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Profit's Ruin – Extract

A Black Library Publication

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Chapter One

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. Around the traders, liveried servants hurried to refill ivory flagons with the headiest of beers and richest of ales.

Not all the duardin who bustled around the merchants were mere attendants. There were a number of logisticators too, scrambling from one trader to another with sheets of copper. Brokrin could guess what had been etched onto those metal pages. Tallies of expenditures, a catalogue of what it had cost the Tenguild League to outfit the Iron Dragon for her last voyage. Other records would denote the profit these merchants had expected to recover from the voyage. Still others would display the gains made by other ships… and the guilds who had backed them.

‘I’d rather go another round with Ghazul than stand here and have these leeches scowl at me,’ Brokrin grumbled under his breath.

Mortrimm exhaled a mouthful of smoke. ‘So would I,’ he muttered. ‘Ghazul can’t revoke your charter. The Tenguild League can.’ He gave Brokrin a sharp look. ‘That’s why you need to pay attention and show them some respect.’

‘I’m not some cadet fresh from the Academy,’ Brokrin muttered. ‘I know the way things work. No venture can escape politics. The backers always have to feel in charge.’ He shook his head. ‘They sit behind in pampered luxury while the ships are out there braving the skies in their name.’

‘You’ve got that same stubborn streak in you as your father,’ Mortrimm observed, just a touch of exasperation in his voice. ‘When you’ve the choice between pragmatism and ideals, you always choose ideals. You know how this works. The backers have to feel in control of their investment at all times. They need to know their money is going to turn a profit. Not just to enrich their coffers but to assuage their confidence that they’re in control even when their ships are away.’

‘I’m not a cadet,’ Brokrin reminded Mortrimm again. ‘I know the way things are and how they’re done. You helped me find my footing when I was starting out, but I’ve got my sky-legs now.’

Mortrimm gave Brokrin a sombre smile, but didn’t say anything more. The old navigator had been something of a mentor to Brokrin, and there was still more than a trace of teacher and pupil in their relationship even after all these years.

Brokrin turned his attention back to the Tenguild League. Each time a logisticator brought another report to them, the scowls on the faces of the merchants deepened. They were being told that their latest venture had not only failed to bring them profit, but it had incurred a loss on their investment. The impact on their coffers would be insult enough, but the impact against their confidence was something else. They would need to do something to reaffirm their control.

‘That’s the ugliest crowd this side of an orruk mob,’ the young privateer Gotramm commented, his words just loud enough to reach Brokrin’s ears.

‘Keep quiet and look attentive,’ Horgarr, the Iron Dragon’s endrinmaster, told Gotramm. ‘We’re in for it enough already,’ he added in a low tone that Brokrin strained to hear.

Brokrin could guess what was on the mind of every duardin on his crew. The Tenguild League held his charter, and by extension they could claim both his ship and his command. There was, however, a way Brokrin could negate that threat. Within the Kharadron Code there was a stricture which detailed the subject of mutiny, and how a ship’s captain could incur no responsibility for a voyage when his command was taken away from him. Brokrin had been against the disastrous trip to Finnolf’s Fortress. Egged on by the avaricious Skaggi, the Iron Dragon’s crew had staged a mutiny against him, turning command of the ship over to Gotramm.

Yes, there was an out for Brokrin if he told his backers about the mutiny. It would mean the ruin of the crew. The mutineers would be impressed into indentured service until they made full restitution to the Tenguild League. None of them would ever sail on a ship again – even the most hard-pressed captain would not sign mutineers to his crew.

Brokrin had told his crew he would forget what had happened, but now that they were back in Barak-Zilfin and with their backers scowling down at them, he was certain there were some like Horgarr who had doubts about how much Brokrin would sacrifice for them. Doing as they feared and revealing what had happened to the backers was certainly the pragmatic thing to do. But as Mortrimm said, he was always choosing ideals over pragmatism. He clung to the romantic notion that the crew of a ship were like a family, ready to risk anything in their power for one another. He hadn’t saved these duardin from the creatures of Chaos simply to see them ruined by a bunch of balance sheet-obsessed backers.

