Thungrimsson gasped and the sound broke Ungrim out of his shock. With a guttural shout he launched himself at the creature. A fist slammed down, narrowly missing him. His axe licked out and the blade shuddered in his grip as it rebounded off a patch of stone-like scales. He spun, lashing out at it again and again. It lumbered after him, deceptively quick despite its build. Claws tore the crown-helm from his head, and set his brains to wobbling in his skull.
Behind the beast, dwarfs were helping the mauled Thungrimsson to his feet. The hearth-warden snatched up his fallen hammer and made to help his king, but Ungrim bellowed, ‘No! See to the rear!’ He had no time to see whether or not Thungrimsson obeyed him. The monster came for him again, herding him away from his army, jaws snapping.
Ungrim stumbled back and it caught his axe in its teeth, breaking a number of the latter even as it ripped the ancient, rune-engraved weapon from his grip. It loomed over him, its foul breath washing over him, and he drove a hard fist into one bulging eye, eliciting a shriek of rage. It caught him in its tusks and flung him into the air.
He landed hard, all of the breath escaping him all at once. Wheezing, he tried to push himself to his feet. The creature stalked towards him, thick ropes of drool dangling from its fangs as it opened its maw in promise.
‘No,’ Garmr said, and the Slaughter-Hound stopped.
He towered in his saddle, his axe at his side as he rode towards the greatest sacrifice ever brought before the dark gods short of Asavar Kul’s sacrifice of the city of Praag. He smashed aside a stake with a swing of his axe and brained a dwarf as his Chaos knights rode through their lines. The stunted ones were fighting well, but not well enough. His warriors had momentum and numbers on their side, and that would be enough to carry the day.
Even the mightiest mountains could be worn down by the blood-dimmed tide. Garmr looked down at the fallen dwarf. Someone important, he knew. He recognized authority in another, possessing a surplus of it himself. He had commanded Ulfrgandr to seek out the leaders of the army and bring them to heel. A dwarf noble would make a fine sacrifice, once the general blood-letting was done.
‘Hold him, but do not kill him,’ he said. Ulfrgandr snarled and the heat of it seeped into Garmr’s armour. Part of him, a small, withered bundle of ancient and long ignored humanity, prickled in primitive fear. He looked up at the Slaughter-Hound and saw in its dull eyes the same look he’d seen in those of his reflection more than once, back when he’d possessed a reflection.
The joy of destruction, of mindless violence, was addictive. The beast had long ago surrendered whatever cunning it might have once possessed to that joy, sacrificing wit for eternal war. Garmr felt a stab of contempt and the monster growled hatefully, feeling his disdain through the link they shared. Garmr’s eyes were drawn to the up-thrust hilts of the mystical daggers that sprouted from its back, the tips of their blades wedged into the iron bone of its spine. He knew this because he had planted them there himself, stabbing each one in the order that Grettir had assured him would bring the beast to heel.
He could still remember the crimson tide that had threatened to engulf him during that battle, the madness that begged for release, pushing him further and farther and faster, burning him from inside out. The harder he fought, the harder it was not to fight, the madder he grew the stronger the madness was. By the end, he had been little more than a beast himself, foaming and baying at the seven moons that hung over the cerulean sea.
Garmr the Gorewolf had come by his war-name honestly. The Slaughter-Hound and the Gorewolf had each waded through seas of the dead to meet in thunderous, glorious war and at the time, in that place, Garmr had not wanted it to end, their claws and fangs and axe and dagger meeting in a rhythm as old as the world, and he had sung the praises of Khorne until in his frenzy, he had forgotten the art of language.
‘That is why I bound you,’ he said, reaching out. Ulfrgandr jerked back, showing its fangs. Garmr made a fist and dropped his hand. Why was he seeking to explain himself? The beast had no mind to understand him, and even if it had, it would not have forgiven him. He had taken its freedom. He had broken it and bound it, preventing it from crushing, killing and destroying as its instinct demanded. In its place, he would not have rested until he had succeeded in freeing himself.
Then, he was not in its place. He was not it, and thanks to the spell which bound them together, he would never suffer to become as it was. Garmr was a prince of murder, not a slave to fury.
