Still, whenever Annaliese rested, Eldanair sat watching over her. Her sleep was plagued with dreams and nightmares—he heard her cry out often, and the elf would place a hand on her forehead, speaking soothingly in his singsong voice. She would invariably fall back into restful sleep.
Grunwald couldn’t work out the elf, and that concerned him. He was deeply intuitive with people—he had a knack for feeling when someone was lying, or concealing something—though he was generally quite happy to let those around him see him merely as a brute. It served his purpose well, for people often lowered their guard around him. But the elf was blank to him, and he never left the girl’s side. When the time came for Grunwald to ensure the girl suffered her accident, it would be more than likely that he would have to deal with Eldanair as well.
Finally Thorrik returned.
“There is a way out,” he said, and everyone’s attention snapped onto him. “But it will not be without risks.”
“Finally,” said Karl. “Why has it taken so long for you to find this information?”
Grunwald raised a hand to forestall any argument, glaring at Karl.
“And you will not be able to take your precious horses,” said Thorrik, staring the knight squarely in the eye.
“What? Preposterous! We are knights, and we will not leave our destriers here in this dark hole.”
“Then you will stay here in this dark hole as well then,” said Thorrik.
“Tell us more about this way out,” said Grunwald.
“There is a final mineshaft that has yet to be sealed. It leads into the mines of Baradum, which have long been abandoned to the enemy. They crawl through the darkness like vermin, seeking an entrance into the slayer keep from below, since their armies are smashing uselessly against its walls. This way is to be sealed tomorrow at midday. At the same time King Ungrim Ironfist’s son, the war-mourner Garagrim, will lead forth an army of slayers, to clear the Great Bridge and push back the enemy. It seems that orc and goblin hordes are erecting their crude war machines with which to pound the keep. Kadrin lacks the cannons to effectively pummel these emplacements, and so Garagrim has tasked himself with destroying these threats.”
Thorrik stared around at the humans, ignoring the elf.
“When the war-mourner and his slayer army sallies forth, the enemy will be drawn to them like moths to a flame. That is when we will enter the mines of Baradum. We make our way through them—one of its exits is some distance down the valley, and all being well, we will be able to make a clear run through to the Empire.”
“All being well?” snapped Karl. “What if the armies of the greenskins are not all drawn away? What if they are waiting out there in the valley for us?”
Thorrik looked at the knight, his eyes heavy but his face expressionless.
“Then we die,” he said.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Curving horns fashioned in the likeness of mighty serpents and wyrms boomed, their resounding blare echoing through Kadrin Keep and out into the valley beyond. Dozens of horns sounded, deep and monotonous, deafeningly loud. Each instrument was the size of a tree, and fixed to the stone walls of the massive gathering chamber with giant bands of iron. Those dwarfs who blew them stood in sunken alcoves built high into the walls, and Grunwald could feel his ear-rums reverberate at the colossal din that made the rock beneath his feet shudder in response.
He stood at the side of Karl Heiden, the preceptor knight fully decked out in his ornate armour. He wore his plumed helm and his thirty knights were arrayed behind him, their armour freshly shined and glimmering brightly in the firelight of thousands of torches and lanterns. Their standard was unfurled and resplendent, and each knight stood to attention, motionless, powerful and silent.
Grunwald wore his full uniform of office. His breastplate was freshly covered in new black lacquer, and he had affixed several passages from the books of Sigmar to it, thin parchment scrolls held in place with wax seals bearing the twin-tailed comet impression of the large bronze signet ring he wore on his left hand, on top of his elbow-length black gloves. On his broad-rimmed black hat he wore a large, freshly shined wreathed-skull badge, and twin baldrics crossed his torso upon which were strapped the tools of his trade—silver-tipped stakes, vials of holy water, powder-horns and a small, padlocked book of Sigmarite holy passages. His pistols were holstered on his belt, and an array of knives and bladed “confession tools” were sheathed about his body—at his side, strapped to his knee-high black boots, on his forearms. His trusty flanged mace hung loosely at his side. Over his shoulders he had drawn his heavy black coat.
Next to him was Annaliese, who looked for all the world like a true acolyte priest of Sigmar in her robes of cream and deep red that were worn over her floor-length robe of chainmail. She held her head high, an expression of pride and strength on her face. Her holy Sigmarite hammer hung at her side, and the symbol of Sigmar was prominent on her breast.
Standing before them was Thorrik, the ironbreaker, stone-still and radiating strength and resilience. His reddish beard was freshly braided with copper wire, and his gromril armour was shined to perfection.
It was a great honour, he had told them, to be allowed to witness the official muster and blessing of the Slayer King upon the army that would within hours push out to meet the enemy head on. Only Eldanair had been barred from the official ceremony.
The humans, accompanied by Thorrik Lokrison, had been escorted to a high balcony to oversee the proceedings below, and the sheer scale of the gathering had stunned Grunwald.
The cavern was immