The End Times, page 49
‘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.
CHAPTER 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 clashed 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.
At the appropriate time, Durggan unleashed the fiery horror of his only flamecannon, incinerating a wide cone of skaven. They squealed in fear and pain, and the air was thick with the smoke of their burning.
‘Here they come, lads!’ bellowed Belegar. He gestured forwards with his hammer. ‘At them!’
Shouting the war cries of their ancestors, the Iron Brotherhood ran into the mass of skavenslaves.
Queek watched patiently from a broken statue, squeaking orders when he felt his minions were letting him down. These were carried off by rapid scurriers, who forced their way into the ranks to seek out Queek’s officers.
‘You wait, little warlord, this is good,’ hissed a voice only Queek could hear. The shadows cast by a pillar danced with more than the flamelight of battle. Queek’s trophies were unusually silent, cowed by the verminlord.
‘Pah! Queek hate waiting. Queek want to smash-kill dwarf long-fur and take head! But Queek is no fool, Lurklox-lord,’ he said, the honorific unpleasant on his tongue. ‘Dwarfs outnumbered ten to one. And this is but the first clawpack! They have no reserves. Queek guess that no dwarfs are anywhere else nearby, except sick, young and old.’ He tittered. ‘Young very tasty. Not so tough as old long-furs!’ He sneered. ‘Dwarfs are stupid, slow-thinking – not quick-clever like skaven – but they are strong. Very good armour. Fine weapons. Much singing.’ He shuddered; the grinding-stone sound of the dwarfish battlesongs hurt his sensitive ears. ‘No matter.’ He waved his hand-paw dismissively. ‘Under enough pressure, even dwarf-forged steel will snap. Soon will be time. Loyal Ska!’
‘Yes, great Queek,’ said Ska from the foot of the statue, where he restricted access to the mighty Queek.
‘Ready my guard. Tell Grotoose now is time to loose his monsters.’
Queek watched the dwarf line. Having made a space at the front of the king’s position, Belegar’s Iron Brotherhood were retreating with mechanical precision from their initial foray to the safety of the line. Slaves scattered in the opposite direction, many shot down as they tried to flee. Others surged forwards, drawing themselves right onto the dwarfs’ guns, where they died in droves. ‘Pah!’ said Queek. ‘That is what slaves are for, yes-yes, Lurklox?’
There was no reply. The shadows were empty.
‘He has scurry-gone,’ said Ikit Scratch from his position along the central run of spikes on Queek’s trophy rack.
The dead-thing sounded afraid.
From the gates behind Queek came an unpleasant bellow as Grotoose, the Great Packmaster of Clan Moulder, prodded his creatures into the fight. First to come were packs of slavering rat ogres, starved for the battle. They ran at the dwarf lines, barely directed by their packmasters.
Behind them came two gigantic Hell Pit abominations, their naked, maggoty skin rippling as they heaved themselves forwards, their many heads snapping at the air. The creatures, a hideous mix of flesh and machine, moved surprisingly quickly. Cannonballs slammed into the foremost abomination, and it howled in idiot rage. But its unnatural vitality saw its skin knit back together almost instantly, and it continued onwards. They squashed hundreds of slaves as they went towards the dwarf shield wall, but that did not matter. Queek had thousands and thousands more of such weak-meat. Every dwarf killed could never be replaced. He snickered as the first then the second abomination burst into the dwarf line, punching a big hole in it. No slaves followed into the openings, too terrified of the beasts. But the abominations were mighty enough alone. The entire dwarf east flank became bogged down fighting only one, while the other abomination turned at right angles to the beard-thing’s battle line and began to work its way up towards the west flank, scattering those dwarfs it did not kill.
The rat ogres, meanwhile, loped forwards, giant hands grasping, swatting aside any slave that did not move away quickly enough. Queek watched as they swiftly arrived at the front of the battle. The largest pack was sent against a weak spot in the dwarf line hard by the king, a group of blue-capped beard-things wielding slow-loading crossbows. Such a pathetic weapon, typical of the dwarf-things: powerful but ponderous. Obsolete and doomed as their owners! The beard-things had time for three shots and no more before the rat ogres went raging into them. These dwarf-things were lightly armoured and did not last, the surviving few breaking and running, allowing the rat ogres to pile into the flank of Belegar’s bodyguard.
