03 - God King (19 page)

“What is it, da?” asked Bysen. “Is it a bellows, is that what it is, da?”

“No,” said Govannon. “It’s not a bellows, son.”

“So what in Ulric’s name is it?” asked Master Holtwine, staring at the
device. “And why did you need me here?”

No sooner had Govannon given what Alfgeir’s knights had recovered from the
earth a cursory examination, than he knew he’d need Holtwine’s help. He’d sent
Cuthwin to fetch the master craftsman, knowing the man would not be able to
resist this challenge. Holtwine was a stout man of average height with a
scowling face and thinning blond hair. He had been a superlative bowyer and
archer in his youth, but his time as a warrior was cut short when a greenskin
spear had pierced his chest and nicked his left lung.

Turning his dextrous hands to woodwork, he quickly discovered a natural
talent that carpenters who had worked the wood for decades couldn’t match. The
man was a master of his art, a craftsman who could shape timber in ways that
were simply incredible. Govannon had seen his most fabulous pieces, exquisite
tables and chairs, decorative cupboards and beds. Even kitchen furniture was
given his special attention, resulting in pieces almost too good to be placed in
such a harsh environment.

“The dwarf called it a Thunder Bringer,” said Govannon.

“His name was Grindan Deeplock,” Cuthwin reminded him.

Govannon heard the grief in the boy’s voice. Since losing his sight, Govannon
had become adept at picking the truth from people’s voices. He’d heard from
Elswyth that this young scout had rescued the dwarf clansman from the forest,
though his wounds had been too severe and he’d later died.

“Aye, that it was, Master Cuthwin,” said Govannon. “My apologies. You saved
his life, and it’s thanks to you that he’ll keep his honour in death. It’s all
too easy to feel responsible for that life when it ends, trust me I know.”

“No, it’s me that needs to apologise,” said Cuthwin. “I know you meant no
disrespect. It’s just that I promised that I’d get this machine back to his
clan.”

“And so you shall, my boy,” Govannon assured him.

Govannon circled the machine, once again letting his hands inform him of its
dimensions and construction.

Five long cylinders of cold iron were fixed in a wooden brace harness, which
in turn was mounted on a broken carriage with two iron-rimmed wheels supporting
the machine. Govannon could tell that each was precisely the same size, which
was no mean feat.

Four of the five cylinders were perfectly cast, no blemishes, miscasts or air
pockets that he could hear when he tapped the iron with his finishing hammer.
The fifth was badly dented at its furthest extremity, as though pinched between
enormous tongs, though Govannon shuddered to think of the strength that would be
required to compress so strong a casting.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” said Master Holtwine.

“Don’t you know?” asked Govannon. “Even Bysen here could guess.”

Holtwine took an irritated breath. “I am a master craftsman, Govannon, not a
player of games, so why don’t you just tell me? I have a weapons cabinet to
finish for Count Aldred, and the individual walnut panels require chamfering
before they can be fitted.”

“I am sure Count Aldred would understand were he here right now,” said
Govannon, letting the moment hang. “This, my good friend, is, in the dwarf
tongue, a barag.”

“What does that mean?” asked Cuthwin, leaning down to inspect the machine.

“What indeed?” asked Holtwine, his patience wearing thin.

“Is it Thunder Bringer?” suggested Cuthwin. “Grindan called it that before he
died.”

Govannon smiled. “I am no expert in the dwarf tongue, but Wolfgart told me
that the dwarfs who fought in the tunnels beneath Middenheim used a weapon known
as a baragdrakk, which was a bellows-like machine that hurled gouts of sticky
fire at the enemy. I’m guessing barag is a term for war machine, a dwarf version
of the great catapults we use.”

Holtwine leaned over the device, his eyes roaming the expert shaping of the
wood, the fabulous joint-work, the inlaid carvings and elegant cuts that ran
with the grain. “Really? It’s a bit small. What manner of wall could you bring
down with this?”

“I don’t think this is meant to bring down walls,” said Govannon. “I think
this is designed to kill living things, a great many at once if I’m not
mistaken.”

“How’s it do that, da?” asked Bysen, peering down the length of one of the
iron cylinders.

