by Warhammer
Out of the boiling fireball toppled the man-o’-war’s mainmast, crashing towards the merchantman’s deck like a felled tree – and racing out across it, half climbing, half running, was a broad, compact figure, face and skin as black as iron, red crest and beard smouldering and singed. The top of the mast smashed down through the merchantman’s rail and pulverised a knot of goblins that was just climbing over. With a wild roar, Gotrek leapt from this makeshift bridge into the merchantman’s waist, right in the middle of the crowd of orcs that was pushing Doucette’s crew back towards the sterncastle with heavy losses.
The Slayer spun as he landed, axe outstretched, and a dozen orcs and goblins went down at once, spines and legs and necks severed. Their companions turned to face him, and seven more went down. Heartened, the merchant crew pressed forwards, attacking the confused orcs. Unfortunately, more were running across the rafts, and the merchantman was still caught in a net of grapnels, and pinned in place by the fallen mast.
Felix leapt the forecastle rail, yelling to Doucette as he plunged into the circle of orcs and goblins towards Gotrek. ‘Cut the lines and clear the mast! Forget the orcs!’
Doucette hesitated, then nodded. He screamed at his crew in four languages and they fell back, chopping at the remaining ropes and heaving together to push the man-o’-war’s mast off their starboard rail, while the greenskins pressed in to take down the crazed Slayer.
Felix took up his accustomed position, behind, and slightly to the left of Gotrek, just far enough away to be clear of the sweep of his axe, but close enough to protect his back and flanks.
The orcs were frightened, and showed it by trying desperately to kill the object of their fear. But the harder they tried, the faster they died, getting in each other’s way in their eagerness, forgetting Felix until he had run them through the kidneys, fighting each other for the chance to kill Gotrek. The deck under the dwarf’s feet was slick with black blood, and orc and goblin bodies were piled higher than his chest.
Gotrek caught Felix’s eye as he bifurcated an orc, topknot to groin. ‘Not a bad little scrap, eh, manling?’
‘Thought you’d died at last,’ said Felix, ducking a cutlass.
Gotrek snorted as he gutted another orc. ‘Not likely. Stupid orcs had all the powder up on the gun deck. I cut some ugly greenskin’s head off and stuck it in a cook fire until it caught.’ He barked a sharp laugh as he decapitated two goblins. ‘Then bowled it down the gun-line like I was playing ninepins. That did it!’
With a screeching and snapping of rending timbers, the merchantman’s crew finally pushed the man-o’-war’s mainmast clear of the rail. Grapnel lines parted with twangs like a loosed bow’s as the Reine Celeste surged forwards, straightening out before the wind.
The crew cheered and turned to fight the last few orcs. It was over in seconds. Felix and the others wiped their blades and looked back just in time to see the three orc pursuit ships smash together as they all tried to shoot the gap through the blockade at once. Roars of fury rose from them, and the three crews began to hack at each other while their boats became inextricably fouled in the mess of rafts, ropes and floating debris.
Next to the three-ship squabble, the remains of the burning man-o’-war sank slowly into the gulf under a towering plume of black smoke. Orcs from further along the line were hastily cutting it free so it didn’t pull anything else down with it.
Captain Doucette stepped up to Gotrek and bowed low before him. He had a deep gash on his forearm. ‘Master dwarf, we owe you our lives. You have saved us and our cargo from certain destruction.’
Gotrek shrugged. ‘Only orcs.’
‘Nonetheless, we are extremely grateful. If there is anything we may do to repay you, you have only to name it.’
‘Hrmm,’ said Gotrek, stroking his still smouldering beard. ‘You can get me another keg of beer. I’ve nearly finished the one I left below.’
It was a tense twenty minutes, sailing into the harbour from the blockade, the crew warily watching the rafts and rowboats of orcs that chased after them from the floating barricade until they at last gave up and fell behind. As the Reine Celeste got closer to Barak Varr’s cavernous opening, they had to pick their way through a litter of wrecked orc ships half-sunk around the sea wall. Signals flew from the lighthouse, which Captain Doucette answered speedily. Grim-faced dwarf cannon crews watched them from fortified emplacements below it. Dwarf masons were at work on the lighthouse itself, repairing a great hole blasted in its side.
