by David Guymer
Narfi laughed then. ‘I’m sure he’ll always rue the day he tried to take Handrik Hallgakrin!’
‘He’ll have his chance to redeem himself soon, I fear.’
‘Longbeard, don’t say–’
‘Enough of that. I need no coddling. Tell me what became of the skaven? Did you kill it?’
The two dwarfs regarded him blankly. It was Keldur that answered. ‘We saw nothing. We assumed you had already avenged yourself on whatever creature did this to you.’
Handrik swore. Then the old skaven had fled. That could only mean there was another tunnel here. It would not be the first time a dwarf had been surprised within his own hold from tunnels thought lost to time. It was not the fault of his ancestors for concealing their masterworks so thoroughly. The failing lay with those now living, this lesser generation, unable to retain the skills of a more illuminated age.
‘Summon Lothgrim. The Ironbreakers must be brought here at once.’
‘Forget Lothgrim,’ Keldur said, turning to his brother. ‘Find Sister Grimhildur at the Valayan temple. There must be more that can be done for him.’
‘No,’ Handrik said, weakly but firmly. ‘Get me Lothgrim.’ Suddenly, he remembered Bernard. The skaven needed dealing with, but the problem of the human turncoat needed resolving first. ‘And fetch Thordun Locksplitter.’
Sharpwit seethed. Betrayed. By Razzel!
He limped along the roughly cut stone passage, granite blocks soon giving way to bare earth crudely gouged by skaven claws. The last dwarf-thing statue had been left behind some way back. Sharpwit missed it. You knew where you stood in dwarf-thing tunnels. You did not have to check the ceiling every five paces.
In truth he was not so much angry as he was ashamed. The indignity of it burned. He shook his head and tried to concentrate. He wasn’t ready to surrender just yet, but thoughts of how he might have acted differently played continually through his mind. Over and over he relived the moment when Razzel turned, when he snatched his prize from his paw, opened and giving in the name of friendship and cooperation. Unable to hold it in any longer, he smashed his crutch into the wall and gave a long shriek of fury.
Damn him. Damn his unholier-than-thou hide!
He summoned a deep breath and forced himself to be calm. He listened to the fading echo of his rage, imagined it as his bitterness receding into the rock. Someone like Razzel did not get the better of a mind as brilliant as his without a helping hand. He had been too distracted. He felt like he carried overflowing pails in each paw, one on his head and another in his tail. No matter what he did to spare one, another would spill and whatever corrective measures he took always made matters worse.
Never in all the years since his patron, Gnawdwell, had plucked him from the City of Pillars to serve as his aide had he considered life in Skavenblight as simple. Yes, he had acclimatised. There was no time to be disarmed by the open sky of Skavendom’s prehistoric capital, not if one intended to survive long in the Under-Empire’s dark and rat-infested heart, where poison floated in every bowl and a knife hid beneath every cloak, where even the simple necessity of closing one’s eyes in sleep became an act of daring. In Skavenblight, no plot was as it seemed. Even the lowliest functionaries had schemes wrapped within schemes hidden behind schemes. And then there were the Lords of Decay themselves. He trembled slightly at the recollection of his audiences within their chambers.
He had welcomed the opportunity to return home. Advising Queek had appealed as the antithesis to that cesspit of rumour and betrayal. And it was true, there were no secrets with Queek, no half-truths or cunningly layered deceptions. At least none he had yet unravelled, which meant much the same thing. His behaviour was inexplicable. Even looking back, he could not quite believe the warlord’s actions, much less try to explain them. Why could he not await the gathering of the full horde that he and Ska had assembled for him? Why would he insist on attacking Kazador head on even when the full strength of Karak Azul was arrayed against him? And given his earlier obsessions, why would he then abandon his quest for Kazador’s head to charge so readily after a new rival in Gorfang Rotgut? Fickle didn’t quite seem to cover it!
On balance, he would gladly crawl back into his burrow in Skavenblight right now. Despite his initial misgivings, the sky had never fallen in, even if he did have to sleep with his one eye open and a paw on his dagger.
