by Warhammer
‘BEGONE!’ he boomed, and as though a gale had ripped down the street, the malign entities tattered apart and vanished. Bartiman swayed, leaned heavily on his staff and sank back into cover.
‘Impressive,’ said Aelyn, while the two militiamen stared at Bartiman with undisguised fear.
‘Tiring,’ he replied, coughing wetly into his fist. ‘And possibly unwise, given my condition. Still, we must all continue on until Old Bones takes us.’
Now the advance pressed forwards with great speed. Whether Bartiman’s display of sorcerous might had indeed frightened the fight out of the grots, or whether their enemies simply didn’t have enough bodies to keep flinging into the path of the Draconium advance, Aelyn didn’t know. She didn’t care, either, so long as they were keeping their enemies’ attention focused away from the pipehouse.
Across an intersection heaped with bodies, up a street part-flooded and riven with deep chasms that spewed fungal blooms, and suddenly Fountains Square stretched out in front of them.
‘That is truly hideous,’ breathed Aelyn.
From afar, the half-chiselled greenskin idol had been unpleasant, its gaze weirdly knowing. Now, its grotesque features nearing completion and the real Bad Moon hanging menacingly above it, the idol was horrifying. Its lunatic gaze seemed to bore into her mind, making Aelyn want to cringe away and cover her face.
‘Steady,’ bellowed Watchman Shen as the watchmen and militia balked.
‘There’s the poison,’ said Aelyn, pointing to the huge pyramidal stack of black and gold barrels that towered above the shrine.
‘Hmm, and their defenders,’ replied Bartiman. ‘Not so many as I’d thought.’
Aelyn saw that he was right. She guessed that perhaps a couple of hundred greenskins had packed themselves in around their idol, drawn up in ragged ranks with banners flying and gongs clanging. A few troggoths loomed amongst them and, further back, she saw a gaggle of bizarre grots clustered before the tunnel mouth dug into the idol’s base. These sat astride walking toadstools or were carried on large squig-skulls, or else were bent double beneath the weight of weird paraphernalia and baskets of potions and poisons.
Yet her eye was drawn to the ragged figure that surveyed them regally from the platform etched into the top of the idol. He was tall, for a grot, and he carried a moon-fungus staff in one hand from which filthy light spilled in waves.
‘Their leader,’ she said.
‘Must be,’ replied Bartiman. ‘Wish we had Borik here, one good shot from that cannon of his…’
‘I doubt it would be that easy,’ said Aelyn. ‘No, we must do this ourselves. I just hope that Watchman Shen remembers the plan.’
Looking at the man, though, she doubted it. He swept past them with a fire in his eyes and his halberd raised high, advancing at a trot into the square. His watchmen followed him, several hundred in number now and bolstered further by at least half that many militia. Somewhere near the back of their ragged formation, Aelyn knew they had a couple of cannons being heaved along by sweating crewmen.
‘We can finish this!’ cried Shen, and his men and women cheered his words. ‘In Sigmar’s name, there’s a damned handful of them! Is this what we feared, my friends? Forwards, now, for the regent militant, for Captain Morthan and Arch-Lector Kayl, for Sigmar and Draconium!’
The city’s defenders cheered again and surged forwards, holding to only the barest suggestion of discipline or coherency as they charged. Aelyn felt the fanatical fervour of the mob around her, the weeks of frustration and fear and suffering that fuelled their rage. The enemy were here, at last, visible and in numbers they believed they could defeat.
‘He intended this all along,’ breathed Aelyn as warriors jostled and barged past her and Bartiman on both sides.
‘Whassat?’ asked Bartiman, hanging on to her to avoid himself being knocked from his feet.
‘Shen, that fool, was planning this all along! He didn’t hear a word we said. He’s trying to win this in a straight fight, drive the enemy from the city he still thinks he can save. This doesn’t feel right,’ said Aelyn.
‘Not too late to cut and run, you know,’ said Bartiman.
‘There are good women and men here, Bartiman, servants of Sigmar who don’t deserve to die. We need to aid them,’ said Aelyn. ‘Besides, if they all get killed…’
‘…then likely so do our friends,’ he finished. ‘Damn. Well, come on then. Let’s see if we can stop this turning into a disaster.’
