Distant howling that would have been impossible for a human to discern had carried to his keen ears, and he caught a whiff of a familiar, hated scent on the wind. Without pause, he had scaled the north walls and set off into the trees, hunting the greenskins.
Hearing pounding coming up the road, Eldanair cut to his left, towards the sound, and he dropped into a crouch beside the bole of an ancient tree. Eldanair let out a long even breath, waiting for his moment, before he stepped from his concealment onto the road, and fired.
The arrow slammed into a thick, sloping forehead punching through the bone and into the brain of the hulking creature. It toppled from the ridged back of a snorting war boar. The beast swung around to viciously gore its fallen rider with tusks as long as a man’s forearm. A second arrow punched into the neck of another rider, but it merely bellowed in rage and yanked its mount brutally in Eldanair’s direction.
His third arrow sank into the orc’s crude wooden shield, and the creature roared again, its mouth impossibly large and filled with thick tusk-like teeth. It hefted a cleaver of huge proportions, and Eldanair rolled neatly out of the way as the frenzied boar charged him. The orc’s weapon slammed into the trunk of the tree, a hair’s breadth from Eldanair’s back as the elf rolled to his feet and he sent two shafts slicing just behind the boar’s shoulder, seeking the heart. The creature smashed into the ground, dead, its jaw and furred snout digging a deep furrow in the earth. The greenskin leapt from its back, turning towards Eldanair.
It might have been of a height equal to the elf had it stood straight up, but it was stooped, its broad, brutish head buried squarely between its massive shoulders. Its arms were as thick as tree stumps, and it roared as it leapt towards Eldanair, spittle dripping from its gaping jaws.
He put two arrows into the creature before it reached him. With its wooden shield it smashed him to the side, and he staggered to avoid a lethal swing of its massive weapon. Seeing him off balance, the creature roared again and charged him, slamming its meaty shoulder into his chest, and he was knocked to the ground, wincing in pain.
Still, he recovered with inhuman swiftness and grace. His hand flashed out as he rose to his knee, and a knife embedded itself to the hilt in the orc’s eye socket. It fell with a groan to the ground, twitched once and was still. Eldanair swiftly retrieved his knife and broke into a run again.
More greenskins pounded up the road heading towards the temple, and Eldanair cut to the right, striking out through the fir trees. Keeping off the road, he made good time, zigzagging through the maze of trees with impossible swiftness.
At last he saw the dark shadow of the wall rising up before him and he broke from the tree line, throwing his bow over his shoulder as he darted towards the sheer wall almost fifteen feet high.
He sprang onto the wall, his fingers finding purchase between the rough-hewn rocks. Praying there was no sentry on this section, he climbed up, his muscles straining and hissing at the pain in his fingers.
Reaching the top, he threw a leg over the crenelations, and dropped onto the ramparts in a crouch. Drawing his bow, he glanced along the defensive wall, seeing the corpses of sentries hacked apart by vicious blows. Crude ladders were leaning up against the walls, and he saw a goblin cutting the ears from one of the sentries. Eldanair dispatched the creature with an arrow through the back of the neck.
Eldanair dropped silently to the ground inside the wall, hugging the darkness. He darted forwards and crouched beside a covered well, hidden in its shadow. From here he could see that the portcullis of the gatehouse had been raised, and jammed open with tree-trunks. The heavy wooden door had been shattered, and more greenskins were streaming through the now open portal.
He heard a dull, rhythmic pounding sound and knew instantly that it was a battering ram being used on the temple’s entrance.
“Annaliese,” he hissed, and broke from his cover, heading in the direction of the temple.
“Tomas!” Annaliese shouted, hearing her own voice disappear in the cacophony of shouts and screams. She ran up the corridor towards the temple proper, passing beneath severe archways and the cold stare of Sigmarite saints, frantic with panic. The tolling of the bell continued to resound deafeningly from somewhere high overhead.
