Still, Grunwald knew that the external veneer that people wore was only that—an image, surface-deep, that could hide foulness within. How many servants of the Ruinous Powers wore the guise of nobility and servitude to the Emperor? How many foul witches and mutants paraded themselves within Empire society as devout adherents to Sigmar’s ways? The enemy within was the most dangerous and cunning enemy of all and it was the duty of the witch hunters to root out and unveil these hated foes wherever they were to be found.
“Do not let her know that you suspect her,” the witchfinder general Horscht had instructed him. “For that would be to alert her to your motive, and she would only become more careful and conniving in her ways. Be a friend to her—be her guardian and her confidant. But always beware the guiles of the enemy, and watch for signs of corruption. And once there is valid proof expose her for what she truly is and enact Sigmar’s vengeance upon her with the full power vested in you.”
“I will be ever vigilant in my duty,” Grunwald had vowed. In truth he hated such a duplicitous approach—he had been embraced as a witch hunter due to his brutal, forthright and direct approach, not for his subtlety. While others of his order specialised in infiltrating and unearthing covens of dark worship from the inside, with admirable success, Grunwald had always frowned upon such practice. Descending on the foe with all the brutal power his position could muster, to force a confession from the lips of his suspects—that was his preferred way. And he had been lauded for the success he had already had in his young career. This task left a sour taste in his mouth.
“Come,” said the dwarf apprentice, ushering the trio towards the steaming beast. Udo felt distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of travelling over the mountains hundreds of miles to the north within the belly of this giant metal serpent. He would have been much more comfortable riding the distance on horseback, or even walking, but this was certainly the quickest mode of transport available and Annaliese had been insistent. A vision drove her onwards, she said—Sigmar wished for her to travel to the north with all haste. Grunwald found such claims doubtful, he had been a servant of the warrior god for some years now and had never received a vision. He knew that some in the order had received such visitations, but they were usually priests of particularly high standing—not an untrained peasant.
They followed the young apprentice as he marched up the platform that was raised some ten feet above the ground, passing the hissing steam engine of the giant machine he had called Grimgrandel. Dozens of engineers, many with long beards that would have been white if they were not blackened with soot, stood arguing loudly near the cabin of the machine. The group ducked out of the way of two master engineers stalking towards them. The engineers were engrossed in heated conversation, and they carried huge spanners upon which were fixed arrays of steam-powered tools of arcane design. One of them lost the flow of his diatribe when he caught sight of Eldanair, and he spluttered in outrage, his face reddening. Swiftly, the apprentice ushered the trio past the revered engineers, blushing a deep red. He was clearly uncomfortable being a chaperone, Grunwald realised.
Tons of coal were being dropped into the vast tender behind the lead engine. Grunwald found himself gaping, and almost bowled an aged dwarf over as he looked around the frantic activity around the platform. The dwarf huffed and barked an insult, as the witch hunter was hurried on his way by the shame-faced apprentice, who apologised profusely to the old dwarf.
Warning whistles blew loud and shrill, and with a hissing of steam and the clanking of levers, sections of the carriages began to unfold. Gears and cogs ground as the sides collapsed outwards onto the platform with a resounding crash amidst venting smoke and steam.
Hundreds of dwarf warriors bustled from the carriages, their weapons and armour clanking, their heavy steps pounding rhythmically upon the unfolded metal carriage sides. Mule-sized spluttering engines were fired up, belching choking smoke, and they dragged behind them lines of war machines—cannons, organ guns and other more esoteric devices that Grunwald did not recognise. Sweating engineers guided these steam-powered hauling engines as they puttered out from inside the carriages, directing them down ramps leading into the main stronghold of Grimbeard. Reinforcements from other dwarf holds, Grunwald figured.
Scores of grim dwarfs marched past, who were ignored completely or regarded with looks of scorn. Most were cloaked in heavy green fabric, and they marched resolutely behind bronze standards depicting horned ancestor-heads. Wonderfully crafted guns were carried over the broad shoulders of many.