They were near the tail end of the force now, most of Draconium’s soldiery having swept past them, caught up in the fervour of the charge. Aelyn saw the two cannons being wheeled hurriedly into place, their crews scrambling to load shot and sighting their barrels on the distant idol. She heard the danger before she saw it. A shudder through the ground, a susurrus of rasping cloth and the pound of heavy footfalls.
A gunner turning to grab a powder barrel from the cobbles looked up, and his eyes widened. The man screamed in the instant before a huge club whistled down and crushed him, his field gun and another of its crew. Aelyn spun, and saw a huge troggoth emerge from the shadows of one of the ruined buildings that edged the square. The thing wore a crude helm, and its eyes swivelled to stare at her with dumb hatred. She saw more of the massive beasts, emerging into the moonlight to the flanks and rear of the charging Draconium forces. Around their feet came hordes of Moonclan grots and arachnid riders. A vast horde spilled from the ruins, a force that outnumbered those defending the shrine ten to one.
‘Ambush!’ yelled Aelyn, but in their battle-fervour none of the warriors of Draconium heard her.
Chapter Seventeen
DESPERATION
Aelyn was not given to panic. She had long held a reputation amongst the Swords of Sigmar for her glacial calm in even the direst of situations. Now, though, she felt panic threaten.
She was loping across the square as quickly as she could without leaving Bartiman behind, but the old wizard moved frustratingly slowly. She had no idea how old Bartiman Kotrin actually was, struggling as she did to gauge human ages at the best of times, but she didn’t doubt that his sorcerous abilities had lengthened his lifespan substantially beyond that which was natural. Until Draconium, those same abilities had also lent him an unnatural vitality that belied his aged appearance. Now, though, Bartiman’s wounds, his illness and exhaustion had combined to reduce him to an ill-tempered hobble barely faster than a walk. His staff thunked against the cobbles with every step, and he kept up a wheezing diatribe of profanity as he lurched along in her wake.
‘Hurry, Bartiman!’ she urged.
‘Do I look like I’m taking a damned stroll?’ he gasped, coughing wetly and staggering. Aelyn looked over his shoulder and saw a mass of Moonclan grots bearing down on them, red eyes gleaming and blades drawn. The greenskins had swept over the remaining cannon crewmen like a flood-tide, and now bore down on the two Swords of Sigmar with malicious glee. Aelyn plucked an arrow from her quiver, drew and loosed. She repeated the action once, twice, thrice and four aelven arrows slammed into the foremost greenskins. They vanished beneath the trampling feet of the horde, which did not slow at all.
Aelyn reached for another arrow and cursed as she grasped empty air.
‘All gone,’ she said.
‘Oh no,’ grunted Bartiman. He stopped and turned, raising his staff and pointing it at the surging mass of grots. He took several deep breaths, trying to drag in enough air to harness his magics. Aelyn felt arcane power crackle and saw Bartiman stand a little straighter as its energies flowed through him.
‘Th’rak’ul!’ boomed Bartiman, and a blast of night-black energy ripped from the tip of his staff to slam into the grots with a percussive thunderclap. The blast wave rolled outwards, rippling black fire rushing through the tightly packed greenskins and blasting them to ashes.
Black-hooded greenskins screeched in terror and scatter
ed in all directions. Their charge broke apart like a wave against rocks. Aelyn felt a moment of relief before Bartiman staggered and fell. She lunged, catching him before he hit the cobbles. His hood fell back from his lolling head, and she hurriedly pulled it back into place, warding him against the moonlight. Before she did, though, Aelyn saw just how pale the wizard was, how sunken his eyes and liver-spotted his papery skin. It was as though he had aged – truly aged – a decade in the last few minutes.
‘Shouldn’t have, but you know, my dear, needs must,’ he croaked. ‘Probably best if you–’
‘Do not tell me to leave you behind, Bartiman,’ hissed Aelyn, hoisting him to his feet and supporting him as best she could.
‘Don’t you dare!’ he gasped. ‘I was going to say best if you hurry up! They won’t be scattered for long.’
