by Gav Thorpe
“Where’s Ferginal?” asked Barundin, laying down the pen and earning a scowl from Thagri.
“We need him as a witness from Zhufbar.”
“He went out drinking with some miners,” said Thagri. “He can sign later.”
“It’s not really a witness if they’re not present when I sign,” said Barundin heavily. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“Just a formality, really,” Thagri assured him. “Nobody doubts the word of a king.”
As Barundin lifted the writing chisel once again, the door opened with a bang and Ferginal rushed in.
“Where’ve you been?” demanded Barundin. “We’ve been waiting for you!”
“Don’t sign it!” gasped Ferginal.
“What?” said Barundin.
“The agreement, it’s a dirty trick,” said Ferginal. “There’s been no gold in these mines for six centuries!”
“No gold?” said Barundin and Ottar together.
“What do you mean, no gold?” said Thagri, gripping Ferginal by the arms.
“I was talking to some of the miners,” Ferginal breathlessly explained. “There’s plenty of iron orc and coal, but they’ve not seen a fresh nugget of gold here for over six hundred years.”
“The cheating swine!” roared Barundin, slamming down the pen as he stood. “They tried to swindle me into buying an empty gold mine!”
“Does this mean the wedding is off?” asked Thagri, pulling a rag from his belt to mop up the ink spilling across the desk.
“By Grungni’s beard, it does not!” said Barundin. “For his elgi tricks, Nogrud is going to sign over this mine to me, lock, stock and every ounce of orc. He’ll feel the taste of Grudgesettler if he tries to argue.”
“So it’s war again, is it?” sighed Ferginal, leaning against the wall.
At that moment, Bardi entered. Thagri leapt upon him, snatching up the collar of his robe in both hands.
“Try to swindle us, would you?” snarled the loremaster. “Thought you’d pull the mail over my eyes, did you? I’ll see that the Council of Lore Writers has you chased into the hills for this!”
Bardi snatched himself away from the loremaster’s angry grip and straightened the front of his robe. “Nonsense,” he snapped. “Not once did myself or my lord mention gold in the agreement, merely the profits from the mines.”
“The mine’s almost worthless,” said Ottar. “You’ve bled it dry.”
“Well, you’ll not be wanting it back then,” said Bardi with a hint of smugness.
“Oh, we’ll have it back alright,” said Barundin. “By Grimnir’s nose ring, we’ll have it back! Just you think on that when our cannons are a-knocking at the doors to your room.”
“I came in to tell you that a messenger from Karak Kadrin has arrived,” said Bardi. “Before you came we sent word of your coming and the, er, situation, and I expect this is King Ironfist’s reply.”
“Like it or not, if he defends what you’ve done here, he’ll face my wrath as well,” said Barundin.
“You would not go to war with another hold, surely?” said Bardi.
“Not if it can be avoided,” replied Barundin.
102
GRUDGE EIGHT
The First Grudge
Winter lingered late in the mountains, and the slopes of Peak Pass were dusted with snow all the way to the bottom of the valley. The pine forests farther up the mountainsides were swathed in snow, barely visible as dark brown patches across the whiteness of the World’s Edge Mountains.
Just visible to the east, before the pass turned somewhat northward, the silvery flanks of Karaz Byrguz could be seen, and atop it a great fire burned; it was a beacon tower of Karak Kadrin, the hold of King Ungrim Ironfist. Westward was the much smaller mount of Karag Tonk, its foot obscured by boulders and broken trees from recent avalanches.
The pass itself narrowed between the flanks of Karag Krukaz and Karag Pdiunrilak; steep-sided and laborious to negotiate as the undulating valley crossed into the western mountains of the tall peaked range.
Just to the west was the summit of Karaz Undok, beneath which lay the gates to Karak Kadrin itself. Although many miles distant, Barundin could just see the great stone faces and battlements carved into the mountain tops surrounding the ancient hold, and the great span of the Skybridge that linked Karak Kadrin with the smaller settlements of Ankor Ekrund.
