‘Except those of us who already have,’ Biter said, crossing Byarnisson’s limp arms over the ruins of his staved-in chest. He sighed and stood, leaving the dead Slayer staring up sightlessly at the carrion birds already beginning to circle. They’d lost four of their number so far. Not so many, all things considered.
The Chaos marauders might have been retreating, but you wouldn’t know it to judge by the number of ambushes the throng had dealt with. If anything, they seemed in good cheer for the battered remnants of a defeated army. They sang as they hurled themselves onto dwarf axes, chanting the Blood God’s name in all of its bestial iterations. Biter grunted. As long as they died, did it matter whether they did so happily or not?
Koertig sat nearby, gnawing on a thumbnail, his eyes on nothing in particular. Biter joined his Remembrancer. ‘Wake up, human,’ he said, snapping his fingers. Koertig shuddered and looked at him. The Nordlander was tough of body, but like many men, his spirit was flimsy when compared to that of a dwarf.
‘Are we on the march again?’ he asked, his voice an exhausted rasp.
‘Not yet,’ Biter said. ‘What were you looking at?’
‘I thought I saw... nothing, I wasn’t looking at anything,’ Koertig said, leaning back and rubbing his eyes. Biter frowned and looked around. Despite what he’d told Koertig, the throng was preparing to move again. Their numbers were not much diminished, but there would still be fewer cooking fires than there had been the night before.
The sky was growing dark, but Ungrim was champing at the bit. He’d gotten a taste of blood and wouldn’t be swayed now. Biter couldn’t blame him. He rubbed at his patch, trying to sooth the itch in his eye-socket. He looked up. There were skulls in the hills. They’d been seeing more and more of them the further they got from Karak Kadrin. Piles of skulls, human, dwarf and otherwise, tucked into crevices and cracks or dangling from trees, like road signs or markers for the mad. Hundreds, maybe thousands, more than he’d thought possible. The ones above him had been nailed to an outcropping of rock, in a strange pattern that made his good eye water if he looked at it too closely.
Biter looked away from the skulls, blinking. Koertig jerked to his feet suddenly. ‘What was that?’ he barked, swinging his axe.
‘Shut up, human,’ another Slayer growled, collecting a tally of ears from the dead marauders. ‘It was probably just carrion birds.’
‘It wasn’t birds,’ Koertig said. Biter looked at him. ‘It sounded like drums, but underground or in the mountains,’ he added.
Biter listened. Then he sank to his haunches and placed one palm on the ground. He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
‘Your Remembrancer is going mad, Biter,’ Dorin said.
‘I heard something as well,’ another Slayer said and he pointed a finger at the skulls. ‘It’s coming from them.’
‘I know he’s mad,’ Dorin said, and spat.
‘No more than you or I,’ Biter said. ‘Something’s in the air.’ He looked up, past the skulls. He blinked, trying to focus. He shook his head in frustration. And then Biter heard it, just at the limits of his hearing, and he wondered why he hadn’t caught it before. Regardless, he recognized it.
It was the sound of marching.
‘Bugrit,’ Biter spat. ‘Dorin, Koertig, with me. Dorin, grab some of those skulls. The rest of you, stay here and stay alert.’
‘What is it?’ another Slayer, chains running from his earlobes to his nostrils, growled.
‘Maybe nothing,’ Biter said. Dorin and Koertig followed him as he led them across the impromptu battlefield towards Ungrim’s banners. The clans were already readying themselves for the march again, wounds bound and dead wrapped in the protective shrouds that would hopefully keep the birds off of them until the army could recover them en route back to Karak Kadrin. Dwarfs called out to Biter, but he ignored them, bulling his way through the press towards where King Ironfist was meeting with his surviving thanes.
A hammerer made to step into his path and Biter’s head snapped out, connecting with the front of the warrior’s helm. The dwarf staggered and Biter shoved him aside unceremoniously, ignoring the pain that radiated through his own head. Ungrim turned and nodded brusquely. ‘Slayer,’ he said.
‘Something is coming,’ Biter said.
‘What?’
‘Something is coming,’ Biter repeated. ‘There’s something coming this way and we need to know what it is.’
‘Our scouts have reported nothing,’ a thane said, leaning against the iron pole of the Ironfist clan banner that he held. The honour of carrying Ungrim’s standard was a great one, and the younger thanes engaged in a variety of trials, including an impromptu shouting contest, to win the right to carry it.
