Posted on 2009 under Short Story, Warhammer |
6
Dec
Day 105 –
Tomorrow should bring us, finally, to the completion of the goal which we seek, and thus, hopefully, a turning point in our journey, the beginning of the end. I’ve determined by now that both of the dwarves are quite mad, but as to which of the two is more crazed than the other, it is difficult to say, between the unintelligible speech of the Ironbreaker, or the death wish of the Slayer. Still, acquisition of this weapon seems to have kept them on track, for the most part, instead of charging off into the face of certain doom. I will also admit that there have been times that their particular insanity as been the saving grace of us all, though only through luck, if one can believe in that.
Suffice it to say, I will be most relieved when we are back in more familiar lands, and I can call this oath fulfilled.
– Excerpt from the journal of Arvelen Starsplinter
“Who would have thought, skaven in league with an undead lich.” Brexar commented, wiping the last of the brain matter off on the matted fur of its now deceased owner. “Though it makes wonder who the leader is – one of them, or the lich?”
“Do it matt’r? Le’s jus’ grab th’ axe so’s we c’n b’gone. Th’ place gi’m’ th’ creeps.” Kerik spat on the ground, and the glob of moisture was greedily absorbed by the parched sand.
“We’re close. Through that opening over there.” Arvelen pointed off into the ruins to one of the more intact buildings.
“Op’n’n? Wha’ op’n’n?” Kerik squinted in the direction the elf was pointing.
Arvelen grinned. “The one you’re going to make.”
“Haw! Gu’un!” Kerik guffawed, and slung his shield on his back, hefting his hammer. “Un’ door’ay, comin’ up!” Brexar gave a snort and shouldered his axe, and the trio headed towards the building.
Splinters of stone flew as Kerik’s war hammer smashed into the frescoed face of the building, and the wall crumbled under the assault. Brexar poked his head in through the newly made doorway, peering into the gloom. “Truth be told,” he remarked as he unhooked a small lantern from his belt and lit it, “if the stories about this axe are true, it wouldn’t be the first time it was found in the hands of the undead.” The dim glimmer of the lantern revealed an empty room, save for a single flight of stairs in the center, descending into the darkness. “Looks empty. Let’s go.”
The trio walked through the doorway, Kerik at the lead, his shield now unslung and at the ready, its huge bulk covering all but the very top of the Ironbreaker’s helm. Brexar walked in the middle, holding the lantern high, while Arvelen took up the rearguard, bow already strung and nocked. Dead silence greeted them as they descended the stairway, the darkness of the grave closing around them.
Their travel was suddenly halted as the stairway ended in a small room, in the middle of which stood an obsidian bier, the stone reflecting the lantern light in a shimmer of rainbow colors, despite the stone’s darkness. Atop the bier lay a single double bladed great axe. At first glance, it seemed unremarkable, but on closer inspection, they could see an intricate, yet chaotic pattern of whorls and etchings in the blades that seemed to move in the flickering lantern light.
Arvelen pulled his gaze away from the axe, surveying the room, before turning to watch in the direction they had come from. “There it is, my friend. Take it, and let us leave this place.” Brexar nodded silently in reply and set the lantern down on the corner of the bier. Slowly, with a shaking hand, he reached out and grasped the axe by the haft.
Suddenly, as his hand wrapped around the axe, the world around them seemed to bend and twist, as if becoming liquid, and they could hear a faint maniacal laughter, growing steadily louder. Glancing around, all three backed up a step, bumping into each other. The world twisted again, becoming a swirl of darkness and colors, and the sounds around them changed.
When things settled, their surroundings had completely changed. Instead of the darkness of the underground room, they were above ground, surrounded by tall buildings, the night sky overhead. There were sounds of horses, and large numbers of people, some near, some further off, and even further in the distance, Arvelen thought he heard the steady thup-thup-thup of a gyrocopter. He remarked on this just as Brexar fell to his knees and vomited. “We’re home.” He said. “This is Altdorf.”
