by Guy Haley
Around the corner came the biggest orc Duffskul had ever seen. That would have been enough to make him shift, but the contraption the orc rode decided it. Duffskul lifted the skirts of his dark robes and hopped over the ditch like he was a hundred years younger. He took up position well out of the way at the foot of a fan of scree.
Drilla Gitsmash’s mount was a clanking, mechanical boar, its black iron spell-marked with the runes of the curly bearded tusk-stunties of the Dark Lands. Steam hissed from its pistons as it trotted by, hooves cracking the slabs. Four banner bearers came after him, holding high icons fashioned from steel. Further along the pass, the black orc heralds were shouting at the goblins and their troll cart, cursing them off the road. Trolls moaned, goblins wailed. A snap cracked off the mountainside, and the cart sagged on a broken axle. Shouting angrily, the black orcs cut the traces of the trolls, put their shoulders to the wagon bed and heaved it over, ignoring the shrill protests of its owners. It toppled into the ditch and broke apart.
Drilla’s brigade of black orcs marched past Duffskul in perfect step. They held their heads high, the tusks of their visors jutting towards the sky. They were disgustingly clean, their armour immaculate. On and on they went. There must have been over three hundred of them. Screams sounded from further up the pass as they ran into the thick press of greenskin refugees, but they did not slow, they did not stop.
The last rank of black orcs went by. A final blast of brazen horns resounded off the pass’s sides, and the black orcs disappeared round a shoulder of the mountain.
For a few minutes the pass was clear. Duffskul scrambled back onto the roadway to take advantage of the lull, and jogged as fast as his old legs would carry him. The crowds thickened soon enough, but when they caught sight of the shaman, his dirty robes held high over his knees, face determined, they got out of the way no matter how cramped the road was.
The ogres were camped at the Tight Spot. There were two old stunty-houses there, both forts, on knolls either side of the road. One was so tumbledown it looked like part of the mountain, the other was whole and, consequently, full of ogres. On the other side of the Tight Spot the pass rapidly widened again, becoming heavily wooded and sloping steeply down towards the Dark Lands. Duffskul left the road and puffed his way up the broken track to the gates, flanked by large ogre banners depicting that big gob of theirs. He paused in his ascent for a look out east. The line of greenskins went on forever. He tried counting them – and he could count, properly; not quite as well as his boss, but not far off. He had to give up. There were too many.
He didn’t get much further up the hill before he was noticed.
‘Ooh looks, it’s a shaman, zippety zap!’ gnoblars jeered from behind rocks in accented greenskin.
Duffskul waved his staff at them, and they ran away shrieking in terror. ‘I dunno, only kind of greeny worse than you lot is the zogging hobgobboes!’ he shouted. ‘Gnoblars! Hill goblins! No sort of gobbo at all!’
A pair of bored ogres stood guard at the dead-eyed gatehouse to the stunty fort. They stood taller and gripped the handles of their swords as he approached.
‘What you want?’ one demanded, his voice thick, clogged with fat and anger.
Duffskul leaned on his staff like he didn’t have a care in the world and stared up. ‘You Golgfag’s lot?’
‘Yeah, what’s it to you?’ said the ogre.
‘Got a job for him.’
‘From who?’ said the second ogre. ‘We already got employment.’
‘So I hear, but I’s got an offer for your boss he might find very interesting. Money’s a wonderful thing, ain’t it?’ He leaned forwards and whispered behind his hand, ‘And we got lots. Let me in, let me see Golgfag.’
The ogres looked at one another. One shrugged. The other jerked his head into the camp. ‘Can’t do any harm. Go on then. You’ll find him easy enough. He’s having his dinner.’
For some reason that made them laugh deeply. Duffskul shook his head. Ogres were such fat idiots.
The place was better organised than a greenskin camp would have been, but only just. Piles of bones, scraps of half-cooked flesh still stuck to them, littered the place, filling the courtyard with the stench of decay even in the cold. Ogres went about their business heedless of everything below gut level, forcing Duffskul to dodge out of the way frequently. Despite the chill, nearly all of them were naked from the waist up. A semicircle of heavy wagons filled the back half of the fort. Giant shaggy draught beasts and mounts were corralled by a fence made of tree trunks nearby.
