01 - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  He had no idea where the girl could be, but he was desperate to find and protect her. On the blood of his fallen kin he had sworn to see her safe, and he would die before he failed once more in his duty.

  He rounded a towering pillar of white stone, the string of his bow pulled back and an arrow readied. He came face to face with a green-eyed warrior, his face splattered with blood, and fired. The arrow sliced through the air past the warrior’s ear and slammed into the orc looming behind him, the shaft flying into the greenskin’s wide mouth and punching through the back of its neck.

  The human caught his own blow before he crushed the elf with his massive war hammer, his eyes wide is surprise. Eldanair was past him then, flitting across the temple floor.

  “Annaliese,” he shouted again, and he turned as the warrior priest called out. The human shouted something that he could not understand, but he made out the name Annaliese within the garbled stream of words, pointing towards the rear of the temple.

  Eldanair gave a shout of warning, but it was too late, and a roaring orc slammed a pair of giant cleavers into the back of the human. With a grimace of pain, the warrior slammed forwards to the ground, the victorious orc whooping like a frenzied beast, blood dripping from his weapons.

  He sent an arrow slamming into the creature’s neck, but it ignored the blow in its bloodlust, and leapt away towards the other human warriors.

  The elf darted towards the rear of the temple, coming up short as he reached the back wall. Mouthing an obscenity, he turned around on the spot, wondering if he had mistaken the meaning of the human’s words.

  He heard a muffled roar and his eyes snapped towards a thin set of stairs spiralling into darkness, half obscured behind a pillar.

  “Annaliese,” he called out once more. There was no response, though the sounds of battle were filtering up from below.

  Throwing his bow over his shoulders and drawing his long elven blade, Eldanair launched himself down the stairs.

  The knights charged through the breached guardhouse with lances lowered, the thunder of their mighty warhorses deafening. At their head rode Karl Heiden, the preceptor urging his warriors urgently onwards.

  The past hours had been a blur, as the knights rode hard up the winding mountain road towards the temple. The blare of horns and the howling of wolves had become more frantic and loud as they had neared their destination and Grunwald had prayed they were not too late. A single bell tolled frantically, a desperate warning that pealed out across the valley.

  Goblins screamed as they scurried out of the path of knights pounding up the road. Several of them were impaled on the end of lances, and Grunwald saw one piteous creature lifted high into the air, spitted on Karl’s masterfully guided lance.

  The witch hunter was not trained to fight from horseback, and his estimation of the knights of Myrmidia rose. They engaged the enemy with lance and shield, forsaking the use of reins now that battle had commenced, guiding their warhorses expertly with their knees.

  The wedge of knights thundered up the road, smashing aside all resistance. Once lances had snapped or become embedded in the bodies of the greenskins they were discarded, and the templars fought with cavalry sabres and blades, slashing down onto the skulls of the foes as they pounded past.

  Grunwald was unused to riding a fully trained warhorse bedecked in armour, but he found the steed instantly responsive to his commands. It snorted and lashed out at fallen orcs, trampling them beneath its hooves.

  With the black and gold banner of Myrmidia flying high, the knights kept their momentum, charging up the tree-lined road, foam flecking the mouths of their steeds. The temple of Sigmar suddenly loomed large before them, imposing and martial, and Grunwald swore to see its great doors smashed asunder, and greenskins piling through the hallowed archway.

  With a shouted command, the knights split into two groups, the smaller of the two heading towards the temple itself while the other galloped hard towards the largest cluster of orcs running towards the besieged structure.

  Seeing the greenskins milling within the wide entrance to the temple, Karl guided his splinter group of knights straight up the broad steps, ploughing into the rear of the enemy.

  Swords rose and fell, carving bloody arcs through the air. Grunwald brought a pistol to bear, it boomed loudly as the lead shot punched through the iron helmet of an orc, dropping the creature instantly.

  The knights’ charge took them into the main nave of the temple, the horses’ hooves slipping on the smooth stone. One of the steeds screamed and fell as it ran onto a planted spear, the shaft snapping off as it embedded deep in its chest. Another knight fell as a hurled cleaver slammed into his chest, and Grunwald struggled to stay in the saddle as his steed reared, kicking out at anything nearby. He saw Karl reel back in his saddle as an arrow thudded into his shoulder, but the preceptor did not fall.