“Altdorf?!” said Kerik loudly. “Buh tha’s a thousan’ leagues awah! Wait… Where b’th’ axe?” He looked down at Brexar.
“I… I don’t know. I had it in my hand, and then…” Brexar picked himself up and looked around, incredulous. “Sorcery!”
“Sorcery indeed.” Replied Arvelen. “So what now?”
Brexar looked up at the tall Shadow Warrior. “What now? We’re back where we started. In Altdorf. And I need a drink. Coming?” With that, he turned and stomped off down the street.
Day 106 –
Or perhaps it should be day 1 again, I do not know. In the meantime there are certain mysteries that we must unravel. While this is clearly Altdorf, there are things, subtle things, which are different, the greatest of which is the increase in the number of fools and buffoons about. The dwarves may not have noticed it, for they have not spoken to me of it, and I have not mentioned it to them. Truth be told, I am not sure that the Slayer intends to restart his quest for the axe, having turned to drowning himself in ale as of late. Time shall tell, and until then, I shall make the most of this time in civilization as it has to offer.
– Excerpt from the journal of Arvelen Starsplinter
Miles to the east towards Karak Hirn, deep beneath the mountains the ground vibrated to the steady marching of several hundred dwarven feet. King Beregan was returning home at last. At the head of the column marched King Beregan himself, his two sons, Gadri and Kerik, at his side. He was followed closely by twenty armored warriors, Ironbreakers all, the king’s personal guard; behind them, five hundred more sturdy dwarf warriors – Ironbreakers, Thunderers, quarrelers – six columns deep, plus several wagons and a brace of cannon.
Returning via the Undgrin, the great underground road that connected every dwarf hold in the Black and World’s Edge Mountains, had saved the returning force from an extra week’s travel that the passage would have cost if done via the overland route. Now, perhaps only a day out, the dwarves were talking animatedly of their plans upon their arrival at the hold. Some were returning home to family, and most had friends that had remained behind, but most importantly of all, it was home.
Kerik’s young eyes spotted the figure first, pointing it out to his father. It was difficult to tell at that distance, but it appeared to be another dwarf headed towards them, carrying a lamp or torch to light the way in the infinite blackness of the deep road. King Beregan nodded and stepped up his pace, intrigued at whatever knowledge this messenger might have, to have come so far, alone.
Suddenly the light wavered from side to side as the approaching dwarf – for they could see now that it indeed was – swayed and fell. The light winked out. With a shout, Kerik took off at a run before his father had a chance to restrain him. Shaking his head slowly at the youth, he urged Gadri ahead before him, then motioned to his guard to follow him.
As King Beregan approached he could see now who it was – Daengar, one of the Ironbreaker Guard, and Haegan’s closest companion – and that he was now unconscious. Kerik looked up at his father, a scowl on his face, his voice grating. “He spoke before passing out. One word only: ‘grobi’.”
King Beregan paled briefly. That one word could only mean one thing for Daengar to have come this far, in this condition, abandoning his post at the hold: Somehow, some way, greenskins had breached the gates. Turning to his guard, he began giving orders and calling for a healer. Several Ironbreakers split off, heading back for the main force. A shout went up as the orders were passed on, and the stead tramp of dwarf feet increased as the army picked up its pace, passing by the group clustered off to the side of the road.
A healer appeared from the throng, rushing over as swiftly as her short legs could carry her, and bega looking over the unconscious dwarf until a cart rumbled up, hauled by two small draft ponies. Daengar was lifted carefully up into the cart, and both the healer and King Berengar climbed aboard after him. Gadri and Kerik were about to climb up as well when the king shook his head, his face grim. “No, the cart is full enough, and the healer must do her work. You are welcome to walk alongside, or go back to the head of the column.” His sons nodded their consent in unison, and then returned to the head of the guard, which had automatically fallen into step behind the wagon.