But he wasn’t in Skavenblight. He was trapped beneath Karak Azul and it was time to disregard the distractions and focus on essentials. He was here to stem the flow of weapons from Karak Azul. He could forget Queek. The mad warlord was beyond irrelevance now. He would enter Black Crag and recover the captive dwarf-things himself. Let Queek hurl himself against the walls of that impregnable fortress until the day he dies, assuming Gnawdwell would allow him that long. The clanlord was going to receive a less than flattering portrait of his soon-to-be-former favourite when Sharpwit made his victorious return to the Clan Mors quarter of Skavenblight.
There remained one snag, however intently he tried to simplify things. The man-thing Bernard Servat simply had to be kept alive. There was no way around it, not without trying to persuade another man-thing, and Kazador might find that suspicious. And he needed Grey Seer Razzel to do that. It really was as simple as that. Perhaps the Horned Rat truly did watch over his craven priest. He could think of no other reason for the inordinate degree of good fortune that seemed to come his way. He swiftly stifled his resentment at the unpropitious apportionment of the Horned One’s blessings, ever reluctant to attract his god’s disfavour with such blasphemous sentiments.
Dry musk tickled his whiskers and he quickened his pace now he was certain nobody was watching.
‘Poor pathetic Sharpwit,’ he cackled, the taste of dwarf-meat still rich in his mouth. It was no surprise that Queek and Razzel had fallen for it so readily, but he had really expected better of a dwarf.
From beneath Azul there would be other tunnels to join with those for Black Crag. Razzel didn’t know them. Queek certainly didn’t know them. Sharpwit would beat them both.
He grinned. The warplight guided his way to glory. Perhaps he was the lucky one after all.
Even with Narfi by his side to legitimise his presence, Thordun’s skin prickled as though he had crossed a runic barrier. His stomach churned as though with molten lead, his feet dragging as if wilfully numb.
‘You are certain it’s fine for me to be here,’ he asked for what must have been the fifth time since passing the rune-engraved threshold.
Narfi eyed him coldly.
Thordun resented the Hammerer’s manner. The royal guard couldn’t have too many decades on him yet looked down as though he were a venerable elder. He wanted to say as much, but instead bowed his head, meekly accepting his admonishment.
‘What has happened? Has it to do with Kazrik?’
‘The prince is undisturbed. By Grungni’s mercy we can at least be thankful for that.’
‘Tell me something!’
‘See for yourself.’
Narfi had led him to an opening in the hall. It was not one he could remember seeing from his earlier visit. A perfect square of stone seemed simply to have vanished into the air. There was no rough edge to indicate the prior existence of anything other than that which remained, no scars in the rock to evidence a door that might previously have covered it. The Hammerer held his position and turned his back on the opening. He jerked his head to indicate that Thordun should go through.
As Thordun moved past, Narfi’s hand shot out and squeezed his shoulder. An unexpected kindness that bore no relation to the grim look in his eyes. ‘Steel yourself. It’s not pretty.’ The Hammerer withdrew his hand and locked it behind his back. He cleared his throat and gestured again that Thordun should pass.
The first thing that struck him was the smell. It immediately evoked unwelcome memories of Nuln. The homes of the sick had been boarded up in the dead of night, their occupants consigned to swelter and die, and then to rot in the summer heat. E
ntire districts had been abandoned to the plague, bloated bodies lying untended on the streets among the rats and the roaches. The memory was an ill one. His dwarfish constitution had spared him the disease, but not the grief of the many good men less fortunate in their birth. And disease had ultimately proven the least of their woes.
He girded himself and stepped inside. The small room resembled the interior of the Blind Pig after Bernard had lost at dice. A stout table had been upended, a torn tapestry hanging draped about one projecting leg like an abject symbol of surrender. The floor was strewn with splinters and short spears of broken wood, while dust, inches thick in places, blanketed every surface. In the far corner, at the epicentre of destruction, Narfi’s elder brother Keldur helped a very sick-looking Handrik remain upright while the longbeard spoke softly but firmly to a fierce-looking dwarf Thordun did not recognise.
The stranger was short and broad, even for a dwarf, and almost perfectly round in his encasing suit of runic gromril plate, a sphere of spiked death, tough as the head of a mace.
