde half the size you’re proposing. Maybe there was a rift?’ another thane offered.
‘If so, then why are the ones we’re chasing heading back that way?’ Thungrimsson said.
‘Have you heard anything from the scouts?’ Ungrim said abruptly. ‘Are they still retreating?’
‘As fast as they can,’ the thane said, lighting his pipe with a long brass taper. He puffed and waved a hand. ‘A few hundred or so have split off from the main bulk of the curs.’
‘A rear-guard,’ Thungrimsson mused.
‘No,’ Ungrim said, stroking his beard. ‘No, they’re falling apart. Just like grobi do. Infighting and losing cohesion as they move. These hills are probably swarming with detritus like that. We should–’
The eerie squall of a hunting horn echoed over the camp. Biter turned, eye narrowing. His nostrils flared as he caught a whiff of a musky animal scent. ‘What’s that?’ he said.
‘What’s what?’ the thane with the pipe said.
The hound was twice the size of a normal dog and shimmering scales showed through its matted and filthy fur. It crashed into the pavise shield behind the thane and thrust itself forwards, jaws closing with a snap on his head. The pipe tumbled from spasming fingers as the hound jerked and clawed, tearing the thane’s head off.
Ungrim roared, snatching a hand-axe out of his belt and hurling it. It crashed against the hound’s skull, splitting it. The beast slumped, its weight toppling a shield. More hounds scrambled into the gap, snapping and snarling as they each fought to be the first in. Down below in the camp, more horns sounded as men – riders – swept down the slope, howling and shrieking as if noise alone would carry the day. Biter hefted his axe and grinned. It was a worthless sort of ambush. If they had been fewer in number, or more careless, it might have done the trick. But as it stood, it was merely going to let them stretch their limbs.
The twang of crossbows and the boom of handguns sounded as the dwarfs responded to the attack. A hound, slavering jaws spread wide, lunged for Biter. It had horns curling from its brow and a tail that was like that of a scorpion. Biter side-stepped the beast and grabbed its horn as it lunged past. He jerked hard, snapping its neck and ripping the horn from its head. He jammed the latter into the throat of another beast, killing it in mid-leap.
The thanes had reacted quickly to the attack, and soon, all of the dogs were dead. But the pavilion was still open to the enemy and a horseman galloped through the opening, sword and shield swept wide as he chanted to his Dark Gods. The horse reared and screamed, hooves slamming down on hastily upraised shields. Biter moved quickly, his axe licking out, teasing the beast’s hindquarters, causing it to thrash wildly. The rider was unprepared and he fell, cursing. He just barely brought his shield up to meet Biter’s axe, but the force of the blow was enough to shatter his arm. He fell back, wailing, and Biter finished him with a negligent back-handed whack of the blade. The axe was as light as a feather in his grip. ‘Remind me to thank the priest for the loan of his blade, eh?’ he shouted to Koertig.
Without waiting for a reply, Biter spun to face his next opponent, laughing. ‘Poor Gurnisson doesn’t know what he’s missing,’ he said, grinning savagely as he waded into the fray, his single eye blazing with berserk joy.
Karak Kadrin, the Slayer Keep
Garagrim frowned at the scroll in his hand, as if it had personally offended him. Lanterns lined the high alcoves of the library, casting a watery yellow light across the rows of stone shelves and pigeonholes, each one stuffed with books, tomes, scrolls and papyri from the four corners of the world. Like everything else in Karak Kadrin, the library had been built carefully and over centuries. Maps, both ancient and more recent, lined the walls in steel frames, and if one followed them in the right order, one could trace the expansion and eventual retraction of dwarf civilization from the Golden Age until now. Garagrim had done that very thing often as a child, seeing what had once been and what now was and wondering if there was some way to make it the way it had been again.
With a growl, he twitched the scroll aside and sat back, rubbing his eyes. He was sitting in his father’s chair, in his father’s library, handling his father’s duties, instead of doing what he should have been doing.
‘And what duties might those be, my son?’ his mother’s voice inquired.