It was several hours before Daengar awoke and was able to speak of the evil that had befallen the hold. Still exhausted from the lengths he had pushed himself, he sat in the back of the cart, propped up against some supplies. King Beregan and his close cousin, Handri Grimtome, a Rune Priest and Haegan’s younger brother, sat with him, waiting patiently for him to tell his tale. The healer had urged this patience, cautioning that in such a condition, undue stress could cause Daengar to lapse back into unconsciousness. Handri, well versed in healing lore himself, concurred, but the need here was greater at the moment.
Sipping at some water, Daengar looked down at his feet, as if they were miles away, and sighed. “We… I… still cannot understand how they managed to get a force of their size past our lookouts, even with a shaman. I had the night watch, and Haegan was asleep… But, such that it was, we never knew what was about to happen until the gates were destroyed. The gatehouse was overrun or destroyed in moments, which I can’t be sure, for we were never able to see it once the orc forces came pouring through the breach, and no one that I know of was able to reach us from there. When I left, we had sealed the gates between the second and third deeps after evacuating everyone that we could from the second deeps. Haegan stayed behind to command what forces we had, with plans to seal one of the gates between the first and second deeps, in order to funnel the orcs to where we could concentrate our forces. I don’t know if that succeeded or not, but I do know that they were completely overrun – the orcs were pounding away uselessly on the sealed gates when I left. I had less than a quarter of a company that I left to guard the gates, and evacuated everyone to the fourth deeps, with hopefully enough supplies to last a week or two, three if rationed properly. All the gates in between are sealed, so I doubt the orcs will be getting any farther, even if they do manage to breach the third deep. Their shaman’s magic wasn’t enough to do so, which makes me wonder how they took down the main gates.”
Handri stared off into space, in shock. “My brother… Dead?”
Beregan scowled. “We’ve certainly enough troops to deal with this greenskin menace, though the cannon will be useless. We’ll leave it below for the time being. I’m trusting your judgment in this, Daengar – if you believe that they cannot breach the deeps gates, then we’ll slow our pace, and rest up a bit before smashing those grobi to death. I know by now the news has spread, and each and every one of us will be eager for vengeance, but I would rather have us rested instead of going into battle weary.”
Daengar nodded. “That seems sound enough, my lord. I’d like to be at your side when we attack.”
“Rest yourself, Ironbreaker, and perhaps you may.”
The dwarves pushed hard, and within fourteen hours had reached the gates leading into the hold from the Undgrin road, but true to his word, King Beregan had them rest for several hours. Scouts were sent out into the halls, through the most secret and hidden routes, which only a few knew of, to discern the status of the enemy. Most returned, some did not, but all told the same story – blocked from further passage into the deeps, the greenskins had turned to looting and pillaging, with some of the more valuable items being carted off, out of the hold to an unknown location. The few that had not returned had gone in the direction of the throne room, and others who had venture near there attested to the stench of grobi magic, to which Daengar confirmed the presence of the shaman.
Calling a council of war, King Beregan laid out his plan to all in attendance. “This may be underhanded, but I’ll hold nothing back in cleansing the greenskin filth from our halls.” He growled. “We’ll wait until early dawn, after they’ve drunk their fill. Most will be asleep, or have their senses dulled. We move through the halls, purging as we go, and seal off everything behind us. I won’t have them getting back in, even if through some horror we fail in this. I’ve already sent a messenger back up to Karak Hirn – anyone they send can be reinforcements, or our vengeance. Questions? No? Good. Get your rest, we march before dawn.” The assembled troops gave a collective shout, and dispersed.
**********
Zuilikrazigar was worried. This didn’t happen often, but the orcs were spending too much time in the hold for his liking, despite the nightly “offerings” that were found outside his home. It took a great deal of effort now to reach Bukkreg’s mind, and sometimes that wasn’t even enough. Clearly he had underestimated the dwarves, but now it was too late to ponder that.
