The ghosts of barak mino.., p.1
The Ghosts Of Barak-Minoz, page 1
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Contents
Cover
Warhammer Age of Sigmar
The Ghosts of Barak-Minoz
Notes on the Duardin Language
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Notes
About the Author
An Extract from ‘Realmslayer: Legend of the Doomseeker’
Backlist
A Black Library Publication
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The Mortal Realms have been despoiled. Ravaged by the followers of the Chaos Gods, they stand on the brink of utter destruction.
The fortress-cities of Sigmar are islands of light in a sea of darkness. Constantly besieged, their walls are assailed by maniacal hordes and monstrous beasts. The bones of good men are littered thick outside the gates. These bulwarks of Order are embattled within as well as without, for the lure of Chaos beguiles the citizens with promises of power.
Still the champions of Order fight on. At the break of dawn, the Crusader’s Bell rings and a new expedition departs. Storm-forged knights march shoulder to shoulder with resolute militia, stoic duardin and slender aelves. Bedecked in the splendour of war, the Dawnbringer Crusades venture out to found civilisations anew. These grim pioneers take with them the fires of hope. Yet they go forth into a hellish wasteland.
Out in the wilds, hardy colonists restore order to a crumbling world. Haunted eyes scan the horizon for tyrannical reavers as they build upon the bones of ancient empires, eking out a meagre existence from cursed soil and ice-cold seas. By their valour, the fate of the Mortal Realms will be decided.
The ravening terrors that prey upon these settlers take a thousand forms. Cannibal barbarians and deranged murderers crawl from hidden lairs. Martial hosts clad in black steel march from skull-strewn castles. The savage hordes of Destruction batter the frontier towns until no stone stands atop another. In the dead of night come howling throngs of the undead, hungry to feast upon the living.
Against such foes, courage is the truest defence and the most effective weapon. It is something that Sigmar’s chosen do not lack. But they are not always strong enough to prevail, and even in victory, each new battle saps their souls a little more.
This is the time of turmoil. This is the era of war.
This is the Age of Sigmar
NOTES ON THE DUARDIN LANGUAGE
As has been previously noted, the duardin of the Mortal Realms speak a group of mutually intelligible languages derived from Khazalid, the ancient tongue of the duardin empires of the Age of Myth. However, as we saw in our first exploration of this subject, the language of the Kharadron has diverged somewhat from the speech of other duardin, and continues to do so at pace as the society and technology of the Overlords develop in radically different directions to those of other duardin cultures.
Key differences between Khazalid and this new dialect, usually named Kharadrid, include:
1) A large number of novel words relating to Kharadron technology and their lifestyle high in the clouds. Most of these are compound forms of older Khazalid, and are therefore easily worked out by other duardin, if a little bizarre sounding. Even so, as Kharadrid has developed, the compounds themselves have been shortened, and then been compounded with other elements, and these newer words are often incomprehensible to Khazalid speakers.
2) Duardin languages are linked to concepts of clan, permanence, and competence in ways that are not readily comprehensible to other species. Furthermore, forms of formal address are idiosyncratic to time, place and person, posing problems because, for the duardin, these things are essential to meaningful communication.
Having been locked in a desperate technological arms race for centuries, the Kharadron have little time for these niceties, and have thus garnered a reputation of being direct and rude, even among other duardin, who already enjoy this reputation among other species. Traditional cultural concepts have weakened, leading to a certain adumgakit (humanisation) of their way of thought, at least as far as the Dispossessed see it. Kharadron cultural concerns are more to do with science, survival, innovation, limited meritocratic advancement and, above all, profit – much more ephemeral than the old Khazalid certainties. Their language reflects this.
3) Some syntactic changes, largely complications of grammatical forms. The Kharadron favour the use of the conditional tense in cases where other duardin would employ a simple past. Kharadron make greater use of auxiliary verbs to define more precise phases of time. Again, this can be tentatively attributed to their culture. Kharadron civilisation is predicated on speculation and rapid adaptation, both of which set it in opposition to the timeless and traditional mother culture of the karaks.
A good example of this is the doubling in syllables in certain verbal forms. An example here would be the verbal prefixes an and anad. In Khazalid, these mean will/shall/am going to with purpose, and will have done or shall have done.
In Kharadrid the addition of an extra ‘an’ adds further emphasis, signifying a completed action. It is essentially, though not completely, equivalent to perfect verbal forms found in some human languages.
The use of these more definitive forms have seen the associated meanings of the original simpler forms slimmed down. Therefore, in Kharadrid, ‘an’ means will or shall, while ‘anan’ means to do with purpose or definitely will do. ‘Anad’ means will have been doing or shall have been doing while ‘ananad’ means those actions will definitely have been completed. Often, the signifier for past, the suffix ‘it’ will be added to either of these for even greater emphasis. It is important here to stress the importance of contracts and oaths in Kharadron culture in relation to these verbal forms. They are binding promises, even. So, to take the Khazalid verb gand, to find or discover, angand means ‘I will find’, anangand means ‘I really intend to find’, while anangandit means, ‘It is an absolute binding certainty that I will find/will have found.’