The monster snarled again, glaring at him across from the dwarf. Garmr looked at the latter. ‘We sit on the threshold of destiny, stunted one. How does it feel?’ he said.
The dwarf’s face flushed and Garmr could smell his rage. The dwarf lunged to his feet and leapt, far more quickly than Garmr had expected, but not quick enough. One of Ulfrgandr’s paws snapped out and flattened the dwarf, pinning him to the bloody ground. Garmr looked down at the flushed, berserk face and then away.
The battle was not over, but that did not matter. He had accomplished what he wished. Let Ekaterina and Canto fight until they could fight no more, let them harry the dwarfs, let the dwarfs strike back, none of it mattered now. The one-eyed dwarf was here, somewhere nearby, and Garmr could smell him; he could smell the stench of fate, and he looked out over the half-shattered forest of stakes, searching.
He moved into the field of carnage, stepping across bodies, hunting his quarry. Behind him, Ulfrgandr growled low, longing to rejoin the slaughter. Only Garmr’s iron will kept the beast in place. Overhead, the clouds finally burst, spilling a red rain.
It was a sign. There were signs and portents everywhere, all coalescing into meaning and method, showing him the way to the end. His heart thudded in his chest, and anticipation made his turgid blood writhe in a frenzy. He was so close now.
A trill caught his attention, a low whisper of joyful noise, like the cry of a hunting falcon. He turned and saw her, standing there, leaning upon her great spear, her eyes for him alone. One delicate talon gestured and he saw movement among the corpses. Of course! Of course he had been in the vanguard! Where else would such a creature have been?
‘My queen,’ Garmr said, moving towards her, his steps loud. Khorne’s Consort laughed silently and stepped back, gesturing for him to approach. As he drew closer, she moved further away, her shape coming apart in the rain, like smoke. He felt a moment’s disappointment that she would not be there to see him collect this last, most important skull.
It did not matter. She had shown him what he needed.
The rain started slowly at first, and then grew stronger, hammering the hard-packed soil into mud. Biter shoved the dead marauder aside and staggered to his feet, the rain washing blood off his broad frame, but leaving it stained red nonetheless. A gash marked his head, shaving a bald patch through his hair and sticking much of the rest to his scalp with blood. Biter shook his head, clearing it.
‘Not quite,’ he chuckled. ‘Not… quite.’ He turned. ‘Up, Remembrancer, no lying down on this job,’ he said. He reached out and grabbed Koertig’s shoulder. The Nordlander rolled limply. Empty eyes and a slack mouth were the first things Biter saw and he sighed. He looked up, letting the rain wash across his face. ‘Outlived another one, curse me,’ he said.
‘Not for long,’ a deep voice said. Rock, bone and meat crunched underfoot as the armoured giant approached, great axe dangling loosely in his grip. ‘Turn, Slayer. Show me your face.’
Biter laughed and turned. ‘Pretty enough for you?’
‘The loveliest sight I have beheld,’ Garmr said. He stopped. They stood in a bubble of calm. Biter stepped away from the bodies, his axe over his shoulder. He could see something monstrous looming nearby, a struggling form held fast to the ground.
‘Good. It’ll be your last.’
Garmr trembled. Biter realized that he was laughing. The sound was strange and wheezing, as if it were squeezing between the joints of his armour rather than from any human mouth. Biter felt a bit insulted. Then Garmr was mov
ing and his axe was licking out, shearing through the soft curtain of rain. Biter threw himself to the side and bounded to his feet, his own axe snapping out and carving a crease across Garmr’s thigh. ‘Are we done talking then? Should have said,’ Biter rasped.
Garmr turned, seemingly unconcerned by the brackish fluid leaking from the gash in his leg. ‘I thought it was obvious enough,’ he said. His axe chopped down, narrowly missing Biter, who stumbled aside. They traded blows for a moment, man and dwarf, their axes ringing off one another. A hard blow shoved Biter back and the Slayer crouched, breathing heavily. The wound on his head had reopened, and blood covered one side of his face and ran beneath his patch.
‘I have waited for you for a thousand years,’ Garmr said.
‘I’m never on time,’ Biter said, coughing.
‘I have dreamed of you for a century, Slayer,’ Garmr continued, his voice growing angry.