The wind was fierce, blowing down the valley from the east and north, with a biting edge to it that even the sturdy dwarf king could feel. His cheeks were red and his eyes watered in the early spring air, and he had to keep wiping a hand across his face to clear his vision. He held his helm under one arm, his shield propped up against his left leg as he turned his head to survey his force.
The entire strength of Zhufbar had been massed for this battle, from beardlings that were raising their axes for the first time to veterans like himself that had fought in the foetid tunnels of Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan.
Glinting ancestor icons were held aloft beside fluttering standards of deep reds and blues, amongst them the towering banner of Zhufbar held by Hengrid.
They stood on the southern flank of the pass, at the centre of the Zhufbar throng. To their right stood several thousand clansdwarfs, each carrying a sturdy axe or hammer and a steel shield embossed with symbols of dragons and anvils, lightning bolts and ancestor faces, each according to his own taste. Beyond them waited the Ironbreakers, formed into small, dense regiments. Little could be seen of the dwarfs themselves under their layers of gromril, rune-encrusted armour: even their beards were protected by articulated steel sheaths.
On the left of the line, Barundin had drawn up the greater strength of his missile troops. Rank upon rank of thunderers and quarrellers stood upon the mountainside, each row far enough back to overlook the lines in front. Behind them were the cannons, bolt shooters and stone lobbers of the engineers, who paced to and fro between their machines, making adjustments, throwing fluttering scraps of cloth in the air to judge wind strength and direction, and generally preparing for the coming battle.
Ramming his helmet onto his head and picking up his shield, Barundin picked his way down the mountainside, heading for his hammerers. As he did so, he looked across to the northern slopes of the pass, and the huge host of Karak Kadrin.
The first thing that caught the eye was its sheer size, nearly twice the number of warriors that Zhufbar could muster. Zhufbar, in its way, was isolated and well protected by the Empire to its west 103
and the impenetrable mountains to the east. Karak Kadrin, on the other hand, held the pass, and here countless invasions of the mountains and the lands beyond had begun and been turned back by the might of the Slayer King and his army.
The slayers themselves were immediately noticeable, and though they stood far to the east, the splash of orange across the dirt and snow could not be missed. Forced to take the Slayer Oath for some real or perceived shame, slayers swore their lives to a glorious death, and for the most part wandered the world alone seeking out trolls, giants and other large monsters to defeat in battle, or die fighting a worthy foe. That was the only way a slayer could atone for his shame. They were dressed in the style that Grimnir himself was said to have done as he marched north at the dawn of time to slay the Chaos hordes that had been unleashed upon the world, and shut the gate that had been opened in the far north. They wore little more than trousers or loincloths, and their bare skin was heavily tattooed or covered in war paint, both with runes of vengeance and punishment, and geometric patterns.
The slayers’ hair and beards were dyed bright orange, and heavily spiked using lime and other substances, so that their it stood up in great crests, and their beards jutted out in vicious points, often tipped with steel and gromril spikes. Some wore heavy chains piercing their skin, and nose rings and other jewellery. Altogether they were an outlandish lot, and Barundin was glad that their travels rarely took them to Zhufbar—although many passed through now and then—on their way to the floo
ded caverns of Karak Varn.
The army itself mustered under banners of gold and red and green, and under great scowling faces of Grimnir, most revered of the ancestor gods by the dwarfs of Zhufbar. It was in Karak Kadrin that the greatest shrine to Grimnir had been built, and for this reason the king was patron to many warriors, and his army was rightly feared and guessed to be second only to the great host of Karaz-a-Karak, serving the high king himself.
For all its size and ferocity, the army of Karak Kadrin could not compare with the army of Zhufbar in one respect: war engines. Zhufbar was renowned for the number and skill of its engineers, and above the mass of Barundin’s warriors, gyrocopters buzzed to and fro, landing occasionally then taking off, like gigantic flies. The batteries of cannons behind the king were immaculately kept, and ammunition was in plentiful supply. Such was the demand to be in the Zhufbar Engineers Guild that applicants from across the dwarf empire came to study there, but only the very best were chosen to be admitted to the hold’s greatest secrets. Every crew, from the swabdwarf to the gun captain, was amongst the best gunners in the world, and utterly reliable.