Bukkreg was getting worried too, though for entirely different reasons. Mork didn’t speak to him often now, and Sniggin and Durkit were becoming troublesome, and he couldn’t get rid of them without having half of the warband turn on him. It didn’t help that Mork had insisted before they had smashed the gates that they clean out the ENTIRE hold, and now their way was blocked. Bukkreg was no shaman, but he surmised that unless they were able to delve deeper, that Mork would likely talk to them less and less. The few dwarf captives that were still alive were not being very cooperative in getting them deeper into the hold either.
**********
Morning crept closer, but Haegan still could not find rest. Battered, bloodied, and bruised, the pain from his wounds, in addition to being tied up to a pole for nearly three days straight, sleep was eluding him tonight… Or perhaps it was the feeling of tension in the air, as if something was going to happen. He supposed one way or another something would – if Beregan didn’t return with his forces, the orcs were likely to tear themselves apart, based on what he could make out from their crude speech. The shaman was clearly trying to make a rift in the warband, making a play for power. Suddenly, Haegan felt something… Yes, there it was again, a faint tremor in the floor, constant and steady as a drum – the tramp of dwarf feet on stone! Beregan had finally arrived, and the dwarves were marching to war.
Resistance in the second deeps was light, and the army rolled through relentlessly, a solid marching mass of armor, axes, and hammers, slaying all in their path. Word travelled fast though, and by the time they had reached the gates leading into the first deeps, the orcs were gathering in force. Beregan was forced to split the host into two groups, sending one to close the undamaged gate, and the other to push through and hold until the gate was closed.
Daengar took his place at the fore of the gate holders, determined to exact a price in blood and flesh for the travesty the orcs had wrought. Hefting his axe, he grinned at the dwarf next to him. “Now we make ‘em pay, eh?”
“Oh, aye. And a good fight it’ll be. I just hope that there might be some that survived. My brother…” The dwarf trailed off, looking down the hall, and then the call to march came. The dwarves moved forward as a whole once again, ready for the onslaught to come.
The sound of orcs could be heard echoing through the halls as they worked themselves to a frenzy. The shouting reached a crescendo until coalescing into a primal roar, and the dwarves spotted their foe. “Lock shields!” Daengar yelled, and the Ironbreakers slipped their shields into formation and braced themselves.
The orcs crashed into the shield wall like waves against cliffs, and axes flashed out from the dwarf line, cleaving off limbs, fingers, and heads. In moments, the orc momentum was lost, and with another shout from Daengar, they pushed forward, stepping over the fallen bodies.
**********
Meanwhile, in the throne room, Haegan watched the orcs through swollen eyes. The one that appeared to be their leader was in the midst of an unintelligible argument with a large Black Orc, and the shaman that had accompanied them was dancing around gibbering. It was an interesting exchange, and Haegan was glad for the reprieve from the beatings.
Suddenly, the shaman froze as it danced behind the leader, and Haegan could clearly see the nod that it gave to the larger orc. Too dimwitted to realize what was going on, the smaller orc had no time to react as the Black Orc whipped his axe out and beheaded the other. The goblin sniggered and danced after the head as it bounced and rolled along the floor, before grabbing it up and sticking it to the top of its staff as a grisly trophy. The Black Orc spat a question at the shaman, pointing at Haegan and the other captives tied up around the room. His intent was clear, but the shaman appeared to dissuade him, and they both quickly ran from the room.
The battle in the halls quickly turned into a rout as Bukkreg’s head was paraded through the rear ranks, heading for the gate in the hands of the shaman. Those that could, disengaged from the battle and ran after it, and those that couldn’t were mowed down by the relentless march of the dwarves.
***********
Zuilikrazigar knew immediately of Bukkreg’s demise when the slender thread that connected their minds was severed. What he didn’t know, was the exact nature of that demise, and so he folded his wings and dove, dropping beneath the clouds to circle over the dwarf hold. His was given his answer when he spotted the greenskins streaming out of the hold, the shaman and Black Orc in the lead… And Bukkreg’s head mounted on the shaman’s staff. The dragon knew the need for mobility now. It would not be long before the dwarves regrouped their forces and headed out to find those responsible for the destruction of their home and kin. Making one last circle over the line of fleeing greenskins, he turned south, rising over the mountains and disappearing into the clouds.
