Blood of the Flayer - Richard Strachan by Warhammer

Author:Warhammer [Warhammer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781789996425
Published: 2020-01-09T09:46:16+00:00

About the Author

Richard Strachan is a writer and editor who lives with his partner and two children in Edinburgh, UK. Despite his best efforts, both children stubbornly refuse to be interested in tabletop wargaming. His first story for Black Library, ‘The Widow Tide’, appeared in the Warhammer Horror Anthology Maledictions.

An extract from Profit’s Ruin.

Brokrin Ullissonn looked about the guildhall, his eyes roving across the massive cast-iron ancestor-lords who stared back at him from the ceiling. The ornaments in each duardin’s beard were picked out in a dazzling array of gemstones. He scrutinised the rich hangings that spilled down the sides of the metal pillars which supported the domed roof. The fabric was finest cloth-of-gold and the rune-glyphs woven across them had been dyed the rich purple that could only be harvested from the ink of the harkraken. The walls of the assembly room were covered in long slabs of black granite, each a dozen feet across yet thin as a beardling’s whiskers. The stone panels created the impression of mountain halls and vaults deep beneath the hills where the ancestors of the Kharadron had once reigned. The floor, however, dispelled such illusions. Wrought from crushed lapis and shining with the glow of pearl, the tiles under Brokrin’s feet conjured the image of lofty heights far above the tallest mountains. The new domain the Kharadron had claimed for their own.

Brokrin stroked his plaited blond beard, an almost wistful look creeping into his eyes. How much he would rather be out there among the clouds, steering his ship into unexplored skies! There had always been a streak of wanderlust in his veins, something that made him impatient and restless if he tarried too long in one place. The longest he had ever spent in the sky-hold of Barak-Zilfin was the six months it had taken to repair the Iron Dragon after her fight with the monster Ghazul. Only a few days since returning to the port after their escape from Finnolf’s Fortress, and he was keen to be away again.

Though this time Brokrin had good reason to want to be away.

Except for the few custodians he had left aboard the Iron Dragon, the rest of Brokrin’s crew were with him in the assembly-room. Nearest to him was the navigator, Mortrimm, chewing on the clay stem of his pipe. The white-bearded duardin glanced over at Brokrin and frowned at the captain’s wandering attention. He gave him a nudge of his elbow and nodded to the far side of the room.

Brokrin reluctantly returned his attention to the tiered rows of seats where the merchants of the Tenguild League, the backers of the Iron Dragon’s last voyage, glowered down at him and his crew. Each of the traders seemed to vie with his neighbour in the ostentation of his garb. Richly brocaded jackets with jewelled buttons and elaborate sashes of silk were accompanied by rakish hats, sagging beneath the weight of rare feathers sewn into their brims. The gloved fingers of every merchant were a riot of rings and gilded nails, while their beards were thick with ornaments of diamond and ruby.

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