Garagrim shifted in his seat. ‘I didn’t realize that I had spoken aloud. Forgive me, mother,’ he said, rising to greet her. She waved him back to his seat. Her silent bodyguards had stayed outside. They were men of her clan, Garagrim knew, sent to ward her, even in Karak Kadrin where she was, theoretically, safe. The idea that the clans of Karak Kadrin could not protect their own queen was an insult, though not a large one, as far as Ungrim was concerned. Most of the elders of the hold had even stopped grumbling about it.
Kemma lifted a scroll, examining it. Garagrim resisted the urge to snatch it from her. In many ways, he knew that he was more conservative than either of his parents. He was more conservative than most dwarfs, in fact. He was assured of some things very strongly, and knew with iron certainty that there was a proper order to the way of things. Tradition was the shield which sheltered the dawi from the Chaos which threatened to drown the world in fire and madness. And in dwarf tradition, women did not interfere in the running of the hold, save for in the most extreme circumstances.
She saw the look on his face, despite his attempt to hide it. ‘It’s a bill, my son,’ she said. ‘It is merely a matter of accounts, nothing of import.’ She dropped it on the desk.
‘That’s not the point,’ he grunted.
‘No, I suppose not,’ she said, taking a seat. ‘You are angry.’
‘I am… frustrated,’ he said.
‘They look much the same, then,’ she said.
‘What do you want, mother?’
‘Merely to inquire after your health, my son,’ she said. ‘Your father is doing as he thinks best.’
‘What is best for the hold, or for him?’ Garagrim said, laying his fists on the table.
‘One and the same,’ she said, looking at another scroll. ‘Handle this one first. We’ll need the pork the Moot provides for the victory celebration, and the little scroungers are good at “forgetting” deliveries until they’re paid.’
‘You think he’ll win, then?’ Garagrim said.
‘Your father has the habit of cheating death, whether he wants to or not,’ Kemma said, opening a ledger. Without asking, she snatched Garagrim’s stylus and dipped it into an ink pot, and then began scratching out sums. ‘These books are a mess. Your father never shows his work.’
‘Why does he bear a grudge against Gurnisson?’ Garagrim asked.
The scratching of the stylus slowed and then stopped. Kemma didn’t look at him. ‘Why ask this? Are you no longer content to hate him because your father does?’
Garagrim’s jaw clenched. ‘It is proper–’
‘Only if one is foolish,’ Kemma said. ‘You overstep yourself, taking on the debts of others like some wastepenny from Barak Varr, without knowing the reason for those debts in the first place.’
‘You go too far, mother. Like it or not, I am War-Mourner,’ Garagrim said, rising to his feet. ‘I have a right to know.’
‘Ask him,’ Kemma said, meeting her son’s glare. ‘It was Gurnisson’s oath, and it is his to share or not, as it pleases him.’
Garagrim eyed his mother. Then, he nodded briskly. ‘I’ll do that, then. Thank you for your advice, mother.’ He turned and left the library without waiting for her reply. Behind him, he heard the stylus resume scratching.
She was hiding something, he knew. Then, his mother wa
s always hiding something. His father was relatively straight-
forward, but Kemma had a mind as crooked as a skaven burrow. Garagrim marched through the corridors, ignoring the bows and salutes of the guards. The hold was still on a war-footing, and would be until the throng returned.
He took the stairs slowly, turning the words to come over in his mind. Gurnisson had no reason to satisfy his curiosity, nor any reason to like him. Garagrim didn’t like Gurnisson either and not just because of his father, no matter what others thought.
It was because Gurnisson flaunted his freedom like an ufdi. Garagrim and his father were bound by chains of duty and honour, but Gurnisson was not, and he knew it and revelled in it, disregarding custom and law and propriety with impunity, trusting in his status as a Slayer to protect him.
His hands clenched as he walked. Some said that was the purpose of the Slayers, to show the cracks in the foundation of dwarf society. Others said that they were a safety valve, allowing the discordant elements, the grit in the ore, to be sifted out. Regardless, though they were separate, they had to maintain a proper respect for things.