A horn sounded from the east and was taken up by others along the pass, the warning note reverberating along the valley, until a deafening chorus of echoes resounded from both slopes.
Barundin looked to his right and saw the slayers heading for the lower slopes, eager to get to grip with their foes.
Behind the horn blast, another sound could now be heard: distant drums. Steadily they pounded, a brisk beat that shook the mountain tops. For such noise, there must be hundreds of them, thought Barundin. The same thought must have occurred to many of the other dwarfs, for mutterings passed along both lines, some of excitement, others of consternation.
It was several minutes of the incessant beating, grinding on Barundin’s nerves, until the first attack came. In a great horde they poured along the valley floor, coming from the east, jogging forwards to the beating of the drums.
The army of Vardek Crom, the Conqueror, Herald of Archaon.
The northmen were savages, dressed in crude furs and poorly woven wool. They wore scraps of armour, the occasional breastplate and a few links of mail, and carried vicious-looking axes and shields fitted with spikes and blades.
Horsemen rode at the front of the line, armed with long spears, axes and swords hanging at their belts. Their steeds were not the mighty warhorses of the Empire, but smaller, sturdier steppe ponies, 104
sure-footed and swift. The horsemen peeled away as if part of some pre-arranged plan, allowing the first ranks of infantry to pass between them.
The marauders were arranged in tribal groups, gathered around their ghastly totems of bones and tattered flags, each bearing some mark to identify themselves.
One group had hands nailed to their shields, another had helms fashioned from the skulls of rams. Some wore intricate wolf tooth necklaces, while yet another group were covered in bleeding cuts, careful incisions made across their skin, their blood flowing over their naked bodies like a crimson layer of armour.
They were a fearsome sight, although Barundin knew they were just manlings, so their appearance was really the only thing about them that caused any dread. They would be wild and reckless, like all manlings, and easily cut down.
There were an awful lot of them, he thought as he watched the dark mass winding its way around the pass towards him. He could see why King Ironfist had sent for aid to hold back this host.
The Slayer King had sworn that he would hold the pass against these incursions from the east, while the Empire mustered their armies to the west and took on the hordes of the dread Archaon that even now were hacking and burning their way through Kislev. If the army of Vardek Crom could not be held in check, they would pour through Peak Pass into the Empire, surrounding the forces of this new Emperor, Karl Franz. Such a thing would be disastrous for the dwarfs’ allies, and thus Ungrim Ironfist had led his warriors forth to stand as a bulwark against the tide rising in the east.
The messenger had been well timed, for on the brink of such a war, Barundin had been ready to open hostilities on his own account. The matter of the mine had not been forgotten, but the threat of the northmen gave more common cause than the mine did differences.
The war drummers increased the tempo of their beating and the marauders hastened their pace, coming on now at a run, weapons drawn. Their shouts could be heard, yelling the names of the Dark Gods, swearing their souls away for victory, cursing their foes. As their pace increased, their cohesion began to disintegrate as the more eager or faster warriors broke into headlong charges and sprinted towards the dwarfs.
The slayers headed straight at the line of marauders streaming down the pass, waving their axes and yelling their battle cries. The horsemen rode forward cautiously, hurling javelins and throwing axes at the near-naked dwarfs, before retreating quickly lest the savage, doom-laden warriors catch them.
With a tangle of flesh, metal, bone and orange hair, the two lines of warriors met, as the slayers charged directly into the midst of their foes. The fighting was brutal, with both sides unprotected against the keen blades of their enemies. The marauders outnumbered the slayers by many hundreds of warriors, yet the fearless dwarfs refused to give ground and the barbarians’ advance was halted by their attack.
In the valley to the east, the tribes were bunching into a great mass, stalled by the slayers.
Already the bottom of the pass was stained with blood and littered with butchered bodies. The slayers, as their numbers dwindled, gradually became surrounded, until a knot of only a few dozen remained, a blot of orange amongst the pale skin and dark hair of the Kurgan tribesmen.