Golgfag was indeed hard to miss. He sat at the centre of the camp upon the top half of a broken stunty statue, next to a roaring bonfire. Bigger than every other ogre in the place, his head seemed disproportionately small atop the mountain of fat and muscle that was his body. A maul and sword were propped up next to him, an iron standard depicting a circular, toothed maw thrust into the ground behind. A pair of halfling cooks worked nearby over a smaller fire. Whatever they were cooking smelt much tastier than the gnoblars being roasted over smaller fires.
Golgfag was munching on one such cooked gnoblar. The outside was burned to a crisp, the inside pink.
‘When’s my stew ready, Boltho? I’m nearly done on my starter!’ Golgfag shouted in grumbling Reikspiel.
‘Coming right away, gutlord!’
Duffskul licked his lips, at both the halflings’ food, and the sight of the halflings themselves.
The ogre tore a mouthful of meat off, white strings of tendon hanging from his mouth.
‘Ahem,’ said Duffskul.
Golgfag turned round, searching at ogre height for his interlocutor, greasy moustaches flapping. It took him a moment to look down.
‘Ah, another course,’ said the mercenary brightly. ‘Thanks for delivering yourself.’
‘Nah, you’s not going to eat me,’ said Duffskul. ‘Got a business offer.’ He sat down and began to fill his pipe.
‘Oh yeah?’ said Golgfag. ‘Already got a job. I don’t see what a hole-skulking cave runt goblin like you can offer me that the king of Karak Eight Peaks can’t. Go on, get out of here, or I will eat you.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Duffskul. He clamped his pipe in his mouth. His eyes glowed green and it ignited. ‘Because I’m here from the real king of Karak Eight Peaks.’
‘I’m not worried by no scrawny goblin magician!’ laughed Golgfag. ‘And I’m not too impressed by this Skarsnik either. If he’s so great, how comes he’s always fighting? He’s been at war for half a century! I would’ve beaten them all by now.’
Duffskul shrugged. He pulled out an object wrapped in oilskin from under his cloak and put it on the ground. He unwrapped it, revealing the lost crown of Karak Eight Peaks. Ogres were greedy for more than food, and Golgfag’s eyes widened comically at the sight. He shuffled round on his seat to get a better look.
‘Now that’s a pretty trinket.’
Duffskul tittered. ‘It is, ain’t it? From Skarsnik. You like it?’
‘What’s not to like?’ The ogre leaned forwards, face alight with avarice.
‘You can have it. Payment. We just need a little favour. Carry on like you is, be all friendly like with the stunties…’
‘What, then when the time comes turn on them and give ’em a nasty surprise? That old trick? What do you say I don’t just rip your head off and eat you and take that there crown off you right now? I’m getting sick of gnoblar. Goblin’s got an altogether gamier flavour. Very nice your lot taste, underground greenies. Hint of mushroom to you. Delicious. I like a nice wizard too, sparkles on the tongue.’ A different kind of hunger showed upon the ogre’s face. His gut rumbled, twitching behind its horned belly plate.
‘Because, fatty, this ain’t it, is it?’ Duffskul passed his hands and the crown dissolved into a handful of old leaves.
Golgfag sat back and belched out a reek of uncooked meat. ‘R
ight. So in that case, how do I know you have actually got it? Your boss ain’t exactly known for his upright nature.’
‘Oh, we’ve got it all right.’
‘King Belegar has promised me one tenth of the treasure in his treasure chamber. That’s a lot of gold. Now that’s a pretty crown. But worst case for me is that you’ve no crown, and when I pull the old switch on the stunties I get no gold at all. And that is not happening.’
‘Lot of gold? Belegar? It ain’t a lot of gold,’ countered Duffskul – now it was his turn to laugh – ‘because he’s having you on! Old Belegar ain’t got no gold!’
‘Nah, he’s a dwarf, they’ve always got gold,’ said Golgfag, flapping the shaman’s stinking smoke away from his face.
‘Not this ’un. Poorer than a snotling, he is. Not much more sense either. Tell you what, do this for us and you can have half of Belegar’s stunty-hoard. And the crown.’
Golgfag took a bite from the gnoblar’s haunch and pondered for a moment. ‘Seems fair enough. If you make it three-quarters. Got me overheads – not cheap running a mercenary band like this, and the price of grog is way up. If your lot lose, I’ll get only the crown and Belegar’s downpayment, nothing else. You understand.’
