The Warpmaster stood for a moment, digesting the frantic report. He glanced at the armoured warpguard who flanked his throne, stared up at the slaves slinking about the ceiling, at the confusion of sycophants and underlings who littered the floor of the cavern, waiting to attend the merest twitch of his whisker. Sythar could smell the excitement in their scent, knew the same odours were spilling from his own glands.
The humans were going to fight one another! He would have to take credit for this before one of the grey seers declared it a beneficence from the Horned Rat!
Abin-gnaw slowly rose to his feet, bowing again to Sythar Doom. This time the Warpmaster took no notice of the humanlike gesture. He was thinking instead about the abilities of Clan Skully’s murder-rats, their proficiency with the strangler’s noose. At the moment, there were three leaders of the expedition to conquer Altdorf. Clan Mors had their General Twych, established by Ratlord Vecteek himself as commander of the mission. Then there was that odious Deacon Blistrr from Clan Pestilens. While he was at it, he might add Grey Seer Pakritt to his wish list. Without those three, Warpmaster Sythar Doom would be supreme commander of the campaign.
With the prospect of a protracted war evaporating, with the humans getting ready to fight among themselves, Sythar no longer saw any reason why he should allow these incompetent underlings to leech off his glory!
‘Attend,’ Sythar hissed, motioning Abin-gnaw closer. Only when the murder-rat was so close that the sparks from Sythar’s fangs singed his fur, did the Warpmaster whisper his plans. To Clan Skryre would belong the prestige of conquering the man-thing nest, and Clan Skully would be paid well to eliminate the few obstacles in their way.
Kazad Migdhal
Kaldezeit, 1113
An uncanny coldness had settled into the great hall of Kazad Migdhal, a chill that refused to be expelled however high Bori Wodinsson stoked the fire roaring within the hearth. Keeper of King Skalf’s hearth, it was a terrible disgrace to Bori that this chill had been allowed to infest the hall. He kept his gaze downcast, not daring to meet the eyes of the dwarfs assembled about the king’s table.
Bori’s apprentices, under his direction, dutifully fed more logs into the blaze. The heat of the flames singed their young beards and sent streams of sweat pouring down their foreheads. Bori had already removed his drenched hat and had stripped away his baldric. He was absolutely at a loss to understand how he could feel so cold yet have his body react as though he’d been dropped into an inferno.
‘I can still see my breath!’ one of the thanes at the table laughed, punctuating his remark by expelling a great cloud of mist. The display brought raucous laughs from the other dwarfs in the hall.
‘Leave Bori be!’ quipped another thane, gesticulating with a white-capped mug of beer. ‘The cold is good for the brew!’
‘But not my beard,’ grumbled a silver-haired elder. He brought a gloved hand stroking down the length of his face, and held the fingers up for those seated around him to inspect. ‘Look! Frost!’
Bori’s face turned crimson beneath his own beard. The shame of this night was going to humiliate his family for three generations. It would take a great deal of valour to extirpate this embarrassment, and over so ridiculous a thing. A room that wouldn’t grow warm if an entire forest was fed into its hearth!
He risked turning away from the fire for a moment, directing a covert glance at King Skalf’s throne. His sovereign sat in stony silence, jewelled fingers closed tight about the stem of a golden goblet. There was just the slightest trace of discomfort on the king’s face, a condemnation Bori felt all the more keenly for its subtlety. Bonds of friendship between himself and the king had earned him his position. It was shameful that those same bonds should restrain King Skalf’s rightful displeasure. It was an imposition on Bori’s part, one he doubted he could ever make amends for.
‘Build it higher!’ Bori snarled at his helpers, shoving yet another log into the blaze. A finger of flame reached out, searing his fingers and causing him to jump back. Sucking at the burned skin, he glared vindictively at the blaze. What would it take to warm this cursed hall!
Bori never knew what compelled him to raise his eyes to the marble mantle above the hearth or the trophy bolted to the wall above it. Some primitive instinct, some animalistic foreboding of danger, whatever it was alerted the dwarf to something far more horrible than a stubborn chill.
Skalf had made himself king by stealing into the abandoned halls of Karak Azgal and slaying the mighty dragon Graug the Terrible. Karak Migdhal had been established in one of the abandoned stronghold’s gatehouses, a dwarf outpost in lands long lost to their kind. The outpost was rich, however, made wealthy by the treasure reclaimed from the dragon’s hoard. Skalf had earned not only the title of king, but also that of Dragonslayer, and far more than his crown, he valued the gigantic reptilian head displayed in his great hall.
The head of Graug had been bolted to the wall, hung there as a mark of Skalf’s strength and courage. It was something to awe visitors and impress dignitaries. To the dwarfs who had cast aside old allegiances to make their fortune in Karak Migdhal, it was a symbol of dwarf perseverance against all foes.
Now, however, it was a thing of terror. Before Bori’s horrified gaze, leathery lids pulled back from the glass eyes taxidermists had set into the dragon’s skull. Scaly lips retreated from sword-sized fangs. The withered stump of a forked tongue flicked out, shivering in the air.
Bori cried out once, then the reanimated head lurched down from its fastenings, tearing the bolts free as it crashed to the floor. The Keeper of the Hearth vanished in the dragon’s maw, caught by those immense, snapping jaws.
Dumbstruck thanes and guildmasters looked up from their drinks, staring in disbelief at the revived head. Oaths and curses spilled from their mouths as they watched the huge head flop about on the floor with ghastly life, trying to propel itself towards fresh prey.
‘Fetch my axe,’ King Skalf snarled, casting aside his goblet and unfastening the royal cloak pinned to his shoulders. He glared at the monstrous head, feeling rage as he watched Bori’s blood drip down its fangs.
‘I don’t know how many times I must slay you, monster!’ he roared. ‘But by Grimnir, I swear this time I will make a better job of it!’
The captain of Skalf’s bodyguard rushed to the king’s side, Wyrmbiter clutched in his hands. One look at his king told the dwarf it was useless to try and dissuade him from this battle. Reluctantly, he pressed the weapon into Skalf’s hand.
The instant Wyrmbiter was in his hands, King Skalf was no more. The stoic dignity demanded of a ruler fell away, succumbing to the reckless determination of the adventurer and fortune-seeker. Again, he was simply Skalf Hraddisson, determined to earn the name of Dragonslayer.
Graug’s head flailed about on the floor, turning to fix its glass gaze on the advancing dwarf. A loathsome, dry cough rasped up from the stump of neck remaining to the reptile, spraying bits of Bori across the floor.
This final indignity inflicted upon his friend sent icy rage coursing through Skalf’s veins. Roaring an inarticulate cry of vengeance, the dwarf flung himself at the dragon. In a great leap, Skalf brought his gromril axe flashing down. The blade crunched through scaly flesh and draconic bone, hewing through Graug’s forehead, cleaving down along its snout. When he ripped his blade free, the dragon’s skull had been nearly cut in half, bisected down the middle.