Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  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.

  Now the dwarfs’ war machines were sighted on the enemy and cannonballs screamed back down the valley, crushing Chaos dwarfs and tearing great rents in their arcane machines. Rocks inscribed with ancient grudges and curse runes filled the sky as the stone lobber battery opened fire as one, their ammunition hurtling skywards then crashing down amongst the Chaos dwarf ranks.

  Bolt shooters hurled their long harpoons at the marauders, pinioning half a dozen with each hit, ripping off limbs and heads as they sheared through the packed mass of barbaric fighters. The cannons were ready to fire again as the death rockets and hellcannons once more disgorged a hail of destruction from the eastern valley, ripping great swathes in both dwarf lines.

  As he gathered his hammerers around him again, converging on the standard still proudly borne aloft by Hengrid who stood shouting defiantly at the twisted cousins of the dwarfs, a cannonball bounced off the earth and sheared through the chains holding down one side of a hellcannon.

  With its bonds weakened, the daemonic engine reared backward, its wheels grinding of their own accord, crushing the crew beneath the steel spikes of its treads. As it turned, the remaining chains snapped and tore from the ground and it vomited forth a stream of fire and filth that burned and corroded through the cannon next to it. Attacked by its neighbour, the earthshaker screamed in pain and anger and threw itself at its own chains, ignoring the shouts and prods of its crew.

  The freed hellcannon rumbled forward, carving through the Chaos dwarfs and marauders, belching flame and trampling them under its armoured wheels. Malignant energy flared from pores and gashes in its structure and the marauders turned to battle against the creature that attacked them from the rear.

  Those warriors that were not fighting the rampaging hellcannon streamed down the valley once more, shields and weapons held high, screaming war cries. Hails of crossbow bolts and handgun bullets that darkened the valley in a thunderous volley greeted them. Scores of barbarians fell to the first onslaught, caught in a crossfire from both sides of Peak Pass. Their tattered flags and icons of bones and metal were raised from amongst the bloody piles and they pressed onwards, more fearful of their dire masters than the weapons of the dwarfs.

  It was then that Barundin realised he could not see the horsemen. While the attention of the dwarfs had been on the war machines and marauders, they had slipped out of sight, perhaps disappearing into the woods that grew on the higher reaches of the pass’s slopes.

  Barundin had no time to worry about them now, as a second volley of fire slashed through hundreds of marauders clambering up the pass through its narrowest reaches. It was because of this choking point that King Ironfist had decided to make his stand here, having sent advance forces to stall and waylay the marauders’ approach. Barely two hundred yards wide, with the mountainsides almost too steep to climb on each side, the narrow area was a killing ground, and the bodies of the marauders lay in heaps. Some fled the fusillade, other groups were wiped out to a man, but still several thousand were pressing forward, accompanied by baying hounds and misshapen creatures that crawled and loped amongst them.

  A staccato thundering from behind attracted Barundin’s attention, and he turned to look up the slope towards the cannon battery. A pair of multi-barrelled organ guns were unleashing their fire into horsemen pouring from the woods towards the war machines. Barundin smiled grimly, for his trap had worked. Drumki Quickbeard and his runesmiths had worked hard, inscribing runes of invisibility on the short-ranged war engines. Such work was normally difficult; organ guns were a new invention, less than five centuries old, and such runes were not normally intended for the unstable machines. However, the trickery had worked and the horsemen had attacked, unaware that their doom lay just in front of them, hidden from their eyes by the magic of the runes.

  Turning his attention back to the valley floor, Barundin saw that most of the marauders had now passed the narrow gap and were flooding into the main part of the pass. There was already hand-to-hand fighting amongst the eastern-most regiments.

  A dark mass appeared from behind the dispersing marauders, compact and menacing. Marching in perfect unison, the elite warriors of Zharr-Naggrund advanced, the dreaded immortals of the High Prophet of Hashut. Their armour was painted black, and they wore heavy steel from head to toe. Their curled, piled beards were protected by long sheaths of metal, and parts of their armour were reinforced with solid plates of marble and granite. In their hands they carried large-bladed axes, curved and deadly. Handgun fire and crossbow quarrels rattled off their armour, leaving only a few of them dead, the others quickly filling the holes in their formation.