One of the merchants stood up from his seat and smoothed the front of his jacket. His beringed fingers toyed with the ornaments laced through his beard. Zagrimm, often called the Coin-Pincher behind his back, was notorious for his sharp dealing. Somehow it didn’t surprise Brokrin that the miser would be the first to demand a reckoning.

‘The accounts present a dour picture, Captain Brokrin,’ Zagrimm said. ‘The tally of expenses is quite concerning to us. More so when you return with empty holds.’

Before Brokrin could try to respond, Zagrimm was addressed by a merchant seated several tiers above him.

‘It has been a poor season for everyone,’ the trader said. He wore a golden beard-sheath and had stains of powdered sapphire under each of his eyes. The gromril pipe that protruded from his lips had an aetherwork bowl, its chemical flame ensuring it would never go cold. The long coat he wore was of the finest cut and adorned with dragonhorn buttons, the rings on his fingers more resplendent than those of any duardin in the guildhall.

‘I know it has been a poor season, Orrik,’ Zagrimm replied, irritation struggling with deference for command of his tone. ‘But even a poor season should bring something more than debt.’ He reached to the closest logisticator and plucked the copper page from his hand. ‘You’ve looked at the accounts. There’s nothing there to show for our investment!’

Orrik nodded slowly. ‘A poor season,’ he repeated, apparently unable to add anything more to his argument. Some of the traders were looking towards him, a thoughtful if unhappy look on their faces.

Zagrimm would not be placated, however. ‘The Iron Dragon’s gained a reputation for poor seasons,’ he stated. His eyes darted back to Brokrin and he pointed at the captain. ‘Ever since you ran into the monster Ghazul your ship has been unprofitable. A sinkhole for investors.’

‘But it was you who suggested we back the Iron Dragon,’ one of the other merchants reminded the miser. ‘You suggested that her captain would be agreeable to a smaller share of the profits because of his bad luck.’

‘That was when I thought there would be some profit to be shared out,’ Zagrimm said. ‘Before I understood that all this talk of bad luck and curses was more than just idle rumour.’

‘The fact that the Iron Dragon’s the only ship to ever tangle with Ghazul and remain in the sky does not sound like bad luck,’ Gotramm objected, his voice ringing out through the assembly-room. The traders frowned at the young privateer, irritated by his outburst.

‘Aye, Captain Brokrin has brought our ship through skies no other cap’n could,’ the first mate, Vorki, added, to the annoyance of the merchants.

‘It was the cap’n’s planning that saw us vanquish a two-headed dragon,’ the one-eyed gunner Arrik stated. ‘If not for him, none of us would be here and there’d be no ship at all.’

Brokrin’s heart swelled with pride to hear his crew rushing to his defence. He knew, however, that their support would count for little with the backers.

Zagrimm made a dismissive wave of his hands. ‘None of that changes the matter at hand. The Iron Dragon’s holds are as barren as a beerhall on Brynruf. There’s nothing to share out to any of you and very little for those who backed your voyage to recover their investment.’

Brokrin bristled at the way Zagrimm looked at him. There was a sneering ugliness in his eyes. ‘To recover our expenses, we’ll take the ship,’ Zagrimm pronounced.

‘You can’t sell the Iron Dragon,’ Gotramm protested.

Zagrimm nodded in agreement. ‘You have me there. Your ship has garnered such an ill reputation nobody would buy her. So our only recourse is to break her up and sell her for scrap.’

The trader’s announcement brought snarls of outrage from the crew. Even a few of the other merchants looked uncomfortable with Zagrimm’s intentions.

Brokrin stepped forwards, turned and motioned to his crew to quiet down. Once their outrage was dulled to a few sullen grumbles, he faced Zagrimm and the other merchants.

‘There’s no fault in the Iron Dragon. She’s a good ship. It is I who have failed you, not her. If there’s no captain in Barak-Zilfin who would take her, you could easily secure a handsome bounty by selling her to another sky-hold.’

The suggestion brought new objections from the crew. The duardin of the Tenguild League whispered amongst themselves. It was Orrik who vetoed Brokrin’s suggestion.