“Clan warriors from Karak Hirn,” said the young engineer apprentice, ushering Grunwald to the side so as not to block the way.
Legions of dwarf warriors waited in the wings of the Grimbeard platform alongside the monstrous engine, and they nodded their heads to the warriors filing past them. When the last warriors had marched from the carriages, and the final war machines had been disembarked, horns were blown, making Eldanair wince.
“You will be travelling in the third carriage of Grimgrandel, quite separate to the clan warriors,” the apprentice informed them as he began leading them through the press once more. “Much care must be taken to ensure rival clans do not embark within the same carriage, I might add.”
They neared the third carriage, and the apprentice halted. “Here you are,” he said. He nodded to Grunwald and Annaliese, studiously ignoring Eldanair, and without further ado he turned and hurried away from them. Grunwald shrugged, and stepped inside the metal hull of the carriage.
Thorrik muttered to himself as the sides of Grimgrandel slammed shut with a burst of steam and a belch of smoke. He tutted to himself at the delay of leaving Grimbeard. Had he not been waiting for Grimgrandel, he could have been two days ahead on his journey—but that journey would have taken many weeks, and by all accounts this journey would take but days. But still, he didn’t trust this new-fangled creation of the Engineering Guilds.
The inside of the carriage was not unlike a dwarf hold, he thought, though on a far smaller scale. The ceiling of the carriage was almost hidden in darkness overhead, and lanterns built into the curving rib-like support beams blazed with warm light. The enclosed air was filled with pipe-smoke and small groups of dwarfs drank ale from ornate metal flagons. A rowdy group of warriors further up the carriage stamped their metal-shod boots against the steel floor in time to their chanting, while the scrape of metal sounded as other dwarfs sharpened already flawless axe-blades with whetstones.
There was a riot of bustling movement within the carriage as dwarfs stowed weapons and equipment in heavy steel lockers located within the backrests of the benches, but the area around Thorrik was an island of calm. Ironbreakers were highly respected warriors, and none would wish to give offence to the veteran.
A contingent of thunderers holding their beloved black-powder weapons protectively across their laps sat nearby, talking in low tones amongst themselves. He recognised from the uniform metal discs each wore around his neck that they were holdless clan warriors whose ancestors had come from Karak Varn—a hold lost by natural disaster and subsequent skaven and grobi attacks over four thousand years earlier. Though generations of the survivors lived within the other dwarf holds, they could never truly be at home or fully accepted in any of them. Most of these grim thunderers were meticulously cleaning the mechanisms of their priceless guns, oiling cogs and shining their barrels.
There were even a few slayers within the carriage, lost in their own misery. They were instantly recognisable; they wore little in the way of clothing and forsake any form of armour. Their bare skin was covered in spiralling blue tattoos, and the sides of their heads shaved. Their hair, stiffened with lime and grease, was spiked up in large crests and both hair and beard were dyed a bright orange so that none may mistake the oaths of death they had sworn.
No dwarf approached these grim figures, and they in turn kept their eyes downcast, chuntering away to themselves, fingering the hafts of their axes. The fire of disgrace burnt fiercely within them,
and it could only be doused with their own honourable death in battle.
Thorrik’s face darkened as looked upon the doomed slayers. He sighed deeply and thought of the heirloom he carried wrapped within oilskin. The only remaining member of the family, the rightful owner of the artefact, had taken up the slayer oath. Thorrik’s heart was heavy.
He looked up from his position seated on one of the three aisles running the length of the carriage to see a tall, dark-clad shape leading a pair of other tall figures through the press of dwarfs. He recognised the broad-rimmed black hat worn by the witch hunter Udo Grunwald, and he nodded in greeting as he caught the human’s eye.
“Thorrik Lokrison,” said the witch hunter once he had picked his way through the press.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, manling,” said Thorrik gruffly. The witch hunter gave a curt shake of the head.
“Didn’t expect to be here,” he replied. “You are heading back to the north?”