Felix gazed in wonder as the Reine Celeste sailed between the two statues and into the shadow of the harbour cavern, staggered by the beauty and immense proportions of the place. The cave was so wide and so deep that he could not see the walls.
Hundreds of thick chains hung down from the darkness of the roof. At the end of each was an octagonal lantern the size of a nobleman’s carriage, which provided an even yellow light that allowed ships to find their way to the docks.
The harbour filled the front half of the cave, a wide, curving frontage from which the branching stone fingers of quays and wharves extended. They were laid out with typical dwarfish precision, evenly spaced and perfectly positioned, to make manoeuvring in and out of the slips as easy as possible for the ships that docked there. There were thirty ships berthed there now, and room for at least fifty more.
A city of stone rose beyond the harbour. It was strange for Felix, who had visited more dwarf holds than most humans, to see such human structures as houses and mercantile buildings arranged along broad avenues under the shadow-hidden roof of the cave, but the dwarfs had made these surface-world forms their own. Never had Felix seen squatter, more massively built houses, all steel grey granite and decorated to the roof peaks with intricate geometric dwarf ornamentation. Even the smallest looked as if it could withstand a cannon-blast.
As they approached the embankment, a tiny dwarf steam ship, little more than a dinghy with a furnace, puffed out to them, and then guided them to an empty slip. A cheer erupted from the dock as the crew threw out their lines and extended the gangplank. There was a crowd of nearly a hundred on hand to welcome Captain Doucette and his crew as they stepped off the ship. Most were dwarfs, but there were a fair number of men as well.
The harbourmaster, a fat dwarf in slashed doublet and breeches, stumped forwards amid the general hubbub of congratulation and greeting. ‘Welcome, captain, and twice welcome. You are the first ship to dock here in three weeks, since the accursed orcs set their barricade. A great deed, sir.’
Doucette turned to Gotrek. ‘This one do the deed, sir. He blow up the man-o’-war with the single hand, hien?’
‘Then we are indebted to you, Slayer,’ said the harbourmaster, bowing low. Then, without further ado, he took out his ledger and got to business. ‘Now, sir, what do you carry?’ He licked his lips eagerly.
‘I bring cinnamon and other spices from Ind,’ said Doucette grandly, ‘and oil of palm, patterned rugs of Araby, and little lace caps for the ladies. Very pretty, yes?’
The harbourmaster’s smile crumpled, and many in the crowd fell silent. ‘Spices? All you have is spices?’
‘And rugs and caps.’
‘Spices,’ grunted the harbourmaster. ‘What good are spices when we have no meat? You can’t make a meal of pepper and salt.’
‘Monsieur, I…’
‘The orcs have been blocking the harbour for three weeks?’ interrupted Gotrek. ‘What ails you? Why haven’t you blasted them out of the water?’
A dwarf sailor with his beard and hair in tarred braids spoke up before the harbourmaster could reply. ‘Grungni-cursed greenskins got lucky and sank one of our ironclads, and the other is transporting dwarfs to the war in the north.’
‘It’s true,’ said the harbourmaster. ‘With so many gone to aid the Empire, we’ve barely enough dwarfs and ships to keep the orcs from entering the harbour, let alone chase them away. They infest the landside entrance as well. We’re besieged land and sea.’
Gotrek and F
elix glanced at each other.
‘War?’ asked Gotrek. ‘What war?’
‘You don’t know of the war?’ asked the harbourmaster. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Ind and Araby,’ spat Gotrek, ‘chasing our tails.’
‘You say this war is in the Empire?’ asked Felix.
‘Aye,’ said the sailor. ‘The Chaos hordes coming south again: usual madness. Some “chosen one” and his lads making a try for the world. A lot of holds sent dwarfs north to help turn them back. Our ships carried many of them.’
‘Chaos,’ said Gotrek, his one eye shining. ‘Now there’s a challenge.’
‘It were better if we left men’s troubles to men,’ said the harbourmaster bitterly. ‘The orcs have taken advantage of the clans being away and are rising all over the Badlands. Many small holds and human towns have been put to fire and sword. Even Karak Hirn is lost. The other holds have buttoned themselves up tight until they’re at full strength again.’
‘But how goes the war?’ asked Felix. ‘Does the Empire still stand? Have they reached… Nuln?’