‘To sell a ship built in the coghalls of Barak-Zilfin to another sky-hold is a serious matter,’ Orrik stated. ‘It is all but forbidden by the Code. We’d have to petition the Admirals Council for permission. Unless they could be convinced that none of our engineering advantages would be bestowed on another hold by selling the Iron Dragon, they’ll not permit it. No, the only way to regain our investment is by scrapping the ship.’

Brokrin felt as though the bottom dropped out of his belly. He was empty inside, all hollowed out by this talk of scrapping his ship. The windmasters of Barak-Zilfin revered the ships they sailed upon. He would sooner shave his beard and endure that life of disgrace and shame than see the Iron Dragon turned to scrap. The angry bellows of his crew said that they felt the same way.

Orrik banged his flagon down on the arm of his chair, demanding silence from the Iron Dragon’s crew. When he had it, he leaned forwards and peered intently into Brokrin’s eyes.

‘You’re an experienced hand, Brokrin. Even when stories started about your ship being under Ghazul’s curse, you always managed to bring something back for your investors.’

A chill crawled down Brokrin’s spine as he heard Orrik speak. He was an experienced captain and he wasn’t naïve enough to miss the inference behind the trader’s statement. He decided to feign ignorance just the same.

‘This time the wind was against me,’ he said.

Orrik tapped his beard-sheath with one of his rings. ‘But maybe there were mitigating circumstances? Things that were beyond your control… and your responsibility.’

Even the other merchants knew what Orrik was fishing for now. Zagrimm sputtered in protest, but he knew that the matter was no longer something the Tenguild League had control over. The Code was very clear on that point. If there had been a mutiny on the Iron Dragon they could not hold Brokrin responsible for the voyage.

Brokrin returned Orrik’s expectant gaze. It was almost beyond belief that the wealthiest member of the Tenguild League was offering him such a chance. If he told them about the mutiny, then he would save both his charter and the Iron Dragon. The backers would have to accept their losses and seek redress from the mutineers.

The hollow emptiness expanded to rush through his entire body. Brokrin felt as though an icy hand had closed around his heart. He could feel the eyes of his crew on him, none of them daring to draw a breath while they waited to hear what he would tell the merchants. It was their lives and freedom against his charter and the Iron Dragon.

‘I’ve told you everything that happened,’ Brokrin said, forcing the words out before he could reconsider them. ‘Our venture failed to find a profit. There’s nothing more I can add.’

Zagrimm settled down, a relieved smile on his face. Several of the other merchants had similar expressions. Not all of them were as prosperous as Orrik, or as ready to accept a loss.

Orrik sank back in his chair. ‘Thank you, Captain Brokrin,’ he said, his tone terse, his words clipped. ‘You and your crew may go. You’ll be informed of our decision.’

The bright light of the sun bore down upon Brokrin as the aethermatic lift carried him up the side of the sky-hold. Through the clouds below Barak-Zilfin he could just make out the shining waters of the Alloy Ocean and the snow-capped peaks of the Ferrium Mountains. A frigate in the blue and bronze colours of the hold was sailing away towards the north, its endrin glimmering in the sunlight. He felt a tinge of envy seeing the sky-ship soaring away on some new venture. There were few things he would not have given to trade places with the frigate’s captain.

One of those things, of course, was the Iron Dragon. She was secured in her berth far below, watched by guards from the Tenguild League. It was rare, but not unheard of, for the crew of a seized ship to cast aside both the Code and their honour and try to take their vessel back. Seldom did such a reckless and desperate ploy accomplish anything. Those few who did succeed in stealing their ship would then have to face the armadas of Barak-Zilfin. Even if they escaped, their lot would be that of renegades, shunned by all Kharadron and with grudge-marks posted on their heads by their own sky-hold.

By Grungni, though, it was tempting! If Brokrin could have done it by himself, he might have tried it. But he wouldn’t let the duardin of his crew risk themselves in such an endeavour. If it were in him to sacrifice them for his ship, he would have done so in the guildhall when there was a real chance of getting the Iron Dragon back.