“Aye, to Karak Kadrin,” said Thorrik, squinting up at the big man. He couldn’t quite see the two behind the witch hunter. “Sit yourself down, manling, I am getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”
Thorrik nodded in thanks as the thunderers made room for the new arrivals.
“This is Annaliese,” introduced Grunwald, gesturing towards the human girl dressed like one of their warrior priests of Sigmar. “And this is her… companion.”
“Eldanair,” said the girl, introducing the third figure, who was cloaked and hooded. Thorrik stiffened at the name, and peered into the gloom beneath the figure’s hood.
“Elf,” he spat. Several dwarfs nearby glanced around sharply, scowling. Thorrik’s face hardened, and he turned back to Grunwald. “You keep unwelcome company, manling.”
“He can handle himself in a fight,” shrugged the witch hunter.
“Doesn’t mean he fights on our side though. An elf fights only for himself—they have no concept of honour or oaths of friendship.”
“Eldanair has been a devoted protector and friend to me,” said the human girl, her face reddening in anger. “I will not have you or anyone else speak ill of him.”
Thorrik gave the girl a withering look, but to her credit she did not baulk beneath his stony gaze. “Remember your words, lass, when he deserts you and flees from danger in the dead of night.”
“He would never…” started the girl, her voice rising, and the elf touched her on the shoulder, shaking his head.
“Oathbreakers, all of them,” declared Thorrik loudly turning away from the girl and the elf. “Never trust an elf.”
“Glad to see you have mellowed in our time apart,” commented Grunwald.
Thorrik swore in Khazalid as he saw another tall figure moving though the crowd down the aisle towards him. This human was wearing plate armour, and had a broad grin on his face.
“Another friend of yours?” said Thorrik. The witch hunter looked up in surprise.
“Karl Heiden!” he said, standing and gripping the man’s armoured forearm in greeting.
“I heard that there were other humans on board this marvel. If I’d known they were quite so pretty, I would have dressed up,” the knight proclaimed, winking at Annaliese, who blushed.
A whistle blared, and Grimgrandel shuddered into movement, almost knocking the human knight off his feet.
Grimgrandel pulled out from Grimbeard, the massive engine steaming and smoking as the pressure within the boiler grew. Pistons began to rise and fall, and searing pipes and valves began to shudder. With a final whistle, the massive steam-powered engine began to pick up speed. Within the hour, it entered a massive tunnel that bored straight into the side of the mountains, and began hurtling through the darkness, cutting straight through the heart of the Worlds Edge Mountains.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The carriage jerked suddenly, shaking Grunwald awake with a start. It was dark and his ears where filled with ungodly, unfamiliar sounds and the air was hot and stifling. For a moment he imagined that he had died, and was on his way to Morr’s underworld realm, but he shook off these maddening thoughts as he regained his bearings.
With bleary eyes he glanced around the gloomy interior. Lanterns rattled and shook as the carriage shuddered through the darkness far beneath the mountains. In the dim light he could see that many of the dwarfs were sleeping, their loud snoring all but drowned out by the rattling carriage, the relentless hissing and pounding of pistons and coupling rods, and the screech of the metal wheels upon steel tracks.
The heat within the carriage was almost unbearable, the air thick with smoke, both from the massive coal stacks at the front of the hauling engine and from pipes. The stink of coal and oil filled his nostrils, and his breathing was laboured. His eyes stung from ash, and he blinked heavily.
It truly was an infernal machine, this steam engine, he thought. It seemed that it ploughed down into the heart of the world. This was not a place for man, he decided. Just the idea that there were hundreds of thousands of tons of rock hanging over their heads, ready to collapse and crush them at any moment, made his breathing quicken and sweat trickle down the back of his neck.
Thorrik was sleeping, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. Annaliese slept as well, her legs tucked up underneath her and her head lolling on the elf’s shoulder, though he could not tell if the elf was awake. He wore a strip of cloth tied around his mouth and nose, and had his hood pulled down low, concealing his eyes and pointed ears, and though he made no reaction to Grunwald, that was not to say that he was asleep.