As the fighting continued, Barundin saw the great host further up the valley begin to split. As others saw the new arrivals, a great moan filled the air from the dwarfs. Between the lines of marauders, short, armoured figures marched in deep phalanxes: the Dawi-Zharr, the lost dwarfs of Zharr-Naggrund.
Clad in black and bronze armour, streaming banners of blood red stitched with fell symbols of their bull-god, the Chaos dwarfs advanced. In their midst, titanic engines of destruction were pulled forward by hundreds of slaves: humans, greenskins, trolls and all manner of creatures toiled at the chains, dragging the monstrous cannons and rockets into position.
Their crews bare-skinned, branded and pierced with hooks and spines, the hellcannons, earthshakers and death rockets were pulled up the valley. Once they were in position, ogres came 105
forward bearing massive hammers, and drove pitons into the ground, nailing down the chains that hung from the immense war engines.
Priests robed in scale coats and wearing daemon-faced iron masks walked amongst the engines, chanting liturgies to the dark god, Hashut. They sprinkled blood onto the swelling barrels of the cannons and dropped burning entrails into their muzzles. With fingers coated in crimson, they scrawled wicked runes onto the rocket batteries and consecrated massive earthshaker shells to their master.
As the rituals were completed, the daemon engines began to wake. Where once there had been inert metal, now unnatural flesh began to writhe and turn, sprouting faces and fangs, claws and tendrils. Bound within the rune-scratched iron of their machines, the daemons possessing the engines began to buck and pull at their chains, and unholy screeches and roars filled the air. Crew dwarfs with smouldering brands prodded their charges into position, while burning skulls were laden into their furnace hearts, the heat shimmer boiling up the valley, melting the snow beneath the engines.
Blood poured forth from horrid maws, while oil dripped from cogs and windlasses. Flaming hammers scalded runes of wrath onto the bound creatures, infuriating them further, while rockets were loaded onto the launch racks and shells fed into the toothy muzzles of the squat earthshakers.
The slayers were now all dead, their bodies mutilated by the victorious marauders. But the Kurgan horde held back now, just out of range of crossbow and handgun. A runner from the cannon battery came to ask Barundin if t
hey should open fire on the barbarians. But he told him no. Instead, he instructed the engineers to move their machines around to target the monstrous creations of the Chaos dwarfs.
Even as the engineers wheeled their cannons and bolt shooters towards this new threat, the first hellcannon opened fire. Its great bronze jaw opened, revealing a sulphurous gullet that squirmed with bound magic. From the depths of its gullet, dark fire churned as it digested the souls trapped within the skulls that had been shovelled into its burning furnace. With a belching roar, the cannon vomited forth a ball of fire that arced high over the marauders, descending towards the army of Karak Kadrin.
The Chaos fire exploded on impact with the ground, consuming dozens of dwarfs within its fiery blast, their ashes scattered to the spring wind within an instant. A gaping hole had been opened in the Karak Kadrin line, as those that had survived the attack retreated from the smouldering crater it had left.
More balls of magical fire stormed towards the dwarfs, and one looped high and began to descend towards Barundin and his hammerers.
“Run!” the king bellowed, and his bodyguard needed no encouragement. As one they turned and hurried up the slope as fast as their short legs could take them, abandoning their formation in their flight.
The blast hit the ground less than two dozen yards behind Barundin, and a moment later he felt a searing wind catch his back, hurling him to the ground. As he lay there dazed, he looked over his shoulder and saw the smoking crater where he had been standing only a few heartbeats earlier.
Purple and blue fire still played around its edges, and the ground shifted and melted under the deadly burning.
Rockets screamed skywards, gouting tails of actinic energy, the daemons bound within them steering their explosive bodies towards the enemy. Rippled eruptions spread along the Karak Kadrin army as the death rockets slammed into the mountainside. These were soon followed by the detonations of earthshaker shells, which burrowed into the ground before exploding, hurling up rock and earth and causing the ground to tremble. One exploded not far from Barundin just as he had clambered to his feet, and the violent undulations of the mountainside knocked him down to his knees once more. For almost a minute the tumult continued as pulses of daemonic energy spilled from the impact of the shell.