The metal basket of the lift sped upwards, bearing Brokrin away from the sky-hold’s inner levels. The workshops and markets, forges and refineries were far below now. He was climbing past the clan-houses and arkanaut academies, rising above the coghalls and shipyards where Barak-Zilfin’s great vessels were designed and constructed. Higher and higher he was borne, until the basket was speeding through a layer of grey cloud. Condensation dripped down the glass walls of the basket, further obscuring Brokrin’s sight. When the lift pierced the mist, he was greeted to a sight he had only ever seen from afar before. The towering windfasts of Barak-Zilfin’s most powerful duardin.

Far above the alchemical smoke and smells of the levels below, the mighty towers stabbed up into the azure sky. Colossal sculptures hulked outwards from each facade, stern visages turned towards the heavens above. Great domed roofs bulged from the peak of each windfast, their golden tiles blazing in the sunlight. Elaborate arrays of metal shafts rose still higher, lightning rods cast into the shape of protective runes and familial sigils, clan-brands and the emblems of a hundred guilds. Scattered around the windfasts, and predominating at the edges of the sky-hold, were immense fortifications bristling with cannons and torpedoes. Brokrin could just make out squads of armed duardin patrolling along the battlements.

The lift came to a halt at the periphery of an elevated walkway of cold-forged steel. The writhing scrollwork of the railing impressed him with its intricate design. He was less impressed by the lone duardin who stood waiting for him. If not for the banner he carried, Brokrin would have found the scraggly-bearded servant utterly forgettable. But the clan-glyph on the banner made him someone of keen interest. It was the clan-glyph of Orrik Goldhand.

‘You’ll follow me, Captain Brokrin,’ the servant said as he sketched the slightest of bows. Without waiting for an answer, the duardin swung his master’s banner up over one shoulder and marched away.

Brokrin tugged his beard in annoyance at the servant’s impertinence. There were few people he would take that kind of arrogance from. His annoyance only increased when he reflected that short list would include anyone associated with Orrik. It wasn’t often that a Kharadron of his rank was called to Barak-Zilfin’s sunside. He was willing to bet it was even rarer when such a summons promised a captain a way to save his ship from the scrapyard.

Brokrin swallowed his bruised pride and followed Orrik’s servant along the walkway. They were a good hundred feet above what could be classed as sunside’s street level. The elevated path wound past several of the towers, but never did it connect with any of them. It was only when they approached a lofty spire that bore the same clan-glyph his guide carried that Brokrin appreciated the truth. The pathway, and perhaps even the lift itself, were only for the use of Orrik and those engaged in his service.

The servant paused outside an arched doorway that opened between the legs of a cast-bronze ancestor-lord some fifty feet tall. Brokrin could not see exactly what his guide did at the door and the gilded pane of runes that stood beside it. Whatever it was, the heavy door was pulled inwards by an aethermatic engine, and was then swung aside by the same growling machinery. The servant gestured to the portal.

‘The master awaits you in the conservatory,’ the scraggly-bearded duardin stated.

Brokrin was led down a long hall, its floor tiled in dark marble, the walls adorned with a collection of golden grudge-masks that was as impressive as it was extensive. He was no expert on appraising the value or artistry of the pieces, but he could recognise the dulled sheen that characterised some of them and indicated their great age. Just in raw mineral value, the collection could finance a dozen expeditions like Brokrin’s last venture.

Yet the circumspect entry to the hall and the relative paucity of connecting corridors and rooms made Brokrin suspect this was anything but the regular entrance to Orrik’s tower. This was for receiving guests in a more direct and businesslike manner. And even here the merchant-lord wanted to impress visitors with his wealth and power. The grudge-masks were more than simple ostentation: they carried a meaning at once recognised by any duardin. Each represented a debt that had been redeemed by Orrik’s clan, either in coin or in blood.

The guide brought Brokrin to a set of double-doors cast in bronze and richly engraved with a scene of airships flying before a new-risen sun. The servant pressed his hand against a rune-plate and the doors slid back into their frames, only a slight murmur rising from the machinery which opened them.