Govannon ran his hands towards the back of the war machine, to where a
complex series of flint and powder trap mechanisms in the shape of iron hammers
and brass cauldrons were fitted to the back of each cylinder. He pulled each of
the hammers back then hauled on the length of leather cord hanging from the base
of the mechanism. The first hammer slammed down in the empty cauldron with a
hard clang of iron. One by one, the other triggers battered down in their
cauldrons, and sparks flew from the impact of flint and iron.

Everyone jumped, but it was Cuthwin who spoke first. He tapped the iron
hammer. “It’s a kind of trigger mechanism, isn’t it? Like the firing lever on a
crossbow.”

Holtwine leaned in, and Govannon could smell the beeswax, woodsap and polish
on his skin. He smiled, knowing this device intrigued the man.

“A trigger mechanism, eh?” mused Holtwine. “Then this small cauldron would be
filled with their fire powder? Ulric’s breath, is this some manner of enormous
thunder bow?”

“That is exactly what I think it is,” said Govannon.

“So what do you plan to do with it?”

“I plan to return it to the dwarfs,” said Govannon. “But first, I intend to
fix it. And I need you to help me.”

Redwane drew on his pipe, letting the fragrant smoke swirl around his mouth
before blowing a series of perfect rings. Though the sun was shining, the day
still seemed gloomy and cold. The clouds over the Middle Mountains were black
and threatening, the skies to the south not much better. His relaxed posture and
long wolfskin cloak hid his readiness for trouble, and his free hand never
strayed too far from his hammer.

He and the other war leaders of the north made their way through the narrow,
greystone streets of Middenheim, talking in the open air, as was Myrsa’s custom.
The man hated being indoors, and insisted on conducting all planning with the
northern wind in his hair and the open sky above him. The wardens of his
northern marches, Orsa, Bordan, Wulf and Renweard, walked with him and the mood
was grim.

Redwane had thought the dark clouds gathering over the Middle Mountains were
a bad omen when he’d first seen them on waking. Now he knew that to be true.

Sigmar’s herald had arrived from Reikdorf at first light, bearing evil
tidings of a coming war with the living dead. Count Myrsa had listened in stoic
silence to the herald’s words of the Lord of Undeath’s return, and immediately
summoned his northern wardens to a war counsel.

They strode down Grafzen Street, on the eastern side of the city, with the
Middle Mountains soaring to their left and the rising walls and towers of the
great temple to Ulric rearing up to their right. Redwane averted his eyes from
the mighty structure, his dreadful scarring and the fight with the daemon lord
too fresh and raw for comfort. He still dreamed of that terrible battle,
wondering if he could have aimed his blow differently, if there was any outcome
that would not have left him so disfigured. A dolorous bell pealed from the
temple of Morr, its echoing toll unmistakable. Somewhere, someone was dead, and
Redwane whispered a prayer for their journey into the next world.

Redwane glanced at the magnificent sword sheathed at Myrsa’s side, the
runefang crafted by Alaric the Mad of the dwarfs. That blade had unmade the
daemon lord’s malefic protection, allowing Sigmar to destroy it with the power
bound to his enchanted warhammer.

In the wake of the battle, Sigmar had named the blade Blodambana, which meant
Bloodbane
in the ancient tongue of the Unberogen, and not a day passed when
Redwane didn’t wish that Myrsa had reached the battle sooner.

He shook off his gloomy thoughts, concentrating on what was being said around
him. He was the senior bodyguard of the count of Middenheim, and his attention
was wandering far too much these days. Not that he had any real reason to fear
for Myrsa’s safety. A ring of White Wolves surrounded the council of war, twelve
fur-cloaked warriors with hammers resting on their shoulders. The citizens of
Middenheim gave them a wide berth, sensing the bellicose mood of the count’s
guards.

“There are people streaming south from the villages in the foothills of the
Middle Mountains,” said Wulf, the lean and wiry Mountain Lord whose hardy
warriors watched the high valleys and deep canyons of the Middle Mountains for
trouble. “Many claim that the living dead are rising up in their hundreds, and
I’m inclined to believe them. I’ve heard their stories and looked in their eyes
as they spoke. They’re not lying.”

“The dead, are they coming from Brass Keep?” asked Myrsa, unable to contain
his revulsion. “I prayed that we had broken Morath’s power.”