Servants of the temple and the devout who had come to the temple on pilgrimages were bursting from dormitories on either side of the passageway, fear on their faces. They clutched icons of Sigmar and wailed. Annaliese tried to ask several of them if they had seen a little boy, but she was buffeted by hurrying people, and no one wanted to listen to her.
A deep, commanding voice bellowed down the corridor. The milling, scared people were silenced by the authoritative tone, and they began to shuffle towards the speaker, a tall warrior priest adorned in armour and robes.
“The temple of our lord is besieged,” the priest said, his voice loud enough to carry to everyone gathered. “Any man able to fight should remain here to aid in the defence of the temple. I want all the women and children to come to the front now, and you will be taken to the undercroft.” The corridor suddenly erupted in a cacophony of noise, people crying out in fear, and assailing the priest with questions.
“Enough!” he roared, silencing the crowd. “There will be no argument here! Initiate Alexis here will guide you to the undercroft. I want women and children to go with him. Now! Take nothing with you, you go with what you are carrying now.”
People began to bustle and push, and the sound level rose quickly once more.
“Be silent!” raged the priest. “You are all children of Sigmar—do not dishonour him with weakness and tears! Go now, in silence, and Alexis will lead you in prayer once the undercroft is sealed. Go now!”
Women made hasty farewells to nervous looking husbands and fathers, and an argument broke out between a boy and his mother.
“You are too young!” the mother said severely, cutting him off mid-sentence. The tall priest placed a hand on her shoulder, and she turned tearful eyes up at him.
“The boy has Sigmar’s fighting spirit—let him stand alongside us and defy these enemies,” he said, his voice stern. Tears began to roll down the woman’s face, and she hugged the boy to her chest, sobbing.
The young initiate Alexis, who could not have been older than eight years old, took the woman’s hand and led her away with the others.
The tall priest turned his green eyes towards Annaliese, who was craning her neck, trying to see Tomas in the crowd.
“Go with the others,” he said. She merely shook her head, ignoring him as she continued to scan the corridor. He gripped her arm firmly, urging her towards the departing women and children.
“I will not,” she snapped, shaking her arm free. She glared at him fiercely, tears welling unbidden in her eyes. “I cannot find… there is a boy… Tomas.”
“There is no time for this, girl!” barked the priest. “Your child is probably already down there, with the gentle sisters.”
“The sisters…” muttered Annaliese. That must be it! Tomas had gone to find Katrin. “The sisters are already down there?”
“Yes, yes they are,” said the priest, distracted now.
“Now go! Hurry!”
She left the priest who barked at the wide-eyed men to follow him to the armoury. Running lightly, she headed in the direction that the women had been ushered in. She passed through several corridors, hearing a rhythmic pounding in-between the ringing of the bell.
She ran out of an archway and came upon the central chapel to Sigmar, lit with candles and braziers and she gasped in awe.
It had been darkened when they had been bustled through earlier that evening, but now that it was lit, she gazed around with her mouth wide open.
The room was immense, the walls rising impossibly high and disappearing into darkness above. Statues of Sigmar’s warrior saints lined the walls, standing within arched alcoves twenty feet above the ground. They posed heroically, holding mighty weapons and standing on top of slain enemies. Each st
atue was the size of a giant, and candlelight flickered over their forms, giving the illusion of movement.
But the statue of Sigmar himself in the centre of the domed temple, standing on a plinth and surrounded by statues of fierce horsemen, took her breath away.
Braziers lit the mighty golden statue from beneath, forming deep shadows upon its heavily muscled torso as the representation of the warrior god lifted his warhammer Ghal Maraz high into the air. His hair was long and flowing, and upon his face was an expression of utter determination—it was the expression Annaliese imagined the man-god had worn when he defied the endless hordes of greenskins in the blackened pass nearby, and it spoke of awesome strength and nobility.
Clockwork cherubs circled around the statue, metallic feathered wings clicking as they flapped jerkily and raised trumpets to their pouting lips.
Her attention was distracted from the awe-inspiring statue as a trio of heavily armoured warrior priests hurried past. One of them was the gentle-spoken priest that had escorted her to the temple earlier that night, though she almost did not recognise him wearing his open-faced helm, and he stopped at her side.