‘Then they’re wrong, because we heard it,’ Biter said, gesturing to Koertig and Dorin.
‘I heard nothing,’ Dorin said. Biter waved him to silence.
Ungrim grunted and combed his beard with his fingers. ‘Master Redbeard,’ he snapped, suddenly. A heavyset dwarf, his beard not the red his name implied, but whiter than snow, pushed forwards, through the gathered thanes.
‘Step aside, step aside,’ he growled, his voice deep and querulous. His face was squashed between a ridge of eyebrows and a beard like an avalanche. There were discs engraved with runes dangling from the staff he carried, and yet more scored into the staff itself. The Runesmith glared at Ungrim. ‘What?’
Ungrim in his turn, looked at Biter. ‘Tell Hrafn, Slayer,’ he said.
Biter frowned. ‘We’re hearing things.’ He waved Dorin forwards and the latter let the skulls tumble from his arms with unseemly haste. Hrafn grunted and peered at the skulls with distaste. Nonetheless, he sank slowly to his haunches, muttering complaints the entire way. One gnarled and scarred hand plucked up a skull and then just as quickly dropped it. The Runesmith clutched his hand to his chest as if he’d burned it. He hesitated, and then ran his hand across the lot, not quite touching any of them.
He looked at Ungrim. ‘The skulls tremble like stones beneath the tread of an army,’ he hissed.
‘How is that possible?’ a thane said in a hushed voice.
‘Anything is possible with Chaos,’ Ungrim said, his eyes searching out the hundreds of skulls scattered around the valley. ‘The road of skulls,’ he muttered. ‘Just like Axeson said.’ He shook himself. ‘The enemy is coming. We will make our stand at the Peak Pass. Thanes, muster your clansmen! We march for the centre of the pass!’
The Worlds Edge Mountains, the Peak Pass
Ekaterina could not remember when she had first heard the Blood God’s voice, only that it had torn her notions of society and her place in it from her and replaced them with something far grander. Khorne’s words had flayed her like the kiss of a lash, marking her body and soul. She had known, even as the pain faded into pleasure, that she would serve him forever and a day, and kill and laugh in his name until the stars were at last snuffed by his mighty hand.
When she had first met Garmr, she had thought that he was the same. That he too heard Khorne in his soul. But he didn’t. Garmr heard only his own voice, reflected back at him.
Grettir’s words had spun webs in her head, no matter how much she tried to ignore them. She turned in her saddle, watching the horde sweeping through the canyon like an ocean of men and animals. They had flooded these mountains, tribes coming from far and wide to partake in the grand slaughter. Many became fuel for the beast, falling to a horde that had grown impatient with Garmr’s waiting game. Others had more literally fallen to the beast. Ulfrgandr stalked the slopes above, its massive form occasionally blocking the light of the sun or the moon.
A rattle of rocks heralded an avalanche caused by the noise of their travel. Men died screaming, buried under the tumbling rocks. The army did not pause.
It should have pleased her.
It should have, but it did not. It did not please her, because she knew that it would not last.
She raised her head, spying him at the head of the m
arch. His head hung low, swaying from side to side like that of a bull. Her fingers tapped at her sword, wondering.
‘I wouldn’t,’ Canto said, urging his horse close to hers.
She glanced at him dismissively. ‘What would you know of it?’
‘What, you mean treachery and betrayal? Quite a bit, actually,’ Canto said. He pressed a hand to his chest. ‘I’m quite the connoisseur. Always have been, actually,’ he said. ‘Did you know that I was there when Severus Tar betrayed Varl the Maw at the Siege of the Hot Mud Wall? True story, it was an accident, if you can believe it. You see, what happened was–’
‘Silence,’ Ekaterina snapped.
Canto looked at her, his features unreadable behind the curve of his helm. ‘You know as well as I do that this is not going to end well,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said. She frowned.
‘He’s using us as sacrificial hogs, woman,’ Canto said, more intently. ‘We’re nothing more than bodies to be ground up. He’ll use us up and discard us when he’s gotten what he wants.’
‘One would think you’d want me to slay him, then,’ she said.
‘What, and leave you in charge? How long would I last then, Ekaterina?’ Canto said acidly.