Within was a wide room with a ceiling somewhat lower than that of the hall outside. Brokrin saw a floor of polished hawkwood, and walls that were clad in granite-like sheets of feldstone, each of the light-grey panels cunningly crafted to display a vein of gold snaking through them. The ceiling overhead conveyed the same semblance of a rocky roof, even with the rough nubs of faux stalactites to complete the illusion of an underground grotto. For all that the Kharadron had ascended into the skies and become masters of wind and cloud, they remained duardin, and something deep within their hearts could not fail but to hearken to the cavernous vaults their ancestors had ruled long ago.

The guide rapped the end of the standard he bore against the floor. ‘Captain Brokrin Ullissonn of the Iron Dragon,’ he announced.

When Brokrin stepped inside the conservatory he was struck by the heady smell of tobacco and the coppery tang of old books. He glanced at the shelves around him, the iron-banded folios with their thin metal pages. He noted a range of subjects, from treatises on grading the quality of different exotic woods to surveys on the richest strains of volcanic glass in the Salamander Vales.

Across the room from the shelves was an open area with a number of stone seats arranged in a loose circle. Between them was a raised ring of rough rock, not unlike the mouth of a well. A warm golden glow rose from the ‘well’, the emanations of an alchemical stove. From the hue of the glow, Brokrin guessed that it was fuelled by refined aether-gold of extreme purity.

Two of the chairs were occupied, and as Brokrin entered the conversation between them faded away. One of the chairs’ occupants he recognised as Orrik. The other was a crook-nosed, silver-haired Kharadron who matched descriptions of the merchant’s major-domo, Vaskin. The presence of the latter gave Brokrin pause. Vaskin had a reputation for twisting the Code into knots when it came to expanding his master’s fortune at the expense of his business partners. There were grot pawnbrokers who would balk at some of Vaskin’s tactics.

‘Captain Brokrin,’ Orrik greeted him and gestured to one of the chairs around the stove. He darted a look at Vaskin and ran his fingers through his beard. Devoid of the expensive sheath, it had a ruddy colour that bespoke exotic dyes and conditioning. ‘We were just discussing you,’ the merchant-lord said.

Brokrin took a seat opposite Vaskin, positioning himself so he could see both the major-domo and his master without turning his head. ‘I can only assume it was in regard to my ship.’

He tried to keep his tone deferential, but couldn’t keep an edge of temper from his voice. A friendly informant from the Tenguild League had already advised Brokrin what had happened. Orrik had bought out the other backers and taken claim of the note against Brokrin’s last venture. The disposition of the Iron Dragon was now in the hands of these duardin.

Even if they had altruistic motives, Brokrin couldn’t help but resent that fact. It stung his pride to have his ship’s fate determined by someone else.

‘Lord Orrik has taken your debts onto himself,’ Vaskin stated, dispensing with pleasantries.

Orrik frowned at his major-domo’s abruptness and turned towards Brokrin. ‘I well know the affection you bear for your ship. I’m a son of Barak-Zilfin too. It offends me that some of my business partners would even contemplate scrapping a vessel as fine as the Iron Dragon. That is why I compensated them and absorbed your debts.’

Brokrin bowed his head in gratitude. ‘It relieves me that she’s to be saved from the scrappers. I’m certain she’ll perform capably for whichever captain you appoint to command her.’

Orrik’s next words sent a thrill of shock through Brokrin.

‘I already have a captain in mind. That is why I summoned you. There’s no Kharadron who knows the Iron Dragon better than you do. And certainly no captain who bears her the affection you do. I need both of those qualities. The experience to command the ship and the love to see her safely home again.’

‘You’re being offered this command with some conditions,’ Vaskin explained. He reached into his coat and brought out a thick sheaf of papers. ‘You may examine this contract at your leisure, but in brief it states that in exchange for the return of your charter you’ll undertake certain voyages for Lord Orrik.’

Brokrin rubbed his chin. ‘I accept that you’ll get the better of this deal, but what I want to know is how I can get her back.’

Vaskin’s smile was as crooked as his nose. ‘You may forsake your share in the profit from these voyages and put it against the debt Lord Orrik has incurred on your behalf. Plus a modest amount of interest, naturally.’

