01 - Empire in Chaos (25 page)

The witch hunter could see that the dwarf was in pain, but had not the depth
of understanding of dwarf culture to fully comprehend the importance of what he
said. Thorrik’s oath could not be fulfilled. What happened to a dwarf who was
unable to complete an oath? Grunwald watched as a painted slayer walked past,
gnashing his teeth and pulling at his spiked, orange hair in lamentation. He
looked sharply back at the proud ironbreaker, concern on his face.

“What happens now?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Just as kings have sworn oaths of duty to their hold, an ironbreaker swears
oaths to his clan. They cannot be lightly set aside. I must head back to my
clan, in the Ostermark,” said Thorrik, his eyes weary. “And once there, I must
request from my clan-thane that I might be allowed to take up the slayer
oath.”

Days passed within Karak Kadrin. Thorrik was gone much of that time, and
Grunwald’s mood was heavy. Even Annaliese was growing restless and short
tempered, eager to be on her way. She snapped at Eldanair one day, frustrated
with his silence and his ghostly presence. Indeed he did seem even more distant
and cold since being here within the hold of the dwarfs, but then that was
understandable—the looks of loathing, mistrust and often outright hatred
directed at him from the dwarfs was relentless. To his credit, he never lowered
his gaze from the challenging stares, though he never did anything that could
have provoked a reaction, for which Grunwald was thankful. The last thing they
needed was to have bloodshed within the group. When the girl snapped at him, he
merely regarded her coldly, making no reaction to her at all. When she stalked
away from him, he merely continued to follow her, much to her frustration.

Still, whenever Annaliese rested, Eldanair sat watching over her. Her sleep
was plagued with dreams and nightmares—he heard her cry out often, and the elf
would place a hand on her forehead, speaking soothingly in his singsong voice.
She would invariably fall back into restful sleep.

Grunwald couldn’t work out the elf, and that concerned him. He was deeply
intuitive with people—he had a knack for feeling when someone was lying, or
concealing something—though he was generally quite happy to let those around
him see him merely as a brute. It served his purpose well, for people often
lowered their guard around him. But the elf was blank to him, and he never left
the girl’s side. When the time came for Grunwald to ensure the girl suffered her
accident,
it would be more than likely that he would have to deal with
Eldanair as well.

Finally Thorrik returned.

“There is a way out,” he said, and everyone’s attention snapped onto him.
“But it will not be without risks.”

“Finally,” said Karl. “Why has it taken so long for you to find this
information?”

Grunwald raised a hand to forestall any argument, glaring at Karl.

“And you will not be able to take your precious horses,” said Thorrik,
staring the knight squarely in the eye.

“What? Preposterous! We are knights, and we will not leave our destriers here
in this dark hole.”

“Then you will stay here in this dark
hole
as well then,” said
Thorrik.

“Tell us more about this way out,” said Grunwald.

“There is a final mineshaft that has yet to be sealed. It leads into the
mines of Baradum, which have long been abandoned to the enemy. They crawl
through the darkness like vermin, seeking an entrance into the slayer keep from
below, since their armies are smashing uselessly against its walls. This way is
to be sealed tomorrow at midday. At the same time King Ungrim Ironfist’s son,
the war-mourner Garagrim, will lead forth an army of slayers, to clear the Great
Bridge and push back the enemy. It seems that orc and goblin hordes are erecting
their crude war machines with which to pound the keep. Kadrin lacks the cannons
to effectively pummel these emplacements, and so Garagrim has tasked himself
with destroying these threats.”

Thorrik stared around at the humans, ignoring the elf.

“When the war-mourner and his slayer army sallies forth, the enemy will be
drawn to them like moths to a flame. That is when we will enter the mines of
Baradum. We make our way through them—one of its exits is some distance down
the valley, and all being well, we will be able to make a clear run through to
the Empire.”

“All being well?” snapped Karl. “What if the armies of the greenskins are
not
all drawn away? What if they are waiting out there in the valley for
us?”

Thorrik looked at the knight, his eyes heavy but his face expressionless.

“Then we die,” he said.

Curving horns fashioned in the likeness of mighty serpents and wyrms boomed,
their resounding blare echoing through Kadrin Keep and out into the valley
beyond. Dozens of horns sounded, deep and monotonous, deafeningly loud. Each
instrument was the size of a tree, and fixed to the stone walls of the massive
gathering chamber with giant bands of iron. Those dwarfs who blew them stood in
sunken alcoves built high into the walls, and Grunwald could feel his ear-rums
reverberate at the colossal din that made the rock beneath his feet shudder in
response.

He stood at the side of Karl Heiden, the preceptor knight fully decked out in
his ornate armour. He wore his plumed helm and his thirty knights were arrayed
behind him, their armour freshly shined and glimmering brightly in the firelight
of thousands of torches and lanterns. Their standard was unfurled and
resplendent, and each knight stood to attention, motionless, powerful and
silent.

Grunwald wore his full uniform of office. His breastplate was freshly covered
in new black lacquer, and he had affixed several passages from the books of
Sigmar to it, thin parchment scrolls held in place with wax seals bearing the
twin-tailed comet impression of the large bronze signet ring he wore on his left
hand, on top of his elbow-length black gloves. On his broad-rimmed black hat he
wore a large, freshly shined wreathed-skull badge, and twin baldrics crossed his
torso upon which were strapped the tools of his trade—silver-tipped stakes,
vials of holy water, powder-horns and a small, padlocked book of Sigmarite holy
passages. His pistols were holstered on his belt, and an array of knives and
bladed “confession tools” were sheathed about his body—at his side, strapped
to his knee-high black boots, on his forearms. His trusty flanged mace hung
loosely at his side. Over his shoulders he had drawn his heavy black coat.

Next to him was Annaliese, who looked for all the world like a true acolyte
priest of Sigmar in her robes of cream and deep red that were worn over her
floor-length robe of chainmail. She held her head high, an expression of pride
and strength on her face. Her holy Sigmarite hammer hung at her side, and the
symbol of Sigmar was prominent on her breast.

Standing before them was Thorrik, the ironbreaker, stone-still and radiating
strength and resilience. His reddish beard was freshly braided with copper wire,
and his gromril armour was shined to perfection.

It was a great honour, he had told them, to be allowed to witness the
official muster and blessing of the Slayer King upon the army that would within
hours push out to meet the enemy head on. Only Eldanair had been barred from the
official ceremony.

The humans, accompanied by Thorrik Lokrison, had been escorted to a high
balcony to oversee the proceedings below, and the sheer scale of the gathering
had stunned Grunwald.

The cavern was immense, even greater than any he had yet seen within the
dwarf hold, and behind it rose the colossal doors that formed the gateway out of
the mighty hold.

Those doors were hundreds of feet high, and giant clockwork wheels and cogs
were constructed into their design. Giant idle pistons, levered arms and immense
anvil-like counter-weights were built into the grand pillars astride the doors,
and Grunwald guessed that it was these mechanics that would open the doors when
the time came for this mighty dwarf army to sally forth.

Grunwald had been surprised that he and the other humans had been allowed to
bear weapons to such an august ceremony, but he saw now that they could pose no
threat to the dwarf king, armed or not.

Spread out on the terraced chamber floor was the army that Garagrim was soon
to lead through those great doors, and it made Grunwald’s mind boggle to see
such numbers arrayed below him.

Thousands of clan warriors of Karak Kadrin had been mustered, and they stood
in serried ranks behind their thanes and chieftains. Banners of beaten metal and
beautifully crafted icons were held aloft on steel poles, the standards bearing
clan symbols and runes.

But these dwarf warriors were outnumbered easily five to one by the garishly
painted slayers, who stood with hands resting on the heads of the axes, their
silence unnerving. A sea of orange, spiked hair and painted faces, the slayers
stared solemnly towards the arched entranceway through which their patron king
would emerge.

Grunwald studied the faces of the closest slayers—they had been daubed with
blue and black inks and dyes, and intricate coiling patterns and runes covered
their flesh. Eye sockets had been smeared with ash, making the slayers’ menacing
eyes appear to peer out of darkness. Some held aloft the heads of mighty enemies
that had been bested in battle—trolls, massive greenskins, scaled beasts and
furred creatures that defied name. Many of the slayers towards the front of the
mass array of force were covered in scars and old, healed wounds, and these
ancient warriors bore weapons gleaming with jewels, gold and throbbing runes of
power.