“You should be with the others,” he said gently, his eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Come,” he added and began to hurry her towards the back of the temple.
“I can fight,” she said defiantly, standing her ground, The priest paused and smiled, transforming his face. He was very handsome, she thought, and felt a blush coming over her cheeks. The priest placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The metal of his gauntlet felt cold.
“Of that I have no doubt,” he said. “Someone needs to guard over the women and children. Come.”
She knew he was humouring her, and she felt her blush deepen, but she allowed herself to be led to the entrance leading beneath the temple. It was a narrow staircase spiralling down into the rock. Light flickered up weakly from below.
There was a resounding boom that echoed through the temple, followed by the sound of splintering wood.
“We are breached!” came a shout, followed by the sound of weapons clashing. A blood-curdling, bestial roar resounded across the temple, and a warrior cried out in pain.
“I must go,” said the priest. He squeezed her shoulder briefly, and turned away, holding his hammer in both hands, his face grim. She bit her lip as she looked at the spiralling, stone steps. Seeing her indecision as he glanced back, the priest shouted to her, all softness gone from his voice. “Go now!” he commanded.
She heard a roared prayer to Sigmar, accompanied by a flash of golden light from across the temple, and the roars and bellows of inhuman foes. A man cried out in pain as Annaliese began the descent beneath the temple.
Down and down the staircase spiralled. She passed a landing where a burning torch burnt in its brazier. She touched an ancient shield emblazoned with the twin-tailed comet that hung on the wall, and continued further down in near darkness, feeling the way along the smooth walls with her hands. Sounds of battle filtered down from above, and her breath was heavy—it felt like the walls were closing in on her, and she imagined herself tripping and falling headlong down the treacherous steps into the darkness.
At last she began to be able to see again, and she stepped onto a wide landing carved out of the rock. Torches burnt on the walls, and she began to dash down the wide corridor towards the heavy door at the other end, passing by numerous shrine-alcoves holding the bones of saints.
She paused at one of the shrines as she passed, seeing a skeleton in highly polished, ancient armour lying on a plinth carved into the wall. A gleaming shield hung above the long dead warrior’s resting place, and a hammer was clasped in skeletal hands over his chest. Faded parchment hung upon the walls, doubtlessly speaking of the deeds of the warrior priest, and strips of velum hung beneath sconces of candles, covered in intricate writings. She turned away as a horrible death scream echoed down from above, and ran to the door at the far end of the corridor.
It was a heavy door of oak, reinforced with iron strips and spikes. She hammered on its surface. “Please,” she cried. “Please open the door.” She realised then that she was not wearing the sword blade that Eldanair had given her, and she cursed herself. If the enemy did manage to slaughter the warrior priests above, how was she going to defend the women and children down here?
Still cursing herself, she spun on her heel, eyes flashing around for a weapon. She noticed a dull light emanating from one of the alcoves, and she stepped warily towards it.
She barely noticed the sound of a heavy bar being lifted, for she was certain that something was drawing her towards the resting place of this ancient warrior.
“Annaliese!” hissed a voice as the door behind her was opened, and dimly she registered the voice of the Sister of Shallya, Katrin. “Annaliese, come inside, quickly! Tomas is with me here!”
In a daze, Annaliese ignored the woman, and stepped into the alcove.
Where all the other shrines had been painstakingly maintained, the armour and weapons of the deceased being highly shined and free from dust, this warrior was covered in cobwebs, his ornate platemail rusted and tarnished.
Shadows seemed to play at the corner of her vision, and Annaliese thought she heard a gentle whispering, like a voice carried on a breeze. Spiders scuttled away from her as she approached what she guessed could only be a revered warrior priest of another era, and the whispering seemed to get stronger, though she could not make out any words.
A deathly chill descended, but still she drew closer to the skeleton as if it were calling to her. She knelt in dust undisturbed for centuries at the venerable warrior’s side, and looked at its face. The flesh had long wasted away from the bones, and the lower jaw hung half loose from the skull, but she was not horrified or scared.