That was the War-Mourner’s task, to see that the Slayers respected the few limits placed upon them. That no one had taken that office in some centuries had not caused Garagrim to hesitate at the time, though now he could see why it had remained vacant for so long. Slayers chafed at authority, even that imposed by one of their own.
Not that they truly saw him as one of their own. He had no shame of his own, no right to take the oath, as they saw it. Yet taken it he had and he would do it again in a heartbeat, to spare his clan and his father the doom that haunted them. For the good of Karak Kadrin, Garagrim had taken the Slayer’s oath and though his father sought to deny him, he would garner a noble doom and free the clan from the weight of their ancient oath.
The guards snapped to attention as they caught sight of him coming up the stairs. It had been more than a day since Gurnisson had attacked them, and they were taking no chances now. The guard had been doubled, and rather than clansmen, ironbreakers were on duty. Even without his axe, it seemed that Gurnisson was deadly, at least to hear the last guards tell it.
‘My prince,’ one of the ironbreakers rumbled.
‘Elig,’ Garagrim said, nodding perfunctorily. He knew the names of most of the warriors of the hold; a feat of memory he’d put to good use since his childhood and one of the many skills his mother had taught him. ‘Is there anything to report?’
‘Nothing, Prince Garagrim,’ Elig said. ‘Some noise earlier, an argument, I think, but they’ve been having those since we put them out there.’ He shrugged. ‘Gurnisson likes to shout, and the manling isn’t much quieter.’
Garagrim smiled. ‘Good. Open the door,’ he said, gesturing. ‘I wish to speak to them.’
‘Are you sure that’s wise, my prince?’
‘Since when have you known me to do anything wise, Elig?’ Garagrim said, feigning a heartiness he didn’t truly feel. The guards did as he bade without further argument. Garagrim stepped through the door, closing his eyes as the chill wind of the heights caressed him.
When he opened them, rage flooded him.
‘Sound the alarm! They’ve escaped!’
The Worlds Edge Mountains, the Peak Pass
Canto climbed off of his exhausted horse, and knelt in the dust before the hooves of Garmr’s own mount. ‘I return bearing gifts, my lord,’ he said. He hadn’t been surprised to see the horde marching to meet him as he entered the Peak Pass. The mighty wheeled altars and war-shrines rattled at the fore of the army, and banners swayed in time to the beat of dull drums. There was something in the air as well, not simply the stench of the army, but something else…
‘A fallen hold, perhaps,’ Garmr said. There was a dark amusement evident in his tone.
‘The remnants of a defeated army, held together and brought to you, by me,’ Canto said, still staring at the ground. ‘Hrolf is dead, as are Kung and Yan and the siege of Karak Kadrin with them. If I had not–’
Garmr raised a hand. ‘How many warriors do you bring me, Canto?’
‘A few hundred, my lord,’ Canto said quickly. ‘Others, cowardly curs that they were, preferred to take their chances with the army pursuing us rather than risking your magnanimity…’
‘Not an auspicious number, Canto.’
‘Can such a thing be said to exist, my lord, in defeat?’ Canto said. His shoulders itched, waiting for the axe to fall. He couldn’t stop thinking about the tortoise, on its slow, unceasing plod across the Wastes. Maybe it had reached the ocean by now. Would it stop, or would it keep walking?
‘Especially then, Canto Unsworn,’ Garmr said. ‘Ekaterina?’
The woman urged her horse forwards, her fingers draped lazily over the pommel of her sword. She looked at Canto hungrily. Canto longed to run, but stayed where he was. His mind spun and discarded plan after plan in a space of moment, none of them better than the one he had.
‘Kill one in nine and scatter their skulls before us. Let the air swim with screams and the smell of blood.’ Garmr gestured. Ekaterina shrieked and jabbed her horse’s flanks, causing it to leap over Canto. Chaos marauder horsemen followed, swarming their shocked fellows quickly. Garmr and Canto were in an island of tranquillity amidst the carnage. Garmr looked down at him. ‘How did Hrolf die?’
‘A dwarf killed him. A Slayer,’ Canto said, looking up for the first time. He did not know for certain that the mad dwarf had killed Hrolf, but he suspected that it was close enough to the truth to satisfy Garmr.