“Those unable to achieve death,” whispered Thorrik. “For while all slayers
seek to attain their honourable end, a slayer must fight with all his strength
and ability in battle, else he will not be allowed within the drinking halls of
our ancestors. So it is that the mightiest slayer warriors find their deaths
hard to achieve, and they seek out the most powerful foes on the field of
battle, striving to one day meet the enemy that they could not overcome. They
are truly tragic figures. Giant slayers, dragon slayers, daemon slayers—tragically, for some the quest for death is never ending.”

Grunwald estimated that there must have been in the region of eight thousand
slayers gathered below, each warrior utterly fearless, as hard as stone and
eager for battle. It would have been terrifying to face such a foe, and yet it
was said that the armies battering upon the fortress from the valley beyond was
numberless.

The deafening horns sounded again, deep and reverberating, and the alcove
doors below were thrown open. The Slayer King and his son marched forth. They
were closely followed by an entourage of doughty warriors bearing huge
two-handed hammers and wearing armour inlaid with gold, and by dozens of dwarfs
holding tall banners and icons aloft, but it was the king who drew Grunwald’s
eye.

As broad as he was tall, the Slayer King was borne upon a broad round shield
of gold, carried by four powerfully built warriors. His fierce head was lifted,
and a deafening roar rose from the gathered dwarf warriors, accompanied by ten
thousand feet stamping in unison. The booming resounded through the chamber, and
the Slayer King was carried onwards through the din. A long cloak of gleaming
dragon scales was fixed to his shoulders and hung down over the shield bearing
him to trail onto the flagstones behind. He wore a glittering horned crown of
gold studded with precious stones, and his mighty beard, dyed bright orange, was
tied in intricate braids that looped back upon themselves, such was its length.
Above his crown rose a tall crest of spiked orange hair, worn in the same manner
as the thousands of slayers before him. Unlike them, however, he wore heavy and
ornate armour—the armour of his office as king of Karak Kadrin—and it glowed
dully with hundreds of runes.

Before the king walked an honoured white-bearded dwarf, his face lined with
age and his beard trailing in his wake. Despite his age, this revered ancient
one had arms as thick as tree-stumps, and he held above his head a large golden
platter draped in rich cloth, upon which lay the kingly weapon of his lord—a
giant double-bladed axe that seemed to shimmer and vibrate with barely
restrained power.

Walking steadily beside the shield-bearers that bore the Slayer King was the
king’s heir and son, Garagrim Ironfist.
War-mourner
was his title,
Thorrik had told Grunwald, though the full import of this title was lost on him.
This fearsome warrior stalked forwards, arrayed for battle in the manner of the
slayers, eschewing armour and treading across the stone floor barefoot. His
orange beard was hung with icons of Grimnir, and his heavily muscled forearms
were wrapped in chain. These chains were fixed to a pair of axes he carried,
perhaps to ensure that he was never rendered weaponless in the heat of battle.
His face was streaked with ash and his arms covered in coiling blue ink.

The kingly entourage drew to a halt, and the shield-bearers lowered their
liege gently to the ground. He stepped forward, off the golden shield, and stood
at the top of a raised stone tier looking over the steps across the host of
Karak Kadrin, and silence descended.

Then the king spoke, his deep-throated voice carrying across the entire
gathered force thanks to the acoustics of the architecture. None stirred, not a
single warrior or slayer shuffled, and his words were met with stony silence.
Though the humans could not understand Khazalid, the guttural, harsh language of
the dwarfs, they picked up on the spirit of the speech, and it was filled with
pride, strength, doom and anger.

It was not a long, drawn out speech as it would have been in the Empire—rather it was curt, short and to the point. Garagrim knelt before his king and
the mighty Slayer King of Kadrin lifted him to his feet and placed his forehead
against that of his son’s, uttering an oath of clearly great importance. A pair
of brimming steins of ale were brought forth, and the king and his heir drank
deep before throwing the vessels to the ground and crushing them beneath their
feet. Grunwald winced as the bare foot of Garagrim bent the metal stein out of
shape.