‘Naturally,’ Brokrin repeated, an uneasy shiver rolling through his flesh. Knowing Vaskin’s reputation, he could imagine the kind of interest he’d be responsible for.

‘I would expect you to be ready to sail within the week,’ Orrik told Brokrin. ‘A matter has come up for which the Iron Dragon is most qualified.’ He glanced over at Vaskin and nodded.

The major-domo rose and walked to a nearby table. Vaskin lifted a battered tome and opened it. Brokrin saw that it was a logbook, the sort carried by almost every Kharadron ship bigger than a gunhauler. Vaskin flipped it open and glanced at its contents. Without looking at Brokrin, he posed a question.

‘You’ve heard of Profit’s Ruin, the Sea of Doom?’

Brokrin’s skin felt like it was crawling when he heard the dreaded name. He did his best to hide the reaction from Orrik and Vaskin.

‘That’s an old story. Every skyfarer has heard it. I don’t know that there isn’t a Kharadron who sights a dark cloud on the horizon and wonders if Profit’s Ruin is behind it. Many is the ship that fails to come home that they say was taken by the Ruin.’

‘It is more than a fable,’ Orrik stated. He pointed at the book Vaskin held. ‘That came from a Kharadron ship that was caught by Profit’s Ruin. The writer was there for decades before he dropped the logbook for others to find.’

‘Profit’s Ruin is a floating mass of weeds that snares any ship that strays into its reach,’ Vaskin said. ‘The captain of that frigate survived the capture and was able to record much about the Ruin while he was there. He was even able to chart its course through the skies of Chamon.’

Brokrin nodded as he considered that last bit of information. ‘If there’s a chart, then it’s possible to anticipate where the Ruin will be. And find it.’

Orrik clapped his hands together. ‘Precisely! We can find Profit’s Ruin. It just needs a ship that can hazard the journey and a captain bold enough to take on the risk!’

Bold? Brokrin thought. Or desperate?

Vaskin tapped his finger against the logbook’s cover. ‘There’s a fortune to be made here. Think of all the ships Profit’s Ruin has claimed over the centuries, their holds filled with cargo ripe for salvage.’

Orrik brushed aside Vaskin’s statement. ‘Why mince words? Captain Brokrin is with us, aren’t you?’ He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. ‘The logbook does more than just chart the Ruin’s course. It tells how the Sea keeps itself in the sky. The writer speaks of a great tree at the core of the Sea! Brokrin, that tree is surrounded by a golden glow! He speaks of cutting shiny growths off the vines and finding them to be filled with condensed aether-gold!’ Orrik gestured to smudges on the logbook. ‘I’ve had aether-khemists examine those stains and they found them to be an extremely pure quality of aether-gold. You understand what this means?’ The merchant-lord clapped his hands together again. ‘By the Code, that damn weed generates its own aether-gold!’

Brokrin gave Orrik an incredulous look, then shifted his gaze to Vaskin. He almost expected the major-domo to give him a knowing wink and confirm his suspicion that Orrik Goldhand was mad. Instead, Vaskin simply nodded.

‘The writer of the logbook made a careful study of the place. He had been trapped there for decades.’ Vaskin paused and then gave a name to the author. ‘This logbook was kept by Master Navigator Kharrik Dragontooth.’

‘Kharrik Dragontooth,’ Orrik emphasised. ‘The duardin who discovered the Kingmaker Lode and the Gold-Storm of Oldwind! Not some nobody, but a navigator responsible for finding enough aether-gold to choke a dozen gargants. Kharrik wasn’t somebody who could be mistaken about what he found.’

‘But… a tree that makes aether-gold?’ Brokrin had a hard enough time accepting there was a chart, but this was too much.

‘Think of it!’ Orrik chuckled. ‘What could be a more incredible treasure! An endless supply of aether-gold! Certainly there will be risk,’ he said, forcing some calm back into his voice. ‘But what voyage is without its risks? And has anyone gambled on a greater fortune?’

‘You forget one thing about Profit’s Ruin. Every tale I’ve heard about it says no ship ever leaves,’ Brokrin pointed out.