  Gyrocopters buzzed in on attack runs, firing hails of bullets from rapid-firing, steam powered gatlers, while pilots threw makeshift bombs from their seats. Steam cannons venting scalding vapours killed several of the Immortals, but they were undeterred, never once breaking stride, their bull-headed gold standard leading the advance, a great drum made from some monstrous skull calling the step.

  Barundin sent word for the ironbreakers to intercept the immortals, and soon his own heavily armoured warriors were marching down to the valley floor, heading directly for their despicable foes. Like two great metal beasts butting each other, the two formations met, the enchanted gromril of the ironbreakers matched against the cursed blades of the immortals.

  Barundin had no time to spare to see how his veterans fared, for something else was moving up the valley. It strode forward, a great mechanical giant, belching smoke and fire, the air around it shimmering not just with heat but also diabolical energy. Plated with riveted iron and fashioned in the shape of a great bull-headed man, the infernal machine was rocked back as a cannonball struck it in the midriff, leaving a tearing gate. Oil spilled from the wound like blood, and smashed gears and broken chains could be seen through the rent in its armour.

  ‘A kollossus,’ whispered Hengrid, and for the first time ever, Barundin could detect fear in the fierce warrior’s voice. Not when they had faced the disgusting rat ogres, the whirling fanatics of the night goblins, the noisome trolls, the crackling energy of the shamans had Hengrid ever shown a moment’s hesitation; now his voice quavered, if only slightly.

  From firing platforms on the behemoth’s shoulders, Chaos dwarfs spewed out gouts of fire, incinerating dwarfs by the handful as the mechanical beast stomped through their lines. Its heavy feet crushed them with every tread, while they tried in vain to pierce its armoured hide with their axes. Bullets whined from its iron plates, while shells chattered forth from a rapid-firing cannon mounted in the mouth of its bull head.

  By now the cannon crews were directing all of their fire against the kollossus. One arm was ripped away, spilling burning fuel onto the ground and setting fire to its right leg. A ball trailing magical fire slammed into its knee, buckling the armour and bending the gears. Immaterial shapes began to writhe around the wounded metal beast as they escaped the enchanted machineries that held them to the Chaos dwarfs’ bidding.

&nbs
p; A gyrocopter swept low, its cannon drilling the head with bullets, and as it lifted its way out of the creature’s outstretched hand, Barundin recognised the flying machine as the one that belonged to Rimbal Wanazaki. The king gave a cheer as the mad pilot deftly dived his gyrocopter beneath a swinging metal hand, turning in the air to fire into the exposed innards of the creature’s midriff.

  Like a creature beset by ants, the immobilised machine was soon swarming with dwarfs, hacking and tearing at the metal plates of its legs, climbing up and firing with pistols into the slits and rents in its armour. Throwing axes scarred its metal skin, and soon there were dwarfs clambering victoriously into the cockpit behind the armoured face of its head. They abandoned its still, metal form, and Barundin signalled to the cannon crews behind him to deal the final blow.

  One cannonball struck the metal giant square in the face, tearing the head clean away and hurling it to the ground in an explosion of flames and sparks. Its already damaged leg buckled under another impact, and with a screech of tearing metal and the tormented screams of escaping souls, the kollossus collapsed to its right, shattering upon the ground. A cheer rolled along both lines of dwarfs as the marauders began to fall back.

  The immortals, now realising they could be surrounded, broke off from their fighting against the ironbreakers, retreating eastward along the pass. Everywhere, the pass was emptying of enemies, as even the hellcannons were quieted, their magic doused by the priests, teams of slaves coming forward to drag them away from the battle, keeping the valuable machines out of the clutches of the victorious dwarfs.