‘I’m flattered,’ Biter coughed. ‘Many a lass has dreamed of me.’
‘I have carved a scar in the heart of the world, just for you.’ Garmr snarled and pointed at the Slayer with his axe. ‘I have butchered millions and I have spilled an ocean of blood, just to ride the waves to this point, to you.’
‘Walking would have been simpler,’ Biter said and chuckled.
‘This is not a joke!’ Garmr’s axe came down. Biter caught the blade with his and forced it aside. He drove his free hand into Garmr’s midsection, his knuckles ringing on the baroque armour. Garmr’s hand dropped like a weight on Biter’s head and the Slayer was hurled backwards, against an outcropping of rock.
Biter’s vision blurred and spun as he crawled to his feet. ‘Woo, that was a bit of a bok,’ he said blearily. ‘My father used to hit me just the same, when I was a beardling. Of course, he only had the one hand and the two fingers. What’s your excuse?’ he continued, grinning through bloody teeth at Garmr.
‘Stop laughing, dwarf, this is a solemn occasion, a moment of holy truth,’ Garmr growled.
‘Really? I thought it was just a runk, you great wazzok,’ Biter spat. He smiled widely. ‘Come on, hit me.’ He barely brought his axe up in time and the weapon was wrenched from his hands by the force of Garmr’s blow. Pain radiated up his wrists and forearms and with a grim laugh, Biter realized that the last blow had not only rendered him weaponless but the force of it had almost shattered his wrists as well. He rocked back, chuckling. ‘Well, I did say hit me,’ he gasped. ‘This is right funny, this is.’
The axe looped around and caught Biter below the sternum, lifting him up off his knees and into the air. He folded over the blade and his weight tore it from Garmr’s grip. Axe and Slayer fell to the ground. Biter coughed and his ruined hands flailed helplessly at the haft of the axe. ‘Funny,’ he wheezed. ‘I knew I was fated to die. Just didn’t think it’d be like this. Figured a troll would sit on me. Heh.’ Glassy-eyed, he looked up at Garmr and cackled thinly.
‘Stop laughing,’ Garmr said again as he stooped to pluck the axe free.
‘Come closer, manling, I want to tell you a joke,’ Biter said and twisted like a snake, his gromril teeth snapping tight on Garmr’s hand. Ancient metal buckled beneath the dwarf’s spasmodic jaw-clench and Garmr bellowed and tried to jerk his hand free to no avail. Garmr grabbed his axe and he tore it free and brought it down, separating the Slayer’s head from his shoulders.
Nonetheless, Biter’s teeth remained clamped. Garmr resisted the urge to batter the head against the nearby rocks and the ground. Instead he dropped his axe and pried at the hideously grinning head. He finally broke the dwarf’s jaw and ripped that terrible mouth from his crushed hand. The broken jaw sagged and the tongue waggled and Garmr roared in fury and triumph, raising the head to the weeping sky.
The Road of Skulls would soon be complete.
18
The Worlds Edge Mountains, above the Peak Pass
Felix awoke with a start as rain struck his face. He touched his cheek and his fingers came away red. He gasped and sat up. They were still on the ridge among the dwarf – and now, Chaos – dead. Only a few moments must have passed.
‘It’s not blood, manling. Well, not yours at any rate,’ Gotrek said, standing over him. ‘Have a good rest?’
The Slayer’s axe hand was red to the elbow and dripping and there was a grim look on his face. ‘We were too late,’ he said, reaching down to haul Felix to his feet. ‘The battle has begun.’
‘You could still join it,’ Felix said, clutching his head. The bodies of a dozen marauders, perhaps slightly fewer, lay scattered about. Gotrek had been busy.
‘Begun and done,’ Gotrek spat. ‘They were attacked from behind!’ The Slayer gestured sharply with his axe, splattering Felix with blood. He sounded outraged.
‘Then Ungrim–’
‘I don’t know,’ Gotrek said. He shook his head. He looked around at the dead dwarfs and the dead Chaos marauders and grimaced. ‘Too late,’ he muttered.
Felix sat down on a rock. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘If you’re smart, you’ll sit very, very still, manling,’ a rough voice snarled.