Duffskul made a sympathetic face. ‘Times is hard. That crown is worth a lot, though.’
Golgfag smiled, the gaps in his teeth jammed with bloody meat. ‘If you say so.’
‘I do says so, and you heard me say it. Now tell me, what do we get for the crown then?’
‘The real crown?’
‘Course,’ said Duffskul.
Golgfag stood up and stretched. He tossed the remains of his first course into the fire. ‘See them gutlords marching?’ He pointed a greasy finger at heavily armoured ogres sparring with hooked swords as big as an orc. ‘You’ll get them. And me other lads. The whole lot. I’d throw in a few gnoblars for you as well, but Belegar’s messenger was quite insistent on us not bringing them in.’ He belched and scratched under his belly plate. ‘He didn’t want any greenskins in his hold at all. As if gnoblars count! Ain’t that the ironic thing? Anyways, we ate all the fighting ones. It doesn’t matter, because they’re useless at fighting. We only bring ’em along to distract the enemy. No great loss. Still got me pets.’
‘They is not gobboes, that’s the truth, oh yus.’ Duffskul could not agree more on that score. ‘Also, you promise no double-double crossing!’
‘Hah!’ said Golgfag. ‘Now that’s funny coming from you. Don’t you worry, Belegar would never give us more money. Too tight, them dwarfs, especially if he’s as skint as you say. It’ll be the end of them, if you ask me.’
‘And what about the other party?’ said Duffskul obliquely.
‘The ratmen? Nah, can’t stand them myself. Vermin. Always getting into my larder.’ He nodded at a couple of spitted skaven roasting on a fire. ‘Caught them trying to sneak into the pay wagon three nights ago. When they pay you, half the time they don’t pay you, if you know what I mean. If I told you how many of their cash deliveries turned out to be magicked, the chests full of rats in black cloaks that go all maniac on yer with their little stabby knives, you’d be surprised.’
Duffskul hiccupped. ‘Nah, I don’t think I would.’
Golgfag laughed. ‘Right. Your lot’s got experience there. Let’s shake on it then.’ He gobbed a truly impressive mouthful of spit into his palm and held out his hand to shake, humie-style. His fingers were thicker than Duffskul’s limbs, and smelt of roast greenskin. ‘We got a deal?’
Duffskull took a finger on the proffered hand and shook it carefully. ‘We have got a deal.’
‘See you around, little greeny. I’m off to finish my dinner. I’ll send word to the lads not to eat you on the way out.’ The general’s vast bulk shifted around. It was like watching a hill move. ‘Send us the details later. We’ll need some kind of signal. You have a little think about that, all right?’
‘All right.’
‘Until later, shorty,’ said Golgfag.
‘Until later, fatty,’ giggled Duffskul.
FOURTEEN
The Hall of Clan Skalfdon
Atop a mound of rubble, King Belegar stood at the front of his Iron Brotherhood, Notrigar beside him bearing the clan banner of the Iron Hammers. The dwarf battle line stretched from the eastern side of the hall to the west, the high ground of an ancient rock fall at the north-western end held by Durggan Stoutbelly and the grand battery of Karak Eight Peaks. Past the Iron Brotherhood, the east end of the rubble pile was occupied by the Clan Zhorrak Blue Caps, and beyond that the rubble shelved off. From there to the walls of the hall, the ground was level, the flagstones uncovered by detritus. Two hundred yards behind Belegar’s position was the Gate of Skalfdon, one of the last fine things remaining in the derelict hall, a massive portal barred by a rune-carved stone gate five feet thick.
To the south, the Hall of Clan Skalfdon stretched away, the ancestor statues carved into its far walls lost in the gloom. A few lonely glimlights still burned up in the high roof a full twenty centuries after the fall of the city, stars lost in a stone forest of pillars supporting the vaulted sky. Most of the light came from less grand sources – torches and lanterns in the main, held by the dwarf host.
Belegar looked up and down the ranks of his people. Six hundred of them, pretty much all the strength he had, barring Duregar’s garrison holding the East Gate at the end of the Great Vale. Clan Skalfdon’s hall swallowed them up, built at a time when a thousand times six hundred dwarfs had dwelled within Karak Eight Peaks. That glory was long gone, like the Skalfdon clan itself, the last of whose scions had perished in one of the many attempts to retake the Eight Peaks before Belegar was successful.