“We did, my lord,” said Wulf with gruff confidence. “Brass Keep is nothing
more than a refuge for the few Norsii bastards who escaped the slaughter last
year. If there’s dead rising in the mountains, then they’re not coming out of
the peaks. It’s mainly the villages’ own dead that are rising, and it’s
happening all over. Some of the local sword bands have contained the smaller
attacks, but that won’t last long. The dead are rising in greater numbers, and
they’re gathering together, like some damned pack instinct is at work.”

“Nonsense,” put in Bordan. “You put too much faith in peasants’ scare
stories. And you’re giving the dead too much credit. It’s simple hunger that
brings them together, nothing more.”

Bordan’s title was Forest Master, and the safety of the numerous villages and
trails through the western woodlands were entrusted to his foresters and
huntsmen. It was a thankless task, and had ground Bordan down into a cynical man
with little patience for others. In return, few had time for him, Redwane
included.

“You were not at Brass Keep, Bordan,” said Myrsa. “Wulf and Redwane and I
were, and I am in no hurry to dismiss the Mountain Lord’s reports. I understand
only too well the malign cunning that animates the living dead, and we should
not dismiss any tales of malevolent intelligence.”

“As you say, my lord,” said Bordan, suitably chastened.

“Tell me, Bordan, how fare the forests?” said Myrsa, knowing when to scold
and when to embolden. “I know there are many barrows and forsaken places within
the Forest of Shadows. Have any of them been disturbed?”

“The western settlements have faced increased raids, my lord,” replied
Bordan. “The beasts and brigands grow bolder and more desperate with the early
onset of winter. There have been a several instances of pestilence, but I have
heard of no attacks by the walking dead.”

“There’s a surprise,” grunted Redwane, unable to contain himself any longer.

“What did you say?” snapped Bordan.

“You heard me,” said Redwane. “Your own grandfather could climb from his
grave and bite you on the arse and you wouldn’t notice.”

Bordan’s hand flashed to his hunting knife, but one look into Redwane’s
horrifically scarred features convinced him that to draw it would be folly of
the worst kind.

“You insult me, White Wolf,” hissed Bordan. “Men have died for less.”

Redwane laughed at Bordan’s threat, tapping the warhammer at his belt. “Come
at me with that toothpick of yours and I’ll knock that damn fool head off your
shoulders. You stood by and allowed Torbrecan’s band of lunatics to march
through the forest unimpeded. Now you’ve got hundreds of them in the city
shouting for his release and Ulric knows how many of them camped outside the
city.”

Bordan shrank before Redwane’s words. Ever since the White Wolves had brought
Torbrecan back to a Middenheim gaol, the mood in the city had been ugly.
Contrary to Ustern’s gloomy prediction, the madman’s followers hadn’t died in
the forest, they had followed their captive leader back to the Fauschlag Rock,
their numbers growing in strength with every village they passed through.

Hundreds had entered the city before Renweard had closed the gates to their
kind. Now the growing flock of screaming, dancing and chanting madmen made camp
at the base of the rock, whipping themselves into deliriums of agony-fuelled
rage. A group of the ragged lunatics had set themselves ablaze and hurled
themselves from the top of the rock, tumbling like falling stars to their doom
below. Such heinous acts and their doom-laden presence set the entire populace
of Middenheim on edge, and tension spread like a plague to every nook and cranny
of the cloud-wreathed city.

“If they are camped around the rock, then surely it is the Way Keeper’s duty
to break up these fanatics’ camp and disperse them,” said Bordan.

“Oh, it is, is it?” said Orsa, the barrel-chested and big-hearted man who
sought only to see the good in men. Redwane liked him a great deal, though he
knew there was no love lost between Orsa and Bordan. “Telling me how to do my
job are you? Fancy becoming the Way Keeper, do you?”

“No,” said Bordan. “It was just a suggestion.”

Orsa grunted and shook his head.

“Duly noted, Forest Lord, duly noted,” said Orsa, turning his attention to
Myrsa and giving his report. “We’ve suffered increased attacks on the workers
building the great road, and I’ve authorised new watch-houses to be built along
the route it needs to take through the forest, but even they’re proving
vulnerable to sustained attack. One was burned to the ground by the forest
beasts last week, and another would have fallen but for timely aid from the
Berserker King’s warriors.”