  “Sigmar lend me strength!” came a shout, and the witch hunter’s eyes locked onto a handful of warriors battling against insurmountable odds. He saw a tall, white-haired figure in the midst of the priests, wielding twin blades, one short and wide for defence, and he recognised his fierce superior. Thanking Sigmar that he was still alive, Grunwald kicked his warhorse sharply, urging it on into the press of green bodies.

  A huge orc wrapped its massive arms around the neck of his warhorse, which began thrashing around madly, bucking and kicking. Another orc leaped forwards and hacked its blade into one of the horse’s exposed rear legs and the whole armoured beast fell to the ground with a resounding crash.

  Lucky not to have had his leg crushed, Grunwald staggered to his feet, and deflected a wild swing with his mace, smashing the orc in the face with the weighted butt of his pistol. Before the greenskin could recover, a pair of hooves connected squarely with its forehead, killing it instantly.

  He saw Karl rip his dented helmet from his head, before he led his steed deeper into the press of bodies, his sword blade hacking left and right as he carved a path towards the beleaguered warrior priests. Another knight was dragged down, and Grunwald smashed his mace into the bony head of an orc that leapt towards the knight. The impact cracked the orc’s skull, but sent a shudder up the handle of the mace that jarred the witch hunter’s arm.

  He fought his way to the warrior priests.

  “You took your time getting here, Grunwald,” snarled the witchfinder general as he reached the knot of warriors, smashing a goblin down from behind.

  “Something ate my horse,” grunted Udo in response, falling in beside the taller, older witch hunter.

  With Karl and his knights hacking down the greenskins, the tide was turning, and some of the orcs turned to flee. The preceptor dismounted so as not to further risk his mount slipping fatally on the smooth stones. Deftly he turned aside a brutal swinging blade and sent a deadly riposte that tore out an orc’s throat.

  “My humblest apologies for entering your temple on horseback,” he said with a roguish smile.

  “Under the circumstances, I think we can forgive it,” snarled one of the priests, a powerful figure hefting a pair of gore-covered hammers as he stepped forwards and smashed both weapons into the face of another greenskin.

  “The women… and children,” groaned a fallen priest from the ground, his lifeblood leaking out onto the stone slabs from numerous wounds.

  “What?” said Grunwald.

  “Some of the desecrators got past us…” He paused for breath, wincing in pain. The witchfinder general cursed.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “The undercoft,” said another of the priests as he dispatched another of the enemy.

  “Hold them here,” Grunwald said, and turned towards the back of the temple. Karl ran at his side, clanking in his armour. Grunwald knew the temple well, and he paused at the top of the descending spiral stairs.

  “The way is steep and narrow,” he said. “Be careful.” He had visions of the heavily armoured preceptor slipping and falling headlong down into the undercroft. “Maybe
you had better remain up here.”

  “There are women down there, are there not?” he said, flashing a smile at the witch hunter. “I’m sure I will manage it.”

  Grunwald snorted in response, and descended the stairway, taking the steps three at a time. He almost tripped over several bodies on the stairs, orcs that had been killed by some neat blade work from behind—it looked as though the orcs had not even turned towards their attacker, as if they were unaware of him until it was too late.

  He leaped the last steps and burst into the wide tomb corridor. The stench of the orcs was great here, and the stink of death hung heavily in the air.

  There were bodies on the ground, but half a dozen orcs remained standing, arrayed in a half circle around a pair of warriors.

  Grunwald blinked, as if his eyes were deceiving him.

  An elf, and a girl with a Sigmarite hammer.

  As he hesitated, he saw the elf cut down one of the brutish greenskins with a lightning riposte. Karl almost crashed into Grunwald as he half-ran, half-fell down the stairs. His eyes widened as he surveyed the bloody battle ensuing in the corridor, and he stared in unabashed admiration at the hammer-wielding girl.