As we’ve seen before, all these changes mean that Kharadrid can be very difficult for a duardin from one of the other branches of Grungni’s folk to understand. If a Kharadron speaks clearly and with respect for his listener, he will be understood in the majority of duardin settings, but given the commercial nature of many Kharadron ventures, quite often they don’t want to be.
With a few exceptions, Drekki and his companions are at all times speaking Kharadrid. Their speech has been presented as a slightly stylised common tongue to represent their aeronautical background, except in those instances where there is no direct translation of the sentiments expressed, or merely to highlight one aspect of duardin culture or another. There, the original Khazalid or Kharadrid has been employed with a short explanation.
CHAPTER ONE
AN OLD FRIEND
Not for the first time, Drekki Flynt was in gaol, though for this once it was just for a visit.
‘I’m relieved that you got my message, Captain Flynt,’ said the gaoler. He was an oldbeard of the lower classes, dressed in the prison variant of the copperhats uniform. An ostentatious moustache covered his mouth, still peppered with brown despite his age. ‘He’s been asking after you since he got here, three weeks ago.’
‘It was something of a surprise, I’ll say, being invited to visit a gaol,’ said Drekki. Trokwi, his mechanical drillbill, peered suspiciously from his shoulder. ‘Usually one is compelled.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t give a name?’ asked Kedren Grunnsson, ship’s runesmith and the second member of Drekki’s away party. ‘Any clue, an inkling perhaps?’
Kedren walked behind the captain down the stairs; Adrimm Adrimmsson came after him, muttering under his beard about what a pain this all was. As the gaoler was practically deaf, Kedren had to speak up to be heard.
‘Oh, dear me, no.’ The gaoler took a long, loud sniff. ‘Mad as a bag of half-starved squigs, this one. Sorry business this, but better than some I’ve seen. We often don’t know what to do with the gitzaki.[1] It’s a shame, a crying shame, to see someone of good beard and talent lost to the nuffendrinzakarni,[2] but it could happen to us all, and at least you’ve come.’ The elderly gaoler produced a voluminous handkerchief from a pouch on his belt and blew long and hard into it. The resulting honk echoed up and down the stairs for some time, because the stairs went down a very, very long way. Forever, it seemed. They were wide and steel, well wrought with aetherlamps set in the risers to show the way. Such wa
There was a touch of despair on the air, and the chill of damp. They were not far from port-bottom, and the cool indifference of Ulgu’s clouds beyond the final, outermost hulls.
‘Ooh, do forgive the pace,’ said the gaoler, who was shuffling ever so slowly. ‘It’s my knees, y’see. Not as spry as I was when I fared the airs like you. Invalided me out, because of me knees, though I wanted to stay. I envy you.’
‘It’s quite all right, father longbeard,’ said Drekki respectfully.
Although it wasn’t. The old duardin’s pace was maddening. It made Drekki’s calves ache. Despite its aethermatic boost, his armour weighed on him hard at that speed, made as it was from heavy ironstar metal. His gold-capped beard braids clicked on his chest with every torturous step. The lack of his weapons at his hips made him feel vulnerable. They’d been forced to hand those over to the guardians at the entrance, and in Mhornar, being unarmed always made a duardin uneasy. He wanted to be in and out again as quickly as could be. That simply was not happening, and Drekki suspected the sluggish pace was done for show. These minor functionaries often had an officiousness that outreached their power. The gaoler was no exception.
‘I seen many an arkanaut go gitzak in my time,’ the oldbeard droned on. ‘One too many ventures gone wrong, lose all your aether on the diamond tables. A bad voyage, a poor choice, a doomed investment. So many ways a duardin can lose his way and his mind.’ The gaoler shook his head sorrowfully. ‘A crying shame.’
‘Captain would know all about those kinds of failure,’ grumbled Adrimm from the back. ‘I believe he’s sampled them all.’ His black eyebrows beetled beneath his shock of hair. In his dark face, his eyes glinted with permanent disapproval.
‘All right, Fair-weather, all right,’ Drekki said. ‘Knock off the whining in front of the nice oldbeard.’
Kedren sucked his beard into his mouth disapprovingly. Runic beads clattered. Paler skinned than Drekki and Adrimm, in the ghostly light he looked like he’d returned from the dead. ‘Why did you bring Adrimm along?’ he said, jerking a leather-gloved thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ve had enough of his grumbaki[3] ways.’
Drekki sighed. ‘I don’t rightly know,’ he said, wishing the gaoler would pick up the pace, and wondering if he might go that bit faster if Drekki gave him a push. ‘Some sort of masochism, I expect. His scowls are thagi[4] blows to the back.’ Drekki paused for effect. ‘The weak, poorly aimed dagger blows of a feeble, half-starved grobi!’ he boomed, filling the stairwell with his voice. ‘But blows nonetheless.’
He turned a little, the better to see Adrimm’s scowl. Drekki winked. The lines on Adrimm’s forehead became deep as agrul.[5] Trokwi gave a fluting titter. His little metal claws scratched on Drekki’s armour.
Muffled, indistinct voices cried out from below.