‘This skaven wasn’t just swallowed up by the mountain, Lothgrim,’ Handrik said, his voice cracked and weak. ‘Somewhere, perhaps in this very room, there’s a way to the skaven lair.’
The dwarf Lothgrim bowed deeply and long, and Thordun needed no familiarity with the customs of his people to read the esteem in which Handrik was held.
‘It will be done. I’ll scour every inch of these halls.’
‘Discreetly,’ Keldur insisted. ‘Remember where we are. Bring only those that can keep their mouths shut.’
Handrik and Lothgrim both frowned, offended by the very notion that any Ironbreaker could not be trusted with Kazador’s secret.
Grudgingly, Handrik nodded. ‘That’s fair.’ He turned to Lothgrim. ‘Get your oldest up here to find that tunnel. Bring along a runesmith. Not Thorek,’ he hastened to add. ‘Old Snaggi knows his secret doors as well as any and he owes me more than one favour. Have the rest of your lads suit up and marching on the Underdeep within the hour. It’s high time we dredged that hole for thaggoraki and time presses already.’
He looked up and spotted Thordun. He dismissed Lothgrim and Keldur with a nod.
‘Dreng Tromm,’ Lothgrim said, stepping back and offering another low bow before spinning on his heel and marching into the hall.
Keldur released Handrik gently. His hands hovered over the longbeard’s shoulders, ready to grasp him again should the old dwarf fall. Handrik slapped them down testily.
‘Out I said, you irritating dongliz.’
Keldur’s jaw tightened but he did as he was bid. ‘What should I tell Kazador?’ he asked.
A pained look crossed Handrik’s face. He reached out a well-muscled arm to steady himself against the wall. ‘Tell him nothing. Kazrik remains safe. The threat is passed. There is nothing here with which to trouble him.’
Keldur’s lips pinched dubiously, but he nodded agreement. Thordun wondered whether the dwarf could be trusted to keep his word, but Handrik seemed to harbour no such doubts and returned the younger dwarf’s gesture gratefully. The Hammerer gave Thordun a pat on the shoulder and turned to depart, leaving him and Handrik alone.
The longbeard looked old, the way humans employed the term, his skin clammy and pale, his green eyes listless and lacking their usual lustre. The elder began to pace, his movements spasmodic. Being one of the few dwarfs within Karak Azul to understand the nature of Handrik’s old injury, Thordun realised he moved simply to keep his back from seizing up.
‘When did you last see that big hairy umgi you keep for company?’ Handrik asked suddenly.
‘Bernard? In his room barely a moment ago. It was the strangest thing, but I hadn’t even realised he was there. Must have been there a time though, looked like he’d drunk himself out cold.’
Handrik cursed, some bitter invocation growled into his ruined beard, and ceased in his pacing. He set his forehead against the wall and closed his eyes.
‘Handrik, are you well?’
Handrik pushed himself away from the wall and shuffled back around to Thordun. He gestured towards the open door. ‘Are we alone?’
Throwing his elder a curious look, Thordun edged back to the opening and peered out. There was nobody there. If he strained, he could make out the murmuring of a distant conversation which he assumed must be Keldur and Narfi. He pulled his head back inside. Curiosity had always been his curse, and by now he was deadly curious as to what Handrik could want that demanded such secrecy.
‘Yes. Nobody can hear us.’
‘Good.’ Handrik looked down, uncertain how to continue. ‘I don’t how to break this, so I’ll just be right out with it. The manling has betrayed you. The fool has thrown in his lot with the skaven for a fistful of gold.’
Thordun staggered as though struck. His questing hand found the back of a wooden chair that had somehow survived the devastation and he steadied himself against the chair’s solidity. He had known Bernard to be ruthless. He had known him to be an amoral thief and murderer, the very lowest of men. But he had seen goodness in him. They had drunk together, fought together, and never would he have imagined he could fall this low.
‘Why?’ a voice breathed and it took him a moment to realise it was his own. He swallowed the lump that blockaded his throat and asked again. ‘Why?’
‘Who really cares why, lad? And who knows what the skaven hope to gain from it. All we need know is that whatever they want, they shan’t have.’