  She lifted the hammer up before her with a defiant shout, and it seemed that the orcs covered their eyes and shied back from her. She leapt forwards and slammed the hammer into the head of one of the creatures, pulverising it in a spray of blood.

  Together, the witch hunter and the preceptor surged forwards, roaring wordless war cries. The rearmost orcs swung towards them, but Grunwald saw a pair of the creatures launch themselves at the girl.

  As fast as the elf was, he was not quick enough to block the blades that swung towards the girl from left and right, though he threw himself in the path of one of the orcs, turning its attack aside smoothly and nearly decapitating the greenskin with his return swing. The other cleaver hacked into the side of the girl with a wet crunching sound.

  The girl was knocked back against a wall, and slumped lifelessly to the ground. The elf knelt instantly at her side, uncaring of the danger, his long, angular features twisted with despair.

  “She was amazing,” breathed Karl as he cut down the last orc.

  “Yes,” said the witch hunter, looking at the motionless girl bleeding on the floor. “She was.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Thorrik waited in the stone antechamber, his thoughts grim, despite being back amongst his people and within a proper, dwarf-made stronghold. Shields on the walls bore the faces of ancestor gods: Grimnir, Valaya and Grungni amongst them. He marvelled at the stonework—it was wonderfully, lovingly crafted and, put shoddy human workmanship to shame—but even that could not shake free his dark musings.

  The dwarf holds were once again besieged, he had learnt. Karaz-a-Karak itself was assailed by the hated greenskins—indeed, it looked as though the grim times of the goblin wars long past had reasserted themselves, and the long war had begun once more.

  He grumbled to himself and shuffled his feet, his gauntleted hands gripping the carved stone armrests of his chair tightly.

  A pair of hammerers stood to either side of the thick, engraved steel doors, helms bearing tall feathered wings of hammered bronze on their heads. They stood motionless with gloved hands resting on the hafts of their mighty hammers, motionless sentinels that guarded the entrance to their thane’s audience chamber.

  At last the ornate, solid doors were opened, and an ancient greybeard nodded for him to enter.

  With his helm held under one arm, Thorrik entered the audience chamber. Grim statues lined the long room, stylised dwarfen warriors bearing axes and hammers, helms carved with runes upon their heads. Thorrik clomped across the stone flooring, following the ancient dwarf whose beard trailed behind him, his eyes fixed on the dwarf seated behind a carved stone table ahead of him. The thane’s head was lowered, and his desk was strewn with parchments, maps, stone tablets and thick, steel-bound books.

  The thane did not raise his head even when Thorrik came to a halt before him. The greybeard moved around the table to his lord’s side, and cleared his throat loudly.

  “Thorrik Lokrison, Ironbreaker of Clan Barad of Karaz-a-Karak, guardian of the Ungdrin seeks audience, my thane.”

  The thane grunted and looked up from his study, a deep frown upon his face and his eyes narrowed in concentration. His beard was as black as pitch, except for a streak of white growing from scar tissue on the left of his face, and ringed with bands of gold and gromril. He nodded in greeting to Thorrik, who nodded respectfully back.

  “Ironbreaker of Karaz-a-Karak,” he said, his voice deep. “I bid you welcome to Grimbeard. You come at a dark time. We could use an additional ironbreaker here—we are hard pressed.”

  “So I understand, thane,” said Thorrik. “And if I were not oath-bound I would gladly fight alongside the clans here.”

  The thane grunted. “Oathbound, eh. What is it you need?”

  “I come to deliver an heirloom to a warrior stationed here. It is from his father, who dwells now in the great halls beyond.”

  “There are many stationed here,” said the thane bluntly. “Though far fewer after the past two months of fighting. What is his name and clan?”

  “His name is Kraggi Ranulfson, of Clan Bruzgrond of Zhufbar.”

  The thane looked over at the greybeard with his eyebrows raised, and Thorrik realised he must have been the loremaster. The old dwarf turned a lock upon a massive book, and the wheels and cogs of the book’s cover clicked and turned, allowing the tome to be opened. The greybeard began leafing through the pages.

  “Of Clan Bruzgrond, you say?” he muttered.