‘I’d have your skull before his body stopped thrashing,’ she said.
‘And there we are. Impasse,’ Canto said, throwing up his hands. ‘I can’t let you kill him, no matter how much I’d dearly love for you to.’
‘Can’t let?’ Ekaterina said, arching an eyebrow. ‘Can you stop me, then?’
Canto looked at her steadily. ‘Who can say? I’d give it a try, I’ll say that,’ he said softly.
Ekaterina met his gaze, considering. She had always thought of Canto as a jester, a trained ape who capered and quipped for Garmr’s amusement. But there was something… She took in the scars on his armour and the look in his eyes, and wondered whether his distaste for combat was not the sign of a coward, but rather the ennui of a gourmand. The thought of becoming glutted on bloodshed was a horrifying one, and for a moment, just a moment, she felt a stab of pity.
‘What are you proposing?’ she said, finally.
‘Not here,’ Canto said, pulling on his mount’s reins. ‘Follow me.’
Ekaterina hesitated long enough to issue orders to Boris and then followed, letting her mount weave through the order of battle. Men growled and cursed, but her red gaze made them fall silent quickly enough. Canto led her back towards the trundling altars and shrines. The smell of beasts and horses and human slaves washed over her, mingled with the dust thrown up by their passage. She and Canto fell into a trot beside the great altar that Grettir was chained to. The sorcerer looked at them with what Ekaterina would have sworn was amusement.
‘Ah, two prodigals, come to speak of seed-pods and dis-
agreements, eh?’ the sorcerer said, his voice carrying easily over the thunder of the march. ‘Whatever would your master say?’
‘Silence, cur,’ Ekaterina snapped.
‘Yes, silence, cur; or rather, talk,’ Canto said.
Grettir cocked his head. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I wondered if it would be you, Canto. Your skeins are like a spider’s web, going in all directions. So much possibility, it’s almost intoxicating.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment,’ Canto said.
‘And you,’ Grettir said, looking at her. ‘Is a daughter of the Blood God willing to betray her chosen lord?’
‘He betrays the Blood God,’ she said stiffly.
‘Does he?’ Grettir said. ‘Are you certain that you do not wish to believe it is so, in order to make your treachery less stinging?’
Ekaterina hesitated, cursing herself. She did not hesitate. To hesitate was to fail to fail was to die and to die was to lose Khorne’s favour. She had fought far too long and too hard to do so now. As she opened her mouth to reply, she caught sight of something crouching atop the altar. Eyes like red-hot coals met hers from within a face that was at once feminine and daemonic. She felt her heart stutter in her chest. The great spear stretched towards her, as if to tap her shoulder, and she wondered whether the blade would turn and separate her head from her shoulders.
If so, it was as it would be. Take my skull if I have stepped from the Path, she thought grimly, meeting the apparition’s gaze. I have ever served Khorne, and I will serve him always, even unto death. The apparition nodded, as if satisfied. Leathery wings snapped silently, and the shape hurtled upwards, vanishing in the light of the sun.
Ekaterina met Grettir’s gaze and said, ‘I am certain.’
Grettir turned and gazed upwards. Ekaterina wondered whether he could see her as well, and then discarded the notion. Of course he couldn’t. Only those blessed by Khorne could see his Handmaiden. Grettir looked back at her and chuckled. ‘Fine, fine, if you’re certain.’
The sorcerer leaned back. ‘He knows, by the way, if that makes a difference.’
‘No,’ Ekaterina said, even as Canto said, ‘Yes.’
Grettir chuckled again and hunched forwards, his chains rattling. ‘Garmr has planned this for centuries, before either of you were born. The road is for Khorne. It is his road to war. Eternal war, battle unending, and Garmr has spent blood and souls to see it through to completion.’
Ekaterina sucked in a breath. Grettir waved his hands. ‘A thousand years ago, these mountains were soaked in the blood of daemons, blood spilled by dwarf hands and dwarf axes. Now Garmr consecrates them to Khorne by spilling the blood of men and–’
‘Dwarfs,’ Canto said. ‘This was never about Karak Kadrin, was it?’
‘What matters a fortress to one who has all of eternity to wage war?’ Grettir said, shrugging. ‘Garmr wants war eternal, to glut himself forever on slaughter. He’s a simple soul, really.’