Aelyn set off again in pursuit of Draconium’s ragged army, away from the hordes of greenskins and monsters spilling into the square. If she and Bartiman could catch up to the watchmen, if they could somehow rein them in and make them see sense, then perhaps they could fight their way out of the tightening greenskin noose.
‘At least we got their attention,’ said Bartiman, making a sound that could have been a laugh or a cough.
‘Eleanora and Romilla can thank us later,’ said Aelyn, distracted. ‘First we have to escape this mess alive.’
She could see the human soldiery up ahead, dashing across the open ground towards the greenskins’ shrine. Some paused to loose arrows or fire shots from their pistols. Others dashed headlong, all thought of strategy forgotten as the maddening rays of the Bad Moon beat down upon them and their hated enemies stood revealed before their blades.
Closer they charged, closer to the shrine and the greenskins around it.
Closer to the site of the devastating explosion her comrades were trying to engineer.
‘They’re going to get themselves killed, and us with them,’ she spat. Some of the soldiers had spotted the ambushing forces by now, their headlong rush faltering as they realised they were outnumbered on every side. It only served to string their formation out even more, the front-runners dashing ahead while panic spread in from the flanks and rear.
‘Sooner than you think,’ gasped Bartiman. ‘Stop, stop!’
Aelyn pulled up short, hearing the panic in the wizard’s reedy voice.
‘What?’
‘Magic, a catastrophic build-up of magic–’
Green light erupted around the grot with the crown and the staff. He hefted his moon-fungus high and spat jagged words. Aelyn didn’t speak the tongue, but she understood the spite and cruelty well enough. The fungus atop the grot’s staff glowed brighter and brighter, sickly light spilling from it like a diseased star. Cries of pain and panic rose from the charging human host as the light blinded them. It was as though the rays of the Bad Moon were magnified a thousandfold, and Aelyn dragged Bartiman down behind a heap of rubble as the filthy light swept across the square. She found herself face to face with the severed stone head of Sigmar the God-King, half of his visage blackened by fire, his one remaining eye staring accusingly.
Beyond the rubble, she heard cries turn to gibbering howls and screams. Wild ululations echoed across the square, and voices were raised in sudden terror, jubilation or utter confusion.
‘The light of day, I see it! We’re saved!’
‘Oh Sigmar, get them off me, get them off me! They’re under my skin!’
‘You filth! It was you all along!’
‘Praise the Bad Moon! Praise the Loonking!’
‘Guuuhhhh! I’ll suck the eyes from your skull!’
‘Oh no,’ breathed Aelyn as the chorus of insanity intensified. She heard pistol shots. Blades clashed. Screams of pain rang out. At last the searing light died, cut off as though a curtain had dropped. Aelyn peered over the rubble to see the army of Draconium tearing itself apart. Men and women throttled one another or hacked at their former comrades with looks of animal ferocity on their faces. Some tore off their hoods and cloaks and raised their arms wide, weeping and laughing as fungi burst out all over their bodies. A watchman dug his dagger into his own flesh, wailing in panic as he rooted bloodily for something that was not there. Aelyn’s throat tightened as Watchman Kole stumbled past, weeping tears of gore where she had clawed her eyes from her skull, whispering over and over again about a gift from on high, a gift from on high.
Then came the sounds of gongs hammering and clanging, and a ragged battle-cry rose from hundreds of grot throats. Those around the idol surged forwards, spears levelled. Arrows rose from amongst their mass and rained indiscriminately down into the brawling Draconium soldiery. Fanatics burst from amongst their ranks, frothing madly as they whirled their huge wrecking balls into the humans. Blood sprayed.
Aelyn looked back to see more grots closing in across the square from all sides. In the pallid moonlight, gathered in such numbers, they resembled a mass of moving shadow dotted with hundreds of red eyes, wicked fangs and sharp blades. Troggoths waded amongst them, booming roars echoing skywards. Squig riders bounded over the grots’ heads in a swarm, every wild leap carrying them closer.
Terror gripped Aelyn as she watched the horde close in.
‘What do we do?’ asked Bartiman, slumped weakly against the rubble with his staff across his lap. Aelyn looked down at the frail old human and shook her head numbly.
This wasn’t some brave last stand. It was a massacre, and they had walked right into it.