  “Aye,” replied Thorrik.

  Finding the correct section of the tome, the dwarf lodged a magnifying monocle in his left eye and began squinting at the tiny rune-script on the pages, tracing down with his finger.

  “Ah,” he said at last in triumph. “Here he is. Kraggi Ranulfson of Clan Bruzgrond of Zhufbar.” The greybeard squinted up at him with a grin, the monocle, making his left eye seem of alarming size, before he lowered his head once more. “Right where is he… oh,” the dwarf’s words trailed off and he popped his monocle from his eye-socket, his face grim.

  “What is it, loremaster?” said the thane. “No need to be so dramatic.”

  “It is just that… well,” began the greybeard.

  “Spit it out,” said the thane.

  “He has taken up the slayer oath,” said the loremaster, and Thorrik lowered his head, covering his face with one of his gromril-encased hands, groaning in despair and sadness. Out of respect neither the thane nor the greybeard spoke, leaving Thorrik to his grief.

  Deeply proud individuals, dwarfs who suffered some terrible tragedy, loss or deep blow to their honour would become inconsolable and take up the slayer oath. With great lamentation they would throw off their armour and dye their hair so that all might recognise their shame, seeking out battle wherever it could be found. Their honour could only be restored upon their death in battle, and so the slayer would hunt out the most dangerous of foes to combat to ensure his oath was met.

  At last Thorrik gave a deep sigh, and raised his gaze to the greybeard, his eyes profoundly sad.

  “And has he succeeded in his oath? Has be passed into the halls of his fathers?” asked Thorrik grimly, his voice thick with emotion.

  If Kraggi had already died in battle, then if he had a son, the heirloom Thorrik bore would be passed on to him. But as far as he knew, the young slayer had no son—he was the last of his bloodline. If he had already passed into the halls of his ancestors then there would be no way for Thorrik to achieve his oath.

  “He is not with us any longer,” said the old greybeard solemnly, reading from his weighty tome, having wedged his eyeglass back in place. Thorrik felt the bite of shame deep in his belly. Hurriedly, the ancient dwarf continued. “By that, I do not mean he has succeeded in his oath, though he may yet have done so,” he said, making Thorrik look at him with narrowed ey
es, not understanding.

  “Oh, spit it out, you wattock,” snapped the thane.

  The loremaster cleared his throat, and glared at the thane before squinting back down at the tiny rune-script. “Beardling,” he muttered under his breath. “Ah, here we are. It seems that Kraggi has left Black Fire Pass, journeying north through the mountains towards Karak Kadrin, there to join with others of the slayer cult beneath the flames of Grimnir. He left here forty-three days past. There is no further record of him.”

  Thorrik gave a long sigh. “It would seem that I will be making the journey to Kadrin then,” he grunted.

  “The way through the mountains by foot is blocked,” said the loremaster, squinting over the table at Thorrik. “The greenskins of Karak Varn and Mount Gunbad have arisen once more in force, and are laying siege to Zhufbar. The way past Black Water is cut off, and we have had no communication from Zhufbar for a month.”

  The once proud dwarf halls of Karak Varn and Mount Gunbad had long ago fallen to the greenskins after earthquakes shattered them over three and half thousand years earlier. The dwarfs of the remaining holds still lamented the fates of these ancient halls, and long had been the oaths sworn to reclaim them from the hated hands of the grobi. But in the past three thousand years, the wars against the many enemies assailing the last remaining dwarf holds had been such that no reclamation expedition had yet been successful.

  “Thankfully,” said the thane, “Grimgrandel still runs. It leaves on the morn—that would be your most direct path to Kadrin, ironbreaker.”

  Thorrik nodded his head, his heart as heavy as stone in his chest. “If such is the way I must go, then so it is.”

  The thane stared at him wearily from across the desk. “The war here is escalating—never in my lifespan, nor that of my father or grandfather, have the greenskins massed in such numbers. It is as though some dire power binds them together and keeps them from their usual infighting. I am disheartened to see that you will not stay to fight here, ironbreaker, but an oath is an oath. I wish you well with your task.”