Ekaterina shook her head, ignoring Grettir’s mockery. It was what they all aspired to, in their own way. An eternity of slaughter beneath the stars was a beautiful thing to contemplate, but only if she survived to enjoy it. Her fingers tightened on her sword-hilt.
‘The one-eyed dwarf,’ Canto said. Ekaterina looked sharply at him. ‘I met him. Why does Garmr want him?’
Grettir spread his palms. ‘Better still say, why does Khorne want him?’
The Worlds Edge Mountains, near the Peak Pass
Felix hit the trees a few moments after he lost his grip on the gyrocopter. Branches cracked and burst beneath his weight. Karaghul went spinning from his grip and he was blind. Felix’s arms acted of their own volition, grabbing for any support they could find. His breath wheezed out of his lungs as his fingers lost their hold and he was falling again. Branches connected with his rear and legs and then he was spinning, grabbing, halting and falling again. He hit a branch and held on.
They weren’t very high up, for which he was thankful. Burdened as it had been by their weight, the gyrocopter had only been skimming the tree-line. He could see the ground. The branch he clung to gave a crack and he fell again. His fingers throbbed as he grabbed another branch and swung awkwardly, feet dangling. ‘Sigmar, please–’ he groaned.
Sigmar apparently had a sense of humour. Bark came away in his hands and he fell again, cursing all the while. This time, when he hit, it was the ground, and he fell amidst broken branches, all of the air whooping out of his lungs and all of his limbs going numb at once. He lay for a moment, vision whirling nauseatingly. Then something bright fell towards him and he cursed, rolling aside as Karaghul sank into the ground, point first, at the exact spot where his head had been only moments earlier.
Puffing, lying on his belly, Felix contemplated the sword where it quivered. Every limb felt like a lead weight and his chest hurt. He pushed himself up with a wheeze and grabbed Karaghul, jerking it out of the hard-packed soil. Then, he looked up.
A moment later, he was diving aside for a second time as the remains of the gyrocopter crashed through the branches and slammed into the ground. Felix scrambled for cover as the shattered rotor tore loose and pin-wheeled towards hi
m, the hard wood and steel frame embedding itself in the trunk of the tree he had darted behind.
‘We should have stayed in Karak Kadrin,’ he grunted, stepping out from behind the tree.
The griffon crashed down atop the ruined gyrocopter, further flattening it and sending more broken pieces flying towards Felix. Felix swatted aside a chunk of the rotor mechanism and froze as the griffon rolled onto its feet with an ear-splitting screech. The beast looked the worse for wear, its wings shattered and dragging, its body and head bloody. Nonetheless, as it caught sight of him, it tore itself free of the wreckage and limped towards him, hissing.
‘Fine then,’ Felix said. ‘Fine! Come on!’ He was tired and aching and his mind was fogged with exhaustion and stress and he wanted nothing more than to hack the creature down and rest, just for a moment. He extended his sword and trembled, adrenaline pumping. ‘Come on, you cursed beast. Let’s finish this, shall we?’
The griffon squalled and galumphed forwards, claws digging trenches in the ground. Felix jerked aside as its beak snapped at him. Its feathered chest thumped against him with bone-jarring force, nearly taking him from his feet. He used the momentum to fall backwards and swing his sword. It crashed against the creature’s neck, cutting deeply into its flesh. Talons caught him on the shoulder and then he was skidding through the dirt. He slammed against a tree, hard, and black lights burst before his eyes. The griffon staggered, head dipping, blood spurting from the wound in its neck. Why wasn’t it dead? What was it going to take? It gurgled and stumbled towards him, eyes glazing even as its beak snapped blindly.
Something hissed. The griffon jerked and screamed in agony. Its back legs slid out from under it and it fell, only inches from Felix. He looked up and saw Gotrek, bloody, but unbowed, crouching on the broken gyrocopter, the steam-gun in his hands. The Slayer had apparently wrenched the weapon from its housing and he hefted it in two hands. He grinned and fired again, sending a whistling stream of steam-powered steel spheres punching into the writhing griffon.
The creature slumped with one final whimper. Gotrek hopped off the wreckage, tossing the steam-gun aside. He picked up his axe where it lay and strode towards the griffon. ‘Gotrek,’ Felix began.
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 29