There was nothing they could do.
They were going to die.
Romilla squeezed herself from the tunnel and fell to the stone floor. She was sweating and scraped, her skin scalded in several places. She gave a dry cough, wincing at the pain in her injured side and gouged face.
‘I would give my hammer for a glass of water,’ she croaked. Thackeray placed a hand on her shoulder and shook his head in warning, raising a finger to his lips. Eleanora was crouched nearby, pistols in hand and eyes wide.
Natural light filtered from somewhere above, illuminating a wide square chamber with a low ceiling and metal steps leading up and out of sight. The pipes they had followed ran along the chamber’s ceiling before vanishing up through the stonework, rattling and hissing louder than ever.
Romilla immediately saw what had alarmed Thackeray, and she became very still. Barely visible in the half-light, thick strands criss-crossed the chamber. They gathered in thick drifts in its corners, and in places formed dense cocoons that dangled from the ceiling and swayed in a hot breeze.
Spider’s webs.
Masses of huge, thick spiders’ webs.
Romilla shook her head in despair and clutched her hammer amulet tight.
‘Sigmar,’ she prayed in a whisper, ‘give us strength.’
At first, they tried to pick their way between the cobwebs without touching them. It quickly proved impossible. The sticky strands filled the chamber in layers, forming complex interwoven patterns that Romilla couldn’t begin to trace or avoid. Thackeray broke first, recoiling in disgust as a mass of web clung to his face. He hacked angrily at it with his halberd. Eleanora and Romilla joined him in simply clawing the webbing out of their way as best they could.
It was no mean feat, even still. Romilla had rarely had cause to wish she fought with a blade rather than a hammer. She wished it now.
Worse, she had enough bestiary lore to know how spiders hunted their prey. With every tug upon the mass of sticky strands she expected to see arachnids large as men come scuttling down the stairs from above.
Still, nothing emerged to attack them as they fought their way across the web-choked chamber and reached the foot of the iron staircase. Romilla looked up the funnel of webbing that filled the stairwell and felt atavistic terror threaten to freeze her in place. Up there was their goal. An escape from these underground chambers and a return to air and light, no matter h
ow poisonous both might be by now. Yet how could they make their way through this nightmare?
‘Eleanora, do you know where we’re going?’ she whispered. To her alarm, it took Eleanora a long moment to focus on her before the engineer answered. She was feverish, her hands shaking as though palsied and her eyes shot through with red-black veiny streaks. Heat baked off her.
‘Up the stairs two floors until we reach ground level,’ she said, blinking and swaying. ‘Right along a tunnel lined with pipes, then up another flight of stairs. Or… no, left. Left up another… is it? Yes, right, up another flight of stairs into the exchanger chamber. The controls are… up… near the ceiling. The roof is glass, Romilla. We’ll be exposed… to the moonlight again.’ She gestured vaguely with one of her guns.
‘Is she going to be able to do this?’ asked Thackeray, frowning in concern.
‘Yes, she is,’ whispered Romilla with absolute conviction. ‘Even if we have to carry her there. You can do this, can’t you, El?’
Eleanora’s gaze sharpened, and she looked down at the mechanisms of her guns for a moment before looking back up at Romilla.
‘I don’t want any more of us to die,’ she said quietly.
‘Then let us be about Sigmar’s work,’ said Romilla. ‘Thackeray, you’ve got the only blade amongst us. Lead on.’
Thackeray shot her a dark look, but he paced up the stairs, using his halberd blade to puncture and drag aside thick wads of webbing that blocked their path. Romilla followed behind, keeping Eleanora by her side. She half-supported the engineer, who sweated and shook but took one determined step after another.
They were near the top of the steps, and the web was funnelling inwards, tightening down to a dense mass. Thackeray raised the blade of his halberd and slid it into the fibres near the top before dragging it downwards as hard as he could.
The web fibres split with audible snaps. He dragged the blade lower, unzipping a ragged gash in the sticky mass. Thackeray’s blade gave a sudden lurch downwards as the web’s resistance gave, almost spilling him from his feet. His halberd-point hit the metal steps with an audible clang, and all three of them froze, listening for the telltale sounds of skittering limbs and rasping chitin.