  From the other side of the valley, Barundin saw Ungrim Ironfist raising his fist in triumph and he returned the gesture. The odd cannon shot boomed out as the engineers vented their anger at the retreating horde, punctuating the cheers and jeers that echoed after the defeated host of Chaos.

  The losses of the dwarfs were comparatively light, most of them coming from the devastation wrought by the Chaos dwarf war machines. There would still be several hundred bodies to take back to the holds’ tombs, but compared to the thousands of dead marauders and the hundreds of slain Dawi-Zharr, things could have been a lot worse.

  Barundin was on the floor of the pass, sending and receiving messages, organising his army and generally dealing with the aftermath of the battle. He and King Ironfist had decided that a pursuit was risky, as they had no firm idea of the size of the horde that could be waiting further to the east.

  Barundin looked up as Hengrid nudged him and nodded to his left. Ungrim Ironfist was striding across the bloodied snow towards him. The king was a strange sight, wearing plates of gromril armour and a dragonscale cloak, with his hair and beard dyed and styled in the manner of a slayer. Barundin felt a strange thrill as he watched the other king approaching. He knew he was king of Zhufbar, and proud of the accomplishments of his reign, but he was in no doubt that he was in the presence of a genuine living legend.

  The story of the Slayer King was a long and tragic one, and it began, as most dwarf tales do, hundreds of years ago, when Ungrim’s forefather had suffered a terrible loss. Barundin did not know the details, like most dwarfs outside of Karak Kadrin, but knew that it had something to do with the death of King Beragor’s son. In a fit of anger and shame, Beragor had taken the Slayer Oath. However, even as he prepared to set forth on his doom quest, his counsellors reminded him that he still had his oaths of kingship to fulfil; that he had sworn to protect and lead his people over all other things.

  Unable to reconcile the two oaths, and just as unable to break either, the Slayer King Beragor built a great shrine to Grimnir, and became a patron of the slayer cult. From across the world, slayers travelled to Karak Kadrin to give praise at the shrine, and to take the weapons forged there under the king’s instruction. When Beragor died, not only did his oath of kingship pass to his son, but also his slayer oath, for neither could be met. Thus was the line of the Slayer Kings founded, for seven generations.

  Ungrim was broad and burly, even for a dwarf, and his armour was resplendent with gold and gems. He raised a hand in greeting as he neared Barundin, and the king of Zhufbar self-consciously waved back limply.

  ‘Hail cousin,’ Ungrim boomed out.

  ‘Hello,’ said Barundin. He had forgotten that his new wife had been a cousin of the king, and that they were now related. That made him feel better and his confidence grew.

  ‘You’ll be heading back to Zhufbar, then,’ said Ungrim, his gruff voice making it a statement rather than a question.

  ‘Well, the battle is over,’ said Barundin, looking over the corpse-strewn pass.

  ‘It is, it is indeed,’ said Ungrim. ‘Although my rangers tell me that we have only faced the vanguard.’

  ‘Just a vanguard?’ said Barundin. ‘There are more?’

  ‘Tens of thousands of the buggers,’ said Ungrim, waving a hand eastwards. ‘Vardek Crom still holds the strength of his horde in the Dark Lands and the eastern valleys of Peak Pass.’

  ‘Then I must stay,’ said Barundin.

  ‘No you bloody won’t,’ said Ungrim. ‘You’re to give my cousin a son or daughter before you go risking your neck fighting with me.’

  ‘I swore to come to your aid,’ protested Barundin. He flinched as he said the next words, but couldn’t stop them coming out. ‘I shan’t be known as an oath-breaker.’

  ‘Then fulfil your marriage oaths,’ said Ungrim, not noticing or choosing to ignore the implicit accusation in Barundin’s ill-chosen words. ‘The high king has promised me an army, and they march north from Karaz-a-Karak at this very moment. Go home, Barundin, and enjoy your new life for a little while.’

  Thagri came over, carrying with him the Zhufbar book of grudges. His face was grim as he handed the volume to Barundin.