Felix froze, red rain running down his face in rivulets. Gotrek did not, but instead started forwards, both hands on the haft of his axe, his one eye gleaming. ‘Come out and face my axe,’ he said.
‘I’ll thank you to stay at a distance, Slayer,’ the dwarf said, stepping out of the rocks, crossbow in his hands. More dwarfs, clad in battered travel-leathers and carrying crossbows, joined him. Rangers, Felix realised with a start. The one who’d spoken eyed them both and then took in the scene. His eyes lingered on the bodies of the dead dwarfs and he cursed softly in Khazalid and looked at Gotrek. ‘Come with us, Gurnisson. The War-Mourner wants to see you.’ He cocked an eye upwards and spat. ‘And I want to get out of this cursed rain.’
‘Should have known the whelp would pursue us,’ Gotrek muttered sourly. ‘There are dwarfs dying down there.’ He gestured in the direction of the Peak Pass. ‘And there’ll be dwarfs dying up here, if you try and stop me.’ He pointed his axe at the ranger. Red rain collected in the runes engraved on the blade and dripped off, forming strange patterns on the ground.
‘What’s left of the Grand Throng has fallen back from the pass, Gurnisson,’ the ranger said, more politely than he had a moment earlier. Gotrek’s axe had that effect on people, Felix reflected wryly. ‘Right now, the War-Mourner is the only thing standing between Karak Kadrin and the Chaos filth that smashed Ungrim’s throng,’ the ranger continued, his voice growing harsh. ‘And Garagrim ordered us to find you, if you could be found, and bring you to him, in chains if we had to.’
Felix groaned as he heaved himself to his feet. He fell silent as he heard strange horns wailing on the wind, piercing the veil of rain like sharp claws. The rangers tensed and Gotrek turned. He cast a glance back at the pass and then looked at the ranger. ‘If the throng has retreated, they’ll be coming into these hills soon enough,’ he said. He looked back at the ranger. ‘If you would have us go, now is the time. Take me to the whelp.’
The journey was neither a quick one, nor a comfortable one, from Felix’s perspective. Climbing down into the canyons of the Peak Pass was somehow even more arduous than climbing up had been.
They saw more dwarfs as the sun began to set and the rain began to drum down hard enough to sting. Pickets had been set, for all the good it would do them. Tough-looking clan warriors, hunched behind heavy pavises or rocks piled into small barricades, hefted crossbows or axes in greeting as the rangers trotted past, Gotrek and Felix with them.
‘Why hasn’t the horde come charging towards us like ants?’ Felix muttered. ‘What are they waiting for?’
‘Who knows why Chaos-lovers do anything, manling?’ Gotrek said. He glanced up at Felix. ‘Good question, though,’ he added grudgingly.
The dwarfs had not created a camp so much as a small fortress. Heavy pavise shields created a long wall and dwarfs laboured before that wall by lantern-light, erecting wooden stakes to
prevent a charge by the enemy’s horsemen. Other dwarfs piled stones in square formations, creating miniature redoubts within the greater redoubt made by the free-standing shields. Heavy canvas and metal pavilion tents had been erected as well, to protect those dwarfs not working from the incessant, hissing rain. It was under one such that Garagrim met them.
Felix winced as he caught sight of Snorri Thungrimsson lying senseless on a pallet. The old hammerer was in rough shape. Blood pooled beneath him, even as dwarf physicians fussed about him. His skin had the waxy look of one halfway past dead, though Felix had seen dwarfs recover from worse wounds. Then, those dwarfs had all been Slayers, who were renowned for their inhuman vitality.
‘Will he live?’ he asked.
Garagrim glanced at him. ‘It is up to him,’ he said gruffly. He looked at Gotrek. ‘I expected you to use the drains, as you did before,’ he said, almost accusingly.
‘That’s why I used the heights,’ Gotrek said, grinning mirthlessly.
Garagrim nodded. He looked at the leader of the rangers. ‘What news?’
The ranger shook his head. ‘If there are any survivors who didn’t make it out, they’re as good as dead, Prince Garagrim.’
‘Prince still, is it?’ Gotrek murmured, his axe resting in the crook of his arm. ‘Not king, then?’
Gotrek and Felix - Road of Skulls Page 32