Grombrindal: Chronicles of the Wanderer (Warhammer Age of Sigmar) by David Guymer

Author:David Guymer [Guymer, David]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2022-10-29T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Two

Kolram Dunrakul, Dispossessed lord of the Dunrakul Clan and king of Karag Dawrkhaz, frowned across the mile or so of subterranean hall that separated the two armies. His beard guard crunched into its new shape, the shimmering pattern of silver and bronze rings adopting their more wrathful expression.

The Dunrow Deeping – as the old maps marked the halls – had been infested by grots of the Kneebite, Deffstinger and Yellowstripe Spiderfang since before the final departure of the Last King to Azyr, and the evidence of their occupation was in the shame of every stone. Webbing strung from column to column, the faces of Kolram’s ancestors cocooned in black silk, rendering whole swathes of floor impassable and glistening from the furthest walls like spit. Most of the glimstone sconces were empty. Those that had escaped the grots’ inquisitive fingers guttered evilly, corrupted by the long hand of Chaos during the Dunrakul’s years of exile. The occasional scrawny limb or spider-leg poked out of a pile of detritus, but otherwise it appeared as though the Spiderfang had given up the Deeping before the Dunrakul had fallen out of marching order and formed into battle lines.

Clan warriors in royal bronze and knee-length mail locked shields and made a wall. Stern blocks of heavily armoured Ironbreakers refused both flanks. Quarrellers and handgun-armed Thunderers followed them into position. Engineers pushed organ guns and cannon up onto hills of rubble, hammering wedges under their wheels so that they would not roll down again the first time they were fired. A quartet of sturdily built Hammerers set down the royal litter while two more, hand-chosen as the strongest in the clan, hurled the Dunrakul oathstone as far ahead of the battle line as they could. To a smattering of restrained cheers, and the grumbling of a few longbeards who recalled his father, the late King Kurun Dunrakul, having once mounted a stone better, Kolram stepped down from his litter and climbed gruffly up onto the oathstone.

With an expression that, had it been cast in bronze instead of aged flesh, could have been mistaken for a clan icon and installed upon a shield, he studied his enemy’s lines.

‘They look so… gaudy.’

The longbeards of his inner council and the Hammerers of his bodyguard nodded sagely.

‘It has always been the Fyreslayers’ way,’ said Braztom.

The lorekeeper was an elderly duardin with a frosted monocle wedged into one eye against the side of a bulb nose. He leant against the handles of a gilt-banded trolley, his white-blond beard wisping across the cushioned interior that held the bronze-plated pages of the Dunrakul Kron. The ancient tome was a detailed history of every wrong done to the clan over the three-and-a-half millennia since their first establishment in Karag Dawrkhaz, continuing through their lengthy exile in Azyr, and picking up without pause following their return. In rare moments of solitude, Kolram would sit in the throne of his distant fathers, flick through the great Kron’s yellowed pages, and reflect on how much work

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