Dimly she heard a voice frantically calling her name, but it seemed like it was coming from a long way away, and she ignored it.
The skeleton wore a circlet of tarnished metal around the crown of its head, and tufts of hair remained on the skull. She glanced down at the warrior’s hands. Clasped in each hand was a hammer covered in dust and cobwebs, crossed over a plain, long-rusted breastplate. The hammers were of simple, functional design—a short, plain metal haft that ended in a solid twin-head. The only ornamentation upon them was the twin-tailed comet relief set into the sides of the hammer head, but even these were far from ostentatious.
Driven more by instinct than rational thought, her hand closed around the haft of one of the hammers. A finger bone snapped as she lifted the brittle hand and slid the hammer from the grasp of the long dead warrior priest. Carefully she replaced the hand upon the chest and marvelled at the weapon clasped in her hands. She wiped away the dust and spiderwebs, feeling the strength within the killing weapon.
Leaning forward, she planted a kiss upon the forehead of the skeletal warrior priest.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and rose to her feet.
Sound crashed in on her. A woman was screaming in her ear, and pulling upon her arm. The stamp of heavy feet echoed through the passageway, accompanied by the scrape of metal on stone and monstrous growls and guttural words barked in some crude, brutish language.
As if waking from a dream, Annaliese saw Katrin’s tearful face close to hers, begging her to go with her.
The sound of pounding feet came from the stairway, and she realised then that the enemy had arrived. She stared with wide eyes at the hammer held in her hands.
Feeling a sense of peace and calm come over her, Annaliese lifted her head and smiled at Katrin.
“Go inside and seal the door behind you,” she said to the frantic woman. Katrin shook her head, tears running down her face, and tried to pull her bodily towards the safety of the doorway. Beyond the open portal Annaliese saw the frightened faces of women, and the young priest initiate wearing an expression of astonishment.
“Go, Katrin,” said Annaliese firmly, love and strength in her voice. Katrin stopped her sobbing and looked deep into the teenage girl’s e
yes, seeing the resolve there, but seeing something else as well. Somewhat reluctantly she released her grip on the girl, and with a last forlorn kiss on the cheek, she ran back through the doorway.
“Seal it,” Annaliese heard the sister order, and she registered the door slamming shut as she turned calmly away from it. Bolts were slid into place, and the heavy bar behind the door was locked into position.
Walking slowly up the corridor, testing the weight of the hammer in her hands, Annaliese stared grimly at the spiralling stone stairs.
She felt the presence of the long dead saints of Sigmar alongside her, and as the first of the enemies appeared, she let out a furious shout. With hammer raised high, she attacked.
Surrounded by shards of coloured glass, Eldanair knelt on the tall windowsill, surveying the carnage in the temple below. The window was some ten feet above the tiled floor, and the stained glass set within it had depicted the human god, Sigmar, until it had recently been smashed by a hurled spear.
The main expanse within the lofty, domed temple was seething with combatants. A knot of heavily armoured humans fought back to back against the horde of greenskins rushing in against them. The enemy smashed against them like a raging torrent, and though they stood firm, they could not hold back the living tide, and orcs and goblins were running rampant through the temple, smashing statues and kicking over tall candelabras, whooping and roaring.
An arrow shattered as it struck the old stonework of the arched windowsill not more than a foot from Eldanair’s head, and he saw a sharp-featured goblin frantically nocking another barbed arrow to its short bow. He sent a shaft through the creature’s chest, knocking it to the ground, and leaped from his vantage point, landing lightly on the stone slabs flooring the temple.
He fired another arrow that slammed into the shoulder of an orc towering over one of the humans. It was knocked off balance from the blow, and the human stepped forward and clubbed it to the ground with a powerful blow of his double-handed hammer.
“Annaliese!” shouted Eldanair as he felled another orc with an arrow in the lower back. “Annaliese,” he called again, and darted through the melee, dodging spear thrusts and wild slashes from broad cleavers.
01 - Empire in Chaos Page 12