Vaskin set the logbook back on the table. ‘The Iron Dragon would be in the scrapyard if not for Lord Orrik. Your charter would be revoked if not for Lord Orrik. Many ships leave Barak-Zilfin, but yours wouldn’t. Does it make a difference if you end your voyages here – in disgrace – or in Profit’s Ruin seeking glory?’

Brokrin scowled at the major-domo’s candour. It didn’t help that Vaskin was right. ‘I’ll have to take the matter up with my officers. A voyage of this sort is not one I can order them to undertake.’

‘Of course,’ Orrik said. ‘And I will trust you to be discreet. You can tell them of the Sea without advising them about what’s at its heart.’

‘Salvaging the wrecks there should be enough of an enticement,’ Vaskin suggested.

Brokrin gave him a hard look. ‘Any duardin who sails with me will get honest compensation and a fair share.’

‘Certainly,’ Orrik agreed. ‘And if you don’t have enough willing to crew the Iron Dragon, I’m certain Vaskin will be able to provide whatever specialists you need.’

Kharadron at the end of their rope and with Vaskin holding their debts.

Brokrin simply nodded. ‘I’m certain he will,’ he said. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to explain this proposition to my officers. I’ll bring their answer.’

‘Don’t be overlong,’ Vaskin advised. ‘Though it would complicate matters, if he needs to Lord Orrik can find another captain for the Iron Dragon.’ The major-domo grinned at Brokrin. ‘You understand, the greatest asset to using your ship and your crew, captain, is that nobody will ask any questions if things don’t work out and you should all go missing. No one will look too closely into why you were lost. They’ll simply assume you were trying to escape your debts. That is why the Iron Dragon is uniquely appropriate for this venture.’

Brokrin looked across the faces of the duardin assembled in his cabin on the Iron Dragon. Their reactions to everything he had told them ranged from Horgarr’s incredulity to Mortrimm’s grim resignation and everything in between.

‘Well, that’s Orrik’s offer,’ Brokrin finished. ‘I was not going to speak for any of you. Not on something like this.’

Horgarr snorted with derision. ‘Goldhand’s daft,’ the endrinmaster said. ‘I’ve never seen anything to convince me the Ruin’s more than a story told to scare beardlings. I say we follow Orrik’s chart, and when we find nothing then that’ll be his concern, not ours.’

Vorki removed the crooked hat from his head and played with the falcon feather stuck into its brim. ‘There’s a good point there, cap’n. I might not be so convinced as Horgarr that there’s nothin’ to find, but we can’t go and assume this chart’s right. You looked over the contract. Is there any kind of clause in the event we find nothing?’

‘Every duardin who sails on this venture will be compensated,’ Brokrin told his first mate. ‘There’s provision in the contract to pay the crew even if the voyage isn’t profitable.’

‘And what about the Iron Dragon?’ Gotramm asked. The young arkanaut captain could not keep the worry out of his words. When Skaggi had incited the crew to mutiny on the last voyage, he had been the one elected as the new captain. If Brokrin had revealed the fact, Gotramm would have been indentured. More than an empty pocket, decades of working to pay off his debt to the Tenguild League would have dampened his courting of his beloved Hilda. Brokrin had heard Gotramm express his gratitude many times, but beneath it he knew there was a tremendous sense of guilt.

‘We don’t find Profit’s Ruin, they still scrap her?’ Lodri, the ironclad’s powder-monkey and sometime wound-stitcher scowled as he posed the question. He met the glowering looks that were directed at him. ‘You think Orrik or Vaskin is going to take a loss? If they’ll pay the crew even if we find nothing, then you can bet your beard the money’s coming from somewhere.’

Brokrin sighed and set his hands on the table in front of him. ‘She’s for the scrapyard if we don’t find the Sea.’

Arrik, the one-eyed master gunner, slapped his palm against the beam beside him. ‘One last voyage, then, at all events. A chance to say a proper farewell to the old girl.’

‘You assume we’ll find nothing,’ Mortrimm interjected. There was a chill in his voice and Brokrin could see that the navigator’s face was pale. ‘Beware assuming you know everything that’s in the sky simply because you’ve sailed her.’ He gestured to his leg and the aethermatic brace that enclosed it. ‘There was a time when I laughed at stories of Ghazul and called those who’d seen the monster “daft”. I’m not laughing now.’