‘The harbourmaster shrugged. ‘Who can say? The overland caravans stopped coming more than a month ago, and every ship that docked before the orcs strung their rafts across our mouth had a different story. One said Middenheim had fallen, another that Altdorf was in flames. The next said the hordes had been pushed back to the Wastes and never got further than Praag. It might already be over for all we know. Grimnir make it so. These orcs must be put down or we shall starve.’
Gotrek and Felix turned back to Captain Doucette.
‘Take us out of here,’ said Gotrek. ‘We must get north.’
‘Yes,’ said Felix. ‘I must get to Nuln. I must see if it still exists.’
Doucette blinked. ‘But… but, my friends, it is impossible. We must make the repairs, no? And I must take on water and supplies, and cargo. It will take a week at least.’ He gestured to the entrance of the harbour, glowing orange in the late afternoon sun. ‘And what of the green ones? Will we make the escape the way we make the entrance? It may not be so easy, eh?’
‘Damn your excuses,’ said Gotrek. ‘I’ve a doom waiting for me. Let’s go.’
Doucette shrugged. ‘My friend, I cannot. Not for a week. It is impossible.’
Gotrek glared at him, and Felix was afraid he was going to grab the captain by the scruff of the neck and drag him back on board, but at last the Slayer cursed and turned away.
‘Where’s Makaisson when you need him?’ he growled.
‘Forgive me, harbourmaster,’ said Felix, bowing, ‘but can you tell me where we can find lodgings for a week?’
The harbourmaster barked a laugh. ‘Good luck. The city is filled to bursting with refugees from every hold and human town in the Badlands. There isn’t a bed to let at any price, and not much food either, but you’ve cinnamon to dine on, so you’ll make out all right.’
Gotrek balled his fists as the crowd laughed. For once Felix was in a like mood. He wanted to punch everyone within reach in the nose. This was maddening. He had to get north. He had to learn what had become of his family – his father, his brother Otto. He didn’t want to stay in some out of the way port while his home, his country, was ravaged by bloodthirsty barbarians. He had seen what the hordes had done to the lands of Kislev. That the same thing might be happening in the Empire – in the Reikland and Averland – while he was far away and powerless to stop it, was almost more than he could bear.
‘Come, manling,’ said Gotrek at last, turning towards the city and hefting his axe. ‘Let’s go make some empty beds.’
CHAPTER TWO
The harbourmaster’s prediction proved true. Gotrek and Felix visited thirteen taverns and not one had a bed to spare. Most had rented out their stables and haylofts to desperate refugees as well. Others had been taken over by the city as barracks and hospitals for the dwarfs and men who defended the city against the orcs in the harbour and on the walls of the dwarf fort that protected the port’s landside entrance. Even the bawdy houses in the human quarter were taking in boarders, and making their girls ply their trade in downstairs parlours and alcoves.
Barak Varr’s lantern-lit underground streets were crowded with dwarfs and men of every description, traders, sailors, merchants, gaunt farmers with their families in tow and their belongings on their backs, angry men-at-arms talking of retaking their castles or exacting vengeance on the orcs, lost children crying for their mothers, the sick and the maimed and the dying moaning and ignored in alleys and dark corners.
The long-time residents of Barak Varr – both dwarf and human – who had three weeks ago welcomed the refugees with open arms, were now glaring at them behind their backs, their patience stretched to breaking point. Supplies of food and ale were dwindling rapidly, and with the orc blockade in place, there was little possibility of more supplies coming soon. Felix heard voices raised in complaint and argument on every street they turned down.
By the fourteenth tavern, the Sea Chest, Gotrek gave up and ordered an ale.
‘Enough drinks, it won’t matter where I sleep,’ he said with a shrug.
Felix was not so easy about accommodations, but he needed a drink too. It had been a long day. They shoved in at a circular table with a crowd of dwarfs and men in the uniform of the city guard and stared for a long moment at the foaming mugs of ale the barmaid set down before them. Beads of condensation ran down the sides, and a heady scent of hops wafted from them like a memory of summer.
Gotrek licked his lips, but didn’t reach for the mug. ‘Real dwarf ale,’ he said.
Felix nodded. He too was mesmerised at the vision of liquid gold before him. ‘Not that damned palm wine we had in Ind.’