‘Describe him,’ Garmr said. Behind them, around them, men screamed and died.
‘A Slayer, my lord,’ Canto said. ‘Short, broad, disgusting…’
‘How many eyes did it possess?’
‘Two, no, one,’ Canto said. ‘It didn’t seem to hamper him in using that axe of his.’ Idly, he stroked the marks that same axe had left on his own armour.
‘Ahhhhh,’ Garmr said, leaning back in his saddle. ‘Yes.’ He looked down at Canto. ‘You have done well, Canto. I have need of you now, with so many of my champions lying scattered across these hills. You will serve as my left hand even as Ekaterina has become my right. You will serve me and that service will raise you high in the esteem of the Blood God. Would that please you?’
No! Canto thought. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And what would please you, Khorreg Hell-Worker?’ Garmr said, turning to look at the Chaos dwarf who had watched Canto’s reception without comment. Khorreg’s cracked features shifted themselves into a sneer of displeasure.
‘It would please me to get back to my remaining engines and ready them for battle against the Weak Ones who dare pursue us,’ he rumbled.
‘So be it,’ Garmr said, gesturing. ‘We will drown them in fire and blade, Daemonsmith.’
Khorreg didn’t reply. Instead, he stumped off through the army, armour wheezing and hissing. Canto watched him go and hoped that the Hell-Worker would hold to their bargain. A dozen heads, tied together by beards and scalplocks, fell to the ground and struck his knee, startling him. Ekaterina, covered from head to toe in blood, rode towards them. ‘Shall I kill him now, my lord? Or would you prefer that pleasure yourself?’
Canto stood as Garmr said, ‘Canto’s skull will remain where it is, for today at least.’ Ekaterina opened her mouth as if to protest, but then clamped it shut as Garmr went on. ‘I wish the walls of this valley to be as red as the ground we have left behind us. Soak it in blood and meat and sanctify it to Khorne. The road must be made ready to receive its final paving stones.’
‘The dwarfs,’ Canto said, all of the pieces falling into place. He had been right – it had all been a ploy from the start! He and the others had been nothing but bait, designed to lure a tiger from its den. He seethed, rage warring with prudence.
Garmr looked at him, and for a moment, Canto wondered whether the warlord could see the anger boiling beneath his skin, before the monstrous helm dipped in assent. ‘Yes. You were r
ight, Canto. You have indeed brought me gifts…’
15
Karak Kadrin, the Slayer Keep
‘I’ve changed my mind!’ Felix shouted, eyes closed, knuckles white. ‘I don’t want to escape! I’d prefer to stay and be executed!’
Gotrek laughed harshly. ‘They wouldn’t execute you, manling. We’re not men, after all. They might do the Trouser Leg Ritual on you, but only if they could find a pair big enough for a human.’ The Slayer whistled. ‘Look at that view.’
Felix cracked open one eye and immediately wished that he hadn’t. Gotrek was right, it was quite the view. The whole of the valley that contained Karak Kadrin spread out below them, obscured from moment to moment by soft clouds. Unable to stop himself, Felix twisted, looking up. It was as if the roof of the world curved above him, close enough to touch. There was light and then darkness above it, black and cold and empty save for chill pinpricks of light. He shuddered as his vision swam and he closed his eyes again as his fingers dug tightly into the rock.
When Gotrek said he planned to escape, Felix had assumed that the Slayer was planning on the direct route, or going via some hidden mechanism known only to the Engineers’ Guild. Instead, they were going straight up. The Slayer had turned Felix’s cloak into a connecting line, tied it around Felix and then around himself, securing them together. Humiliating as it was, Felix understood the reason for it. There was simply no way that he could have made the climb on his own, not without tools and a good deal of luck.
But Gotrek… Gotrek moved like a mountain goat, his stubby fingers and toes finding invisible cracks and crevices with unerring accuracy as he scaled the peak. He’d stood on the balustrade and led Felix to the side of the balcony, and from there, upwards. ‘I used to climb these peaks in my youth,’ he said as his breath bloomed in a frosty mist and wafted back over his shoulder. ‘Last to the summit bought the beer.’
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 26