‘Oh now, hush hush, please, captain!’ the gaoler scolded. ‘Best not get the prisoners excited.’
‘My apologies,’ said Drekki. He almost sounded like he meant it.
‘Anyways, these gitzaki,’ said the gaoler, returning to his subject in the dogged manner of a duardin determined to make a point. ‘They end up here, I takes ’em in. They should be at the zankulidawu[6] instead, but there just isn’t the money to treat ’em all, nor the beds to keep ’em in. Way I sees it, someone’s got to look after ’em, though don’t it cost?’
‘Why you?’ said Kedren gruffly. ‘Never known a duardin of Mhornar show such altruism.’
‘Oh, we kindly types exist!’ said the gaoler. ‘Mhornar’s got a reputation, that’s fair, but what kind of duardin would we be if we let the disadvantaged suffer so? Call it my social duty.’
Kedren leaned forward to whisper to Drekki. ‘He’ll want money out of this.’
‘Naturally,’ said Drekki more loudly, sure the oldbeard was deaf enough not to hear. ‘He’s been building up to asking all the way down.’
They reached a short landing that ended in an armoured door. ‘We’ll have you to your mate soon enough,’ said the gaoler, pulling up a ring of many keys. On the other side of the door, the voices shouted loudly.
‘We’ll see if he’s any friend of ours,’ said Drekki, in case the gaoler thought he’d get some gold come what may.
‘Hmm,’ said the gaoler at his keys. ‘No.’ He moved a key around the ring with a teeth-grating squeal. He let it drop with a tiny clink. ‘Let me see.’ He picked another key and squinted. ‘Aha! Oh, no.’ A slow and steady move around the keyring followed. ‘Oh, dear me.’ He pulled out his handkerchief and gave another long and impressive parp. Then it was back to the keys. ‘Knees and eyes, knees and eyes! They always go the first, don’t they?’
‘Do you, by any chance, need a hand there?’ Kedren offered. He trapped his impatience behind his manners as skilfully as he trapped magic in metal.
‘Oh no, no, I come through this door several times a day!’ chortled the gaoler. ‘I’ll have you in in a jiffy.’ He paused, and frowned at Kedren’s garb. Kedren was clad in an arkanaut suit like the rest, but he wore his straps differently, and it was decorated with the symbols of the Dispossessed. ‘Not usual to see a runesmith up in the clouds,’ said the gaoler, as he dropped his sixth key with a clink. ‘How did you come to serve with someone like Flynt, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Ah, actually, that’s an interesting tale…’ Kedren began.
‘But it is also a long tale, and we are lacking in time.’ Drekki jammed his objection into the gap between Kedren’s inhalation of breath and exhalation of explanation. ‘Do you think we could move this along a little? I am quite busy.’
This last utterance had the shape, character and seeming of the truth, but was in fact a lie. His critics, who were many, might have said Drekki had only gone to the gaol because he had nowhere to be and nothing to do. Barak-Mhornar had proven as barren of opportunity as the most distant rocks of the Skyshoals. He was curious, though. When a message like that comes, what else are you going to do?
Word had come via a youngbeard from the Runners Guild. It was long, it was burdened with bureaucratic language, it had carried a hefty delivery fee, but the short version was…
‘Dropped right out of the sky in Chamon, they say, right into their nets,’ said the gaoler. He’d said it before a couple of times. A repetitious character and the need to fill the time while he found the right key drove him to say it again. ‘They were deep in the Skyshoals, bold lot, venturing that far towards the edge. Anyways, this fellow lands in their nets, ranting and raving he was about the Eye, and the drop, and lost Barak-Minoz. Heh! Not heard that name for a long time. We lose a lot of outposts. Name of the game, when you’re into expansion, quick and cheap.’ He spoke this as self-evident, though what this runny-nosed oldster knew about deep-air colonisation none of Drekki’s crew could say. ‘So they brought him here, to Barak-Mhornar in Ulgu, along with a hold full of fish. Didn’t know what to do with him, them fisherduardin. Said he just kept telling the same tale over and over, all the way back. So into a comfy cell with him, where he’s been this past month. Quiet, he’s been, mostly. Muttering. And then he said… Aha!’
‘Aha?’ said Adrimm, who’d heard the story as many times as the others, but was less blessed with brains. ‘That’s what he said?’
‘No, lad. He didn’t. I did. I found the right one!’ The gaoler held up a key. ‘What the gitzaki said was, “Captain Flynt! Get me Captain Flynt!” Then he went back to the raving. Poor fellow doesn’t even remember his own name. “Captain Flynt!” is the most sense we can get out of him.’ The oldbeard stuck the key into the lock and twisted. The lock clunked impressively. The door swung inward. A chilly breeze blew at them, full of shouting.
They were looking into a large block of cells. A lofty room, twenty ufzhen[7] high and fifty long, with two floors, the second open down the centre with galleries against each wall. Runs of ten cells on either side of the room and on both floors gave forty cells in total, all uniformly small. Three armed duardin in the uniform of the imkazbargi[8] walked the block, copper badges jangling on their belts and peaked caps, beards trimmed short for safety, hitting the bars with their aetherprods.