Without looking up, not trusting his broken heart to face the honoured longbeard he had dared to call friend, he gave a nod. He felt numb, like this was an event observed at a remove, the nightmare of another related through a drunken fugue. He had come seeking honour and redemption. And look what he had brought on himself instead. What among his prior misdeeds could approach the damage he had now wrought?
A powerful grip on his chin snapped his face upwards, forcing his eyes to meet Handrik’s.
‘Snap out of it, beardling. Look at me. If I’m not yet beaten then neither are you.’
‘What can we do?’
‘We fix it, that’s what. We find everything we can from the gutter-dealing umgi, we rescue Kazador’s kin ourselves and we make those skaven regret the day their stinking paws ever scratched the flagstones of Karak Azul!’ Handrik’s shoulders heaved with the effort of controlling his wrath.
Thordun shuddered as some of the bound tension released its grip. ‘How?’
‘Enough of that later. We must move fast and in secret. I’ll not allow Kazador to know he has been tricked by a skaven flunkey. The shame would surely break him.’
‘But if we act without his consent–’
‘Curb your honourless tongue, skaz. A better dwarf than you would already have sworn the Slayer Oath.’
Thordun’s arms trembled and he grasped both hands to the back of the chair that supported him. He should not have been so surprised that one so old as Handrik had seen through him so easily. He was a skaz. A thief.
Handrik reached out and gave his biceps a squeeze. It was comforting, fatherly, and he looked up, determined not to weep.
‘Aye lad. The king may disavow us, even should we succeed. But honour demands no less of us. I’ll make that sacrifice but I cannot do this alone. I’ll need help, if not yours then the help of another, and would you truly set your own honour higher than another’s?’
Thordun considered a moment and offered his hand with a resigned shrug. Handrik slapped it angrily down. ‘Let’s try that again shall we. We are dwarfs. Our word is not some trinket to be thoughtlessly bestowed on a whim. It is a solemn trade, an oath for an oath, and our oaths are iron. Think on it, mean it. Give me your word and you shall have mine.’
‘You have it,’ Thordun said, this time with an intensity that surprised even him. ‘I will help you undo my disgrace.’
Handrik took his wrist in his, gripping tightly enough to make him wince.
Thordun shook it solemnly, gratefully, but still somethin
g left him troubled. ‘Handrik,’ he began, hesitantly. ‘Do you believe that good deeds can expunge bad?’
Handrik stroked his beard, his eyes taking on a distant glaze of remembrance. ‘I hope so, lad.’ The longbeard smiled grimly and ushered him from the despoiled chamber. ‘Come on, there’s much to prepare.’
Thordun looked at the old dwarf, the most incongruous ally for an honourless thief. Despite Handrik’s great age and granite solidity, he couldn’t help but feel a measure of protectiveness. He didn’t know what the dwarf had in mind. Surely he could not expect to be doing any fighting himself. ‘Whatever would Grimhildur say?’
He had intended the question as a joke, but Handrik received it in all seriousness. He considered it gravely. ‘Tell her I’ll not be wearing the damned armour.’
Chapter Twelve
Queek lifted his snout and sniffed. Curious. It was wet like blood, except icy cold and clear, falling in speeding droplets from above as though fleeing the gutted corpse of some cold-hearted leviathan. The barrage made gazing upwards difficult, but if he squinted hard enough he saw it, black on black, a monstrous visage of bulbous fins and bloated misshapen heads. A mutated behemoth such as was purported to lurk within the poisoned depths of Karak Varn, prolonging their tortured existence with the flesh of skaven and other, darker, beasts.
It is called rain, said Krug, his voice perilously close to patronising. It is water that falls from the sky. It happens often out here on the surface.
Queek ignored the dwarf-thing and his so-called wisdom. Water could not fly.
So far he had seen little of the surface world to justify the terror it evoked in the hearts of his minions. They scurried timidly over the rain-lashed peaks, fur slicked flat to their shivering bodies. A scouring wind howled across the exposed mountain face, whipping freezing torrents into downcast faces to rob them of both scent and sound. The skaven hunched low, running in unbroken files, each keeping close to the comfort of the warm body in front of them and never once risking an upward glance at the stomach-upending infinity of emptiness that soared above their heads.