  ‘All the names of the dead have been entered,’ said the loremaster, handing the king a writing chisel already inked. ‘Just put your mark to this page, and they will be entered against the grudges of the northmen and the… the others.’

  ‘That it is a long list,’ said Ungrim, peering over Barundin’s shoulder as he signed the page. ‘I think not in your lifetime will they be all crossed out.’

  ‘No,’ said Barundin, blowing the ink dry and flicking through the pages of the heavy book. So many grudges, so few of them drawn through. ‘The list is longer than when my father died.’

  ‘Still, plenty of years left in you yet,’ said Ungrim with a lopsided smile.

  ‘And plenty of pages still to fill, if need be,’ agreed Barundin with a nod, snapping the book shut.

  ‘For me, and for my heir.’

  OATHBREAKER

  Nick Kyme

  PROLOGUE

  Ralkan fled through the crumbling ruins of the underdeep, feeling his way frantically along the craggy tunnel. The ancient walls were warm, just like the stagnant air wafting languidly towards him, and dried the dwarf’s sodden clothes. The heavy stink of sulphur pricked at his nose, but he ignored it.

  Heart pounding, Ralkan risked a quick glance behind him. The tunnel stretched on forever, its vaulted roof creeping higher and higher until it was lost in a firmament of stars. There was nothing else, no monsters following, yet still he fled. Looking ahead again quickly, he didn’t see the narrow cleft in the tunnel floor. He stumbled over and fell into it, down deep into the bowels of the earth, all sense of time and space passing away until he was brought thunderously to the ground. A dagger of white heat burned into Ralkan’s hand, where the rock had cut a bloody gash into it, and he realised he was back in the very same tunnel.

  Struggling to his feet, Ralkan bundled himself around a corner, the nameless fear at his heels driving him. He fell again, tearing his leather jerkin. Muttering an oath to Grungni, he got up. Then, enshrouded by the creeping dark and the waiting silence of the underdeep, he stopped. Breath held painfully in his chest, he felt along the wall again. Not for guidance, for his dwarf eyesight pierced the thick shadow well enough to see, but to try and remember.

  As Ralk
an’s gnarled fingers traced pitted rock and jagged stone they found a runic symbol. It was a massive diagonal cross, with four short lines capping the end of each longer one, so large that it should have been impossible to feel and recognise. But know it, he did.

  ‘Uzkul,’ Ralkan muttered. Icy terror gripped his heart as the dwarf discerned its meaning instantly. It was a warning. It also meant something else – he had no memory of this place and with that came a crushing realisation.

  He was lost.

  Hurrying on further, he saw a wan light up ahead – the flickering flame of some burning brazier or the lambent glow of coals in a hearth hall. He made an oath to Valaya for it to be either. Getting closer to the light, the tunnel opened out and the foul sulphur smell assailing his nostrils grew more pungent. Heat radiated off the walls, without the need for Ralkan to touch them to feel it. By the time he reached the opening from where the light was spreading his clothes were bone dry.

  Ralkan stepped tentatively into the corona of light, and gripped the talisman of Valaya around his neck.

  ‘By the everlasting beard of Grungni…’ His voice was barely a whisper as he regarded the huge cavern before him and basked in a lustrous aura.

  Beyond the threshold of the room there were mountains of gold the likes of which Ralkan had never seen in all his long days. So vast and immeasurable was the hoard that it and the massive cavern appeared to have no end. Before he knew what he was doing, the dwarf had already wandered into the room, stepping into a diffuse shaft of natural light coming from above. Appeasing his desires, Ralkan blundered headlong into the nearest treasure mound, delving gleefully. The heady scent of gold filled his nostrils; the taste of it in the air tingled on his tongue as he immersed himself. Coins and gems spilled freely but as Ralkan dislodged them in his frenzy something else was revealed beneath – a desiccated dwarf head. Ralkan recoiled, and as he did so a different aroma assailed him, overpowering the whiff of gold – the stench of something old, as old as the world, a sentient presence.