WARLORDS OF KARAK EIGHT PEAKS by Guy Haley & David Guymer

Author:Guy Haley & David Guymer
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2019-03-05T14:05:47+00:00

CHAPTER SEVEN

Thordun squeezed the trigger of his handgun. He roared as the spinning barrel of the repeater sprayed indiscriminate death into the verminous hordes. The mechanism clicked empty, the overheated metal of the barrel glowing hot in the smoky pall. It was so thick he could no longer see anything else. The illumination from the stalled weapon conjured horrors of memory and shadow, transient flashes of filthy rags, the reflected gleam of sinister red eyes. Screaming, he rammed the burning barrel like a spear into the next shape to streak past. It screamed as though gelded. Thordun nearly choked on the waft of burned fur.

He had been a thief, not a killer. There had been times, of course, times when fate had forced his hand, when dark gods laughed at the mockery of dwarfish kind they had made of him.

Throwing down his handgun, he drew his brace of pistols. He spun at a noise and aimed into the smog but the shape was gone. He checked his breathing. This was not Nuln, it was the Ninth Deep of Karak Azul, but the swirling shadows of ratkin shapes haunted him like shades of his past. He spun again at a fresh noise and fired, propelling a lead bullet through the cheek of a charging clanrat. It fell with a whimper and Thordun finished it off, smashing the ivory butt of his emptied pistol into the back of its skull.

Its struggles ceased. In the skaven’s place, he saw the weeping crown of a night watchman, blood smearing his pistol and staining the sleeves of his jerkin. The man lay face down, blood streaming into the gutter in the rain. It was dark, moonless beneath banks of cloud. Rain drenched Thordun’s beard, hiding his tears. He crouched by the body. It was a boy. He rose with a curse, wiping blood from his pistol and reholstering it. There was no time to reload. He drew his father’s hammer in its place, kissing the rune inscribed into its head as he regarded the skaven corpse.

‘One more to the scales, father. I will see you pass Gazul’s Gate yet.’

‘Speaking with the dead, Splitter? You were always an odd one.’

Thordun spun, lowering his weapon fractionally when he saw it was not a giant black-furred ratman but the hairy bulk of Bernard Servat. The man was breathing heavily, betraying his years. The right side of his face was slick with blood and lumps of gristle stuck to the head of his flail. The Bretonnian’s eyebrow arched warily at the continuing suspicion in the dwarf’s regard.

‘What’s your problem?’ he asked.

‘Just considering my mistakes.’

Bernard leered. Suddenly he struck, his off hand flashing for Thordun’s head. Thordun ducked aside, and Bernard’s short sword skewered a charging clanrat through the chest. The creature’s scream pierced the din as its own momentum thrust itself right down to the hilt of his blade. ‘Speaking of mistakes.’

‘This is not the time!’ Thordun shouted, firing his last pistol round into the murk and cursing when it failed to repay him with a scream.

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