**********
Haegan heard the shouting of dwarf voices first, along with the rattle of weapons and armor. A company of Ironbreakers charged into the throne room, headed by Daengar, weapons raised. Their momentum slowed as they realized that there was nothing left there to fight. Daengar pointed at the captives and began shouting orders. “Cut them down, and get them to the infirmary!” A number of dwarf hands grabbed hold of Haegan’s body, and he felt the rope binding him loosen as it was cut free. He mumbled incoherently as he was laid on the floor, and then Daengar’s face swam into view. “We’re back, old friend. You can rest now.” He heard, as his vision swum again and blackness claimed him.
All throughout the hold, the final pockets of orc resistance were being snuffed out, and the recovery work had already begun. Beregan walked the passageways, giving words of praise and encouragement here and there. He had already heard of Haegan’s miraculous survival, and he was heartened, despite the fact that the Ironbreaker had still not regained consciousness. He looked up at the pounding of feet as a runner sprinted up to him. “My lord, you should come see this…” Beregan caught the sorrowful look in the runner’s eyes, and nodded. The dwarf turned and headed down the passageway, leading the way into the second deep.
Beregan began to realize where they were headed almost as soon as they entered the second deep, winding their way past living quarters whose doors had been stove in by the marauding orcs. Greenskin corpses still littered the passageways here and there, and dread began to fill his heart as he considered the possibilities of what he might be shown. His fears were founded when they came to a stop outside Haegan’s quarters, a pile of dead orcs and goblins just outside the door. Daengar was there, waiting for him, his face drawn. “Inside, my lord.”
The king stepped over a mutilated orc, and through the doorway, the door itself lying shattered on the floor. A ring of orc corpses was piled around that of two dwarves, one armored, the other wearing a dress, both with axes in their hands – Haegan’s wife and son. Tears welled up in Beregan’s eyes at the sight, and he dropped to a knee. He looked up to find Daengar standing beside him. “Is he awake yet?” the king asked.
Daengar shook his head. “Not last I checked, my lord. They put him through quite a bit.”
Beregan nodded. “Then I want you to go wait by his side. The minute he wakes, send someone for me, no matter what. I want him to hear this from my lips, no one else’s.”
“Yes, my lord.” Daengar turned and walked out of the room.
Beregan turned and motioned to several Ironbreakers standing guard. “Get these filthy grobi out of here, and clean the place up. Do what you can for your captain’s kin first though.”
“Yes, my lord!” The dwarves answered in unison, and Beregan nodded once before stomping out.
It was several days before Haegan awoke to find Daengar sitting by his bedside, smoking a pipe. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. Daengar looked up, his eyes lighting up. “You’re awake! Good… I expect you’ll want some water.” Haegan nodded, and Daengar stood up, walking over to a small table with a pitcher and a mug, rapping twice on the door as he passed it. “You’ve been out for quite some time, old friend.” Daengar picked up the pitcher and poured some of the contents into the mug before handing it to Haegan.
Taking it with shaking hands, Haegan brought the mug to his lips and took a deep drink. His eyes lit up in surprise. “Bugman’s?” He asked, his voice coming back to him.
Daengar grinned, and pointed at a small keg beneath the chair he had been sitting in. “I thought you might like it better than water. I’ve been expecting you to wake for a few minutes now – you seemed to be getting restless. Oh, and there’s someone here to see you…”
“Ilsa?” Haegan asked.
Daengar turned toward the door, hiding his face, and shook his head. “No…” Opening the door, he stuck his head out. “My lord?” Daengar stepped back to let Beregan in, then slipped out, closing the door behind him.
“My lord!” Haegan tried to sit up, but swayed unsteadily and fell back as his vision swam.
“No, no… Rest, my friend.” Beregan said, pulling up the chair. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“My lord?” Haegan asked, frowning as he caught the look in Beregan’s eyes. “What is it?”