Queek’s eyes narrowed. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He bounded down the side of the statue, towards the front of his Red Guard.
‘Now, Ska, now! Sound the advance!’
Skaven gongs rang. The slavemasters ceased cracking their whips, allowing the slaves to flee. They needed little prompting, their ragged remnants trickling away from the hall, leaving space for Queek’s advance. The second line of skaven readied themselves, these well armed and armoured. Gongs clashed, bells rang. They started forwards.
At their centre went Queek Headtaker.
Belegar’s hammer crushed the skull of his opponent, spattering all those around him with skaven brains. His fellows threw down their arms and ran for it, affording Belegar a moment’s respite. From his vantage point, he could see up and down the line of his warriors. All were embattled. In two places his line had been breached by the abominations, and more deadly creatures were coming to attack them. Rat ogres were headed right for Clan Zhorrak. Belegar swore. The Blue Caps were no match for the beasts, and their supporting units were thoroughly occupied with the reeking monstrosity rampaging through his rear echelon.
‘Blue Caps, bring them down!’ he shouted, gesturing with his hammer.
The dwarfs shot numerous quarrels into the rat ogres, felling several. But there were well over a dozen of them, and most barrelled forwards ignoring the missiles sticking out of their bodies. With a hissing roar, the rat ogres bounded up the rubble pile, right into the Blue Caps. The dwarfs dropped their crossbows to pull out their double-handed axes. Bravery was not enough against the creatures, and the quarrellers were lightly armoured. Sword-long claws ripped the quarrellers apart. The rat ogres pushed through their formation, slaying many. By the time the Blue Caps of Clan Zhorrak broke, there were few left. Without stopping even to feed, the rat ogres pivoted and slammed right into the flank of the Iron Brotherhood. Signal flags fluttered on the opposite side of the cavern. Skaven war-gongs and bells tolled. Seeing the king’s guard assailed, and the dwarf line sorely pressed all along its front, the skaven elite pressed forwards.
‘Queek.’ Belegar pointed towards the approaching skaven.
The rapidly thinning horde of slaves fled. Those who were slow were pushed forwards onto the axes and hammers of the dwarfs by the bigger skaven coming from behind. With horrifying speed, Queek and his Red Guard were upon the Iron Brotherhood.
The dwarf hammerers were holding their own against the rat ogres, smashing skulls, ribcages and knees with typically dwarfish efficiency. But they were pinned in place by the monsters, and could not react effectively to the charge of Queek’s favoured.
‘Protect the king! Protect the king!’ shouted Brok Gandsson. A knot of hammerers hurried forwards, and surrounded Belegar. The Red Guard smashed into the dwarf front, huge ratmen almost umgi-tall, their sleek black fur rippling with muscle. They wore the tokens of their might: the teeth of black orcs and giants, stolen dwarfish talismans, beardscalps and skulls. Tirelessly the Iron Brotherhood fought them back; for every one hammerer who fell, three elite skaven paid with their lives.
Queek had not yet entered the fight, but that was about to change. He scurried up the rubble like it was a set of shallow steps, the hated Dwarf Gouger and his serrated sword held out either side. He launched himself skywards, spinning as he went. Using the momentum of his somersault, he punched the spiked side of Dwarf Gouger through a hammerer’s helmet. Queek landed on the shoulders of another, his sword flashing down to end the dwarf’s life before he could react, then leapt again. Hammers aimed at him seemed to move through treacled ale, so slow were they in comparison to the Headtaker. He leapt and spun and killed and killed and killed, unhindered by his heavy armour and unwieldy trophy rack. Without gaining so much as a scratch, he was in the middle of the Iron Brotherhood’s formation, killing his way towards Belegar.
Belegar roared. ‘Now, Notrigar! Now! Sound the horn! Sound the horn!’
The dwarf horn-bearer lifted the Golden Horn of the Iron Brotherhood to his lips. Bejewelled, ancient and honoured, the Golden Horn was among Clan Angrund’s most treasured relics.