‘Or the Bretonnian slop Doucette served on the Celeste,’ said Gotrek. He snorted dismissively. ‘Human beer.’
‘Or the sugar water they served in Araby,’ said Felix with feeling.
Gotrek spat a fat gob of phlegm on the floor, disgusted. ‘That rot was poison.’
At last they could stand it no longer. They snatched up the steins and downed them in long, greedy pulls. Gotrek finished first, banging down his mug and leaning back, his eyes glazed, licking foam from his moustache. Felix finished a moment later and sat back as well. He closed his eyes.
‘It’s good to be back,’ he said at last.
Gotrek nodded, and signalled the barmaid for another round. ‘Aye,’ he said.
After they had drunk their second and third in silence, Gotrek’s brow began to cloud, and his one eye stared off into nothingness. Felix knew the signs and was therefore not surprised when a few moments later Gotrek grunted and spoke.
‘How many years were we gone?’
Felix shrugged. ‘I can’t remember. Too long, at any rate.’
‘And still alive.’ Gotrek wiped the foam from his moustache and traced distracted circles on the patinated planks of the table. ‘My best dooms are behind me, manling. I’ve slain trolls, vampires, giants, dragons, daemons, and each was to be my death. If they couldn’t kill me, what will? Am I to spend the next three hundred years killing skaven and grobi? A Slayer must die to be complete.’ He raised his axe high into the air, holding the haft by the very end so that the razor sharp edge glinted in the light. ‘The axe must fall.’
‘Gotrek…’ said Felix uneasily.
Gotrek blinked blankly at the gleaming blade, then let it drop.
‘Gotrek!’ Felix squawked.
Gotrek stopped the blade a hairsbreadth from his nose as he caught it again, and then lowered it to his side as if he had done nothing un-toward. ‘Imagine a Slayer who died of old age. Pathetic.’ He sighed, then took another long draught.
Felix’s heart was pounding with reaction. He wanted to scream at the dwarf for being a fool, but after years in his company, he knew that any protestations would only make Gotrek dig his heels in and do something even more stupid.
‘We must go north,’ Gotrek continued after a moment. ‘That daemon was the beast th
at came closest to killing me. I want another go at–’
‘Pardon, Slayer,’ said a voice behind them. ‘You are Gotrek, son of Gurni?’
Gotrek and Felix turned, hands moving to their weapons. Two young dwarfs in travel-stained doublets and worn boots stood at a respectful distance.
Gotrek eyed them levelly. ‘Who wants to know?’
The nearer of the two, whose sandy hair was pulled up in a clubbed topknot, ducked his head. ‘I am Thorgig Helmgard, son of Thane Kirhaz Helmgard, of the Diamondsmith clan of Karak Hirn, at your service and your clan’s. This is my friend and clan brother Kagrin Deepmountain.’ The second dwarf, a round-faced youth with a brown beard even shorter than Thorgig’s, ducked his head, but said nothing. His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
‘We… We recognised your axe when you raised it,’ continued Thorgig, ‘though we have only heard it described.’
Gotrek frowned at the name of the hold. ‘And that’s excuse enough to interrupt a dwarf in his drinking, shortbeard?’
Felix glanced at Gotrek. That was unusually brusque, even for him.
Thorgig coloured a little, but kept himself in check. ‘Forgive me, master Slayer. I only wanted to ask if you had come to Barak Varr to help your old friend, my liege, Prince Hamnir Ranulfsson, recover Karak Hirn, which was lost to the grobi not three weeks ago. He is organising an army among the refugees.’
‘Old friend, is it?’ said Gotrek. ‘I wouldn’t help Hamnir Ranulfsson finish a keg. If he’s lost his father’s hold it’s no more than I’d expect.’ He turned back to his mug. ‘Off with you.’
Thorgig’s fists clenched. ‘You border close to insult, Slayer.’
‘Only close?’ said Gotrek. ‘Then I’ve missed my mark. Hamnir Ranulfsson is an oathbreaking dog, not fit to shape tin or dig middens.’
Felix edged back.
‘Stand, Slayer,’ said Thorgig, his voice trembling. ‘I would not hit a sitting dwarf.’
‘Then I’ll stay sitting. I don’t want your death on my hands.’