THE LOST KINSMEN

 	William King


 	The old dwarf was dying, slowly and in great pain. Felix Jaeger looked at the torn and mangled creature and at the trail of blood, which vanished up the rocky pathway. He tried to guess what it had taken to drive those broken limbs over the rough ground. It must have taken a superhuman effort of will. Felix knew he could not have done it. He would have given up and died.

 	‘Avenge me, strangers. Do not let me die in vain,’ gasped the dwarf. Felix could see blood dribbling through his smashed teeth. He reached out to grasp at Felix’s leg with the stumps of fingers that had been cauterised in naked flame. Felix looked at the burned meat and fought down an urge to be sick.

 	‘Who has done this, brother?’ asked Gotrek Gurnisson in a voice as cold as the north wind. His shadow fell across the dying dwarf. It looked up at Gotrek’s crest of red-dyed hair, his jangling ornaments, his muscular tattooed form.

 	‘The lost kinsmen did it, Trollslayer. They found us as we panned for gold under Rushing Falls. They took us by surprise and staked us out and tortured us. Then they let me go.’

 	The dying dwarf’s breath came in painful gasps and there was a horrible gurgling sound deep in his chest.

 	‘I tried to get help. I tried, but I cannot walk. They have broken my legs. I am too late to go and get help and they knew it. Ah, my family…’

 	Felix could see that the dwarf was raving, trying desperately to hold onto life, to tell his tale. Gotrek Gurnisson bent and cradled his head with surprising gentleness. The dwarf reached up and stretched out his hand imploringly.

 	‘It was the lost kinsmen. They were responsible. Avenge me, stranger. Free them. It was the lost kinsm… uurhgh!’

 	His mouth filled with blood and his eyes opened wide. Gotrek laid his head down gently and reached out and closed his eyes.

 	‘It is over. Go to your ancestors, brother. Your spirit is free,’ he said.

 	The Trollslayer stood up and Felix shuddered at the look of fury that passed over his face.

 	‘Rest easy,’ Gotrek said. ‘You will be avenged.’

 	They made their way through the long, windswept pass. Felix pulled his cloak tighter against the dry cold. The northern tip of the Worlds Edge Mountains was the coldest place he had ever been. Gotrek was staring upslope towards the north. A great brooding rage seemed to be driving him onward.

 	‘The lost kinsmen,’ he muttered and shook his head.

 	‘Who are they?’ Felix asked warily. Gotrek turned and stared at him. Felix could see his knuckles had gone white where they gripped his axe. The Trollslayer spat on the ground.

 	‘Don’t ask!’ he said dangerously.

 	‘I just did,’ Felix responded. ‘If I’m going to risk my life fighting them I want to know why I’m doing it. Who are they and why do you hate them so?’

 	Gotrek was silent for a long time. Felix wondered whether the dwarf was going to speak or whether he was going to curse him and send him on his way.

 	‘I do not hate them,’ said Gotrek eventually. A complex mixture of emotions was evident in his voice: sadness, embarrassment and hate. ‘I hate what made them. I hate what they tell me about myself.’

 	Felix looked down at him, confused. As they progressed on up the valley, Gotrek continued to speak.

 	‘Long have we dwarfs stood against the Old Dark Powers. From the Dawn Ages to the Time of Ending we have ever been numbered among their greatest foes, and for good reason. It seemed that we were immune to the warping power that is Chaos’s greatest strength. No children were born in the dwarf holds who bore the taint of mutation. Our armies did not turn into shambling horrors when the tide of Chaos flowed over them.’

 	He looked up at the distant mountain. ‘We thought ourselves immune to the power of the Great Mutator. It was a source of pride. Other races, such as short-lived men or treacherous, sybaritic elves, might fall under its sway, but not us.’

 	Gotrek laughed bitterly. ‘As with so much else that gave us pride, our seeming immunity played us false. During the last great incursion of Chaos, some of our armies were caught in warp storms more fierce than any ever remembered. They vanished and we thought them dead.’

 	Felix knew what was coming. ‘They weren’t dead, though,’ he said.

 	‘Correct, manling. Soon we heard reports of black-clad dwarfs marching out of the Wastes. When we sent armies to aid our allies we discovered it was true. The full power of the Great Mutator had been laid upon our armies and they had changed. Our warriors found themselves fighting their own kinsmen, changed and daemonic. You cannot imagine what a horror that is for a dwarf, manling.’

 	The Trollslayer fell once more into brooding silence. They stalked on into the gathering gloom. Far, far to the north, Felix made out the dancing rainbow aurora that marked the beginnings of the Chaos Wastes.

 	With a final blow Felix cut down his opponent. There was a surprising look of gratitude on the creature’s face. The first thing that Felix had noticed when he confronted them was the look of sheer misery on their faces.

 	The last screams of the dying faded. Felix looked up from the corpse of the albino dwarf he had slain. His arm was giving him pain. He tore a strip from his cloak and began to bind the deep cut. He looked over at Gotrek.

 	The Trollslayer looked as if he had been working in an abattoir. He was covered in blood and filth. A lot of the blood was his own. His crest was matted. At his feet lay six small, dead figures. 

 	Gotrek came over and stood beside Felix.

 	‘We were lucky,’ Felix said, ‘to catch them revelling with stolen brandy.’

 	The dwarf nodded. It had been a close fight. The dwarfs seemed driven by self-loathing and had fought with no concern for their lives.

 	‘We have freed them,’ said Gotrek.

 	‘What do you mean?’ asked Felix.

 	Gotrek gestured down at the dead Chaos dwarf. Felix could see that a change was coming over it. Its sharp tusks were retracting and its needle-like teeth had become normal once more. Its pallor had ceased to be sickly white. It was starting to look like an ordinary dwarf.

 	‘Their spirits fight against the grip of the Mutator. In death they are sometimes set free.’

 	There was a hint of pride in his voice. He bent over and closed the dwarf’s eyes.

 	‘It is over. Go to your ancestors, brother. Your spirit is free,’ the Trollslayer said gently.