Successful. He snorted. This wasn’t success. Already the skaven were creeping out of their holes, coming in through the dozen archways at the southern end of the hall.
‘Something troubles you, my king?’
‘Aye, Notrigar, a great deal,’ said Belegar. ‘I look at them and my blood boils. This is their domain, not mine. Look at how at home they are in the ruins, skulking about in the graves of better people. Look at them! Look at their dirty feet scrabbling on the faces of our ancestors. Look at the weapons they carry. They value nothing, not hard work, or craft, or skill – all they wish is to tear down and destroy, and disport in the remains. They thrive on blight and decay. They don’t build anything to last. They don’t build anything fair to look upon. All their kingdoms are but the debris of dying civilisations. It is unfair that such as these should inherit the world while better folk perish.’
‘It strikes me as so, my king,’ agreed Notrigar. These depressing rants of Belegar’s had become more frequent, his moments of humour seldom as the war wore on.
‘It strikes me that the gods are a bunch of baruzdaki,’ said Belegar, ‘by whom our own great ancestors were sorely mocked. Everything’s gone, diminished. Look to this battle, one of the great acts of our days, and I see the pale reflections of the Karaz Ankor in pools of blood. Our ancestors battled the lords of misrule themselves, forcing them step by step out of this world and back into their own. What would Grimnir, who holds to this day the hordes of Chaos at bay, think of his descendants smashing rats into the dirt in their own homes?’ He shook his head.
Mutters of agreement came from the ranks of the Iron Brotherhood.
‘Still, we’ll give them a pasting to remember, eh, lads? It ends here! One way or another, or I’m no dawi.’ Belegar pointed, past the carpet of giant rats and slaves seeping into the hall like rising floodwaters. Glints of metal could be seen coming through the gateways, blocks of troops forming up behind the wretches in the vanguard.
‘See, brave khazukan!’ shouted the king, so all could hear. ‘See how our great foe comes! See how he marshals all his strength against us! The Headtaker is here!’
A wail of fury went up from the dwarfs. They clash
ed their axes against their shields and roared. Belegar continued to speak, his anger powering his voice through the clamour raised by his warriors.
‘He comes to see us die, to see an end to dawi in the great city of Vala-Azrilungol! Well, I say, let him come. Let him break his vermintide upon the shields and axes of the sons of Grungni. Let him be disappointed! Khazukan! Khazuk-ha!’ he bellowed.
‘Khazukan! Khazuk-ha! Grungni runk!’
Durggan added the voices of his war machines to the dwarfish war cry. At various points within the hall, range-markers had been secreted, white stones that told Stoutbelly exactly who he could hit from where, and with what. The lead ranks of skavenslaves now passed the first of these.
Cannons boomed thunderously, tearing long holes in the ranks of the slaves. They squealed in terror, and doubtless those nearest the carnage would have turned to flee if it were not for the endless swarms pushing them on. At the back, whips cracked. In reply to the cannons, streaks of green whistled into the dwarf ranks, felling warriors along the length of the line.
‘Jezzails!’ shouted their officers. ‘Shields up!’
‘Garrak-ha!’ shouted the dwarfs. Triple-forged dwarf steel rippled upwards along the dwarf line, locked together with a clash. Bullets still punched through, but fewer dwarfs fell.
‘Belegar! My lord! Get down!’
Belegar stood at the front of the Iron Brotherhood shouting his defiance. Warpstone bullets pinged off his rune-armour and the Shield of Defiance, disintegrating into puffs of nose-searing green smoke. ‘Let them try, Notrigar. I am no skulking ratman to hide at the back of his warriors. Let them come! Let them come! Queek, I am here! I am waiting for you!’
Dwarf crossbows twanged as the skaven came into range. Shortly after, the popping reports of handguns joined them. So tightly packed were the skaven that every bullet and bolt found its mark. Those who fell were pulped under the feet of those following. Bolt throwers skewered them in threes and fours, cannons blasted them to pieces. Grudge-stones rained down, sailing between the columns of the roof on perfect trajectories. But there were thousands of skaven, and no matter how many died, there were always more. The tunnels leading back into the lower deeps were thick with them, their red eyes shining in the dark.