“Ilsa… and Keldrin…” the king began, “were both slain in the attack. We found them both, a pile of corpses around them. I’m sorry.”
Haegan shook, sinking back into the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “Dead…”
“We only found one orc in the throne room with you, minus its head. It was clad in armor made from red dragon’s scales, so it must have been a formidable foe – who killed it, if not one of ours?”
“Treachery from their own kind.” Haegan growled, then paused. “Wait… You said RED dragon’s scales?”
“Yes, and it had two claws as weapons… Why?” Beregan asked, his head cocked to one side in curiosity.
The query fell on deaf ears, however, as Haegan’s face drew into a snarl, his vision going red with rage. Quickly sweeping back the covers, he swung his feet to the floor and smashed the door down, storming out into the corridors before anyone could stop him. Daengar appeared in the doorway, looking in on a startled Beregan. “What happened, my lord?”
“I mentioned the orc in the throne room, and its armor… Dragon scale armor. Can you shed any light on this? What could have set him off so?” Beregan looked at Daengar, a worried frown on his face.
“We spotted one, not long before the attack – a week or two ago at most, but only a few saw it, so we thought nothing of it.” Daengar shook his head and looked at the floor. “Though now, thinking about it, that might explain how they were able to destroy the main gates, and bypass all our scouts and lookouts.”
Beregan stood slowly and walked out into the corridor, looking down in the direction that Haegan had taken. “A dragon, eh? This is grave news indeed.”
“The repairs on the gates will take time, my lord… But I will see what I can do about arranging some ‘dragon-proofing’ if you wish. I’m sure the Engineer’s Guild will relish the task.” Daengar offered.
“Very well. I will see what I can do about Haegan.” Beregan nodded, and headed down the passage after the grieving dwarf.
Haegan had a good head start, and so it was several hours before Beregan found him, pounding away at a glowing piece of metal, hot from the forge. A pile of armor lay beside the forge, stripped of straps and attachments. Haegan glanced back briefly before flipping the metal over on the anvil and slamming the smithing hammer down on it again, showering sparks everywhere.
“Planning something, Haegan?” Beregan asked, moving around to forge and giving the bellows a few pumps, setting the coals aglow, white-hot.
“A short trip to Karak Kadrin, I suppose… And then to find me a dragon.” Haegan didn’t look up from his work.
“Ahh, so you picture yourself one of Grimnir’s chosen then? A Slayer?”
Haegan ceased his hammering and pushed the tinted goggles up on his forehead, fixing Beregan with a glare. “Aye, I do. And there’s nothing you, nor anyone else can do to stop it. I failed in my duties, and my son and wife are dead.” He dropped the goggles back down over his eyes and started hammering again. “And I know I’ll be breaking my oath to you by leaving, so all the reason more for it.”
Beregan gave a nod towards the pile of armor. “And that?”
“Melting it down and putting it to better use. I’ll not have need for armor nor shield in the future. And if you’re not here to help, you’d kindly leave.”
Beregan strode forward and laid his hand on Haegan’s shoulder, and the hammer froze in mid swing before lowering. “And you and I both know that there’s more than enough gromril in that armor to make five axes or hammers. You plan on wielding all of them?”
Haegan looked up with a sigh, and Beregan could see the tracks the tears had made through the soot and grime. “No, I reckon not. Only two.”
“Then put that stuff up, and I’ll get you your axes. Save the armor for Handri’s son… A last request from me, if you will, and I’ll release you from your oath. No need to have that hovering over your head as well.” To emphasize his point, he reached over and scooped up one of the greaves, holding it out. Haegan nodded and dropped the hammer, letting it fall to the floor with a clang as he took the armor from Beregan.
Haegan left that night, under the cover of darkness, taking the overland route through the mountains. He carried nothing but a small pack of provisions, and a pair of gromril axes at his side. His head was already shaved into a crest, his hair and beard dyed bright orange. Beregan stood at the main gates, still under repair, and watched him go, until he disappeared into the gloom and there was nothing more to see.