Karl Heiden was nowhere to be seen—soon after the steam engine had begun its journey he had returned to his men, who were travelling within the carriage behind theirs. He had told the witch hunter that the dwarfs had kicked up quite a fuss when he had tried to board the warhorses of the knightly order, and the thoroughbred steeds had whinnied in fear, stamping their hooves despite their training. But such was the agreement that the humans had with the dwarfs—they were travelling to the northern battle zones of the Empire, and the quickest route was by this steaming monstrosity—and the dwarf High King had pledged its availability to the Emperor himself.
Half of Karl’s order was travelling northwards on board. Though there were rumours of armies of darkness massing beyond the Peak Pass, which Karak Kadrin guarded, from latest correspondences the way from the dwarf hold into the Empire was clear. How long it would remain so, however, was another matter.
Feeling a need to stretch his aching back, the witch hunter stood warily holding onto the side-bench for stability. The dwarfs certainly eschewed comfort, and he winced as his back clicked alarmingly. The travelling benches were cold and hard, leather over steel; no wonder the dwarfs were such a taciturn race if this was how they lived.
Seating himself once more, Grunwald stared at Annaliese, as if trying to penetrate her sleeping thoughts. Was she true, or did the touch of Chaos itself, linger within? Even if she did not yet realise it, she could still be tainted and thus deserving of death. Usually such a taint would eventually manifest itself physically, through mutation however slight—webbed toes, knobbly growths protruding from the spine, additional fingers—but these might not necessarily have yet had time to develop in one so young. Or, he thought darkly she was able to control the powers of Chaos to such an extent that she was able to restrain such outward markers of her sin.
Once again he felt his frustration grow. This was not his way—he was a man of action and directness. If there was suspicion of witchery and Chaos taint, then there would be a trial. If the individual proved to be innocent, then their death cleared them—for all who were tried received death, guilty or no. There was no remorse, and Grunwald felt no guilt for the innocent dead—better to die with your purity ensured than to linger with doubt.
He flicked his gaze from the girl to the elf. He felt with certainty that Eldanair was not asleep, but rather was watching over the girl. Perhaps he was her familiar, thought Grunwald darkly. He shuffled in his seat. He must t
est her, he knew, but he must also do as the witchfinder general commanded—he must determine her innocence or guilt without her knowing his motive.
The train lurched, and Annaliese awoke with a gasp, her eyes wide and fearful. She looked around and caught the witch hunter’s gaze—she smiled sleepily to him. Grunwald fingered a water bottle at his belt, thinking. Then he unscrewed its cap, and took a small swig. He offered the girl the bottle.
“It’s just water,” he assured her. Nodding her thanks, she unfurled her long legs from beneath her, stretching herself like a cat. Grunwald stood up and stepped over to her. The train rocked again and he stumbled. A small amount of water splashed over Eldanair and Grunwald felt the elf’s dark eyes boring into him. Apologising, he handed the girl the bottle. She gratefully took a long swig, and smiled her thanks.
Re-seated, Grunwald sealed the bottle of sanctified holy water once more. It was precious—certainly not drinking water—but it should have been like acid to a devotee of the Ruinous Powers. But then, that meant nothing. The enemy was cunning.
There was a screech of metal on metal as the wheels of the steam engine locked. Those few dwarfs who had been standing were knocked from their feet and fell to the floor of the aisle heavily, cursing. Equipment and rucksacks fell from overhead shelves, crashing down upon those still seated, who slid along the bench seats towards the front of the carriage. Grunwald caught hold of the bench as he began to slide, but lost his grip when Thorrik’s immense armoured weight slammed into him, and was almost crushed against an ornately crafted bronze armrest in the shape of a rearing dragon, Annaliese half fell from her seat and would have flown up the carriage if Eldanair hadn’t grabbed her arm with preternatural speed and pulled her to safety. Grunwald winced as the weight of Thorrik pressed against him, and he was sure that his ribs were going to break. With a final grinding screech, the engine halted.
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