‘Ghazul is one thing,’ Horgarr said, ‘but to believe there’s a carpet of weeds just floating around gobbling up every ship it comes upon…’

Mortrimm’s voice took on a sombre note. ‘I’ve seen it,’ he said.

The claim surprised even Brokrin. He had heard many stories over his years sailing with Mortrimm, but never had the grizzled veteran mentioned Profit’s Ruin.

‘It’s as real as death,’ Mortrimm continued, his eyes roving across the others. ‘Aye, and you can trust every tale you’ve heard about it. Ships lost to it don’t come back.’

‘Perhaps what you saw was a harkraken or–’ Arrik wasn’t able to finish his suggestion before the navigator cut him off.

‘I was fresh from the Academy then,’ Mortrimm said. He pointed the clay stem of his pipe at Gotramm. ‘Less hair on my face than you have now, lad. I was learnin’ my way steering a gunhauler attached to the Windfarer.’

Brokrin froze when he heard Mortrimm name the ship. The Windfarer had been lost over a century ago. Mortrimm’s father had served on her as navigator. What had started as a warning parable now took on the quality of a personal tragedy as Brokrin listened.

‘The Windfarer was a fine ship,’ Mortrimm said, his eyes agleam with memory. ‘Perhaps not so sleek or trim as the Iron Dragon, but I dare say in those days there wasn’t a grander krontanker that ever left Barak-Zilfin’s coghalls. She’d just taken on a cargo of aether-gold from a rich vein and was heading for home when she came upon Profit’s Ruin. We crested the peaks of the Gargant’s Bones and there it was… a green morass of weeds that stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Leagues across, and right in our path!’

‘What did you do?’ Vorki had stopped fidgeting with his hat as Mortrimm’s story took hold of him.

‘We were out in the gunhaulers,’ Mortrimm explained. ‘Keeping watch for grot pirates that had been dogging us for weeks. That was the only thing that saved us. We were able to steer away before the Ruin could snare us.’ He paused, his eyes focusing on the ceiling, unable to hold the gaze of his comrades. ‘The Windfarer was a big ship. She had too much momentum to steer away in time. I saw the Ruin reach out to her with ropey tendrils and drag her down into its depths. That was the last I saw of her.’ The navigator clenched his teeth, oblivious to the clatter of his pipe on the floor as he bit through the stem. ‘That was the last anyone saw of her.’

Lodri let out a grim chuckle. ‘Well, that makes me excited to find this thing,’ he said. ‘I’m overjoyed to be a part of this plan.’

‘Nobody’s forcing you to put your name on the muster,’ Gotramm snapped at him.

‘Nobody except the copper-pinching vultures who want to scrap our ship,’ Lodri shot back. He looked at Brokrin. ‘I’m in, cap’n. If it means my bones are doomed to be weed-food, I’m in.’

‘Without dishonouring Mortrimm’s recollections,’ Horgarr said, with an apologetic look to the navigator, ‘I still don’t believe this place exists. If half the stories told about the Ruin are true, then there shouldn’t be a ship left in the sky. I can’t accept that such a thing could be real. But if there’s any chance to save the Iron Dragon, then you’d have to chain me to the Endrineers’ Hall to keep me from going.’

One after another, the officers of the ironclad affirmed their intention to sail with Brokrin. They felt sure they could speak for the rest of the crew as well. Gotramm and Horgarr offered to find the duardin they’d need to fill out the muster. Everyone was agreed that the fewer crewmen Vaskin sent them, the better it would be.

‘If this works out, we might even turn a healthy profit,’ Vorki reminded everyone. Brokrin hadn’t told them about the glowing tree Orrik said was at the core of the Ruin, but he had spoken of salvage rights to any wreck they came upon.

‘We might even find the Windfarer’s tanks filled with aether-gold,’ Arrik said.

Brokrin saw Mortrimm wince at the mention of his father’s ship.

‘Yes,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘We might even find the Windfarer.’

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2020.
This eBook edition published in 2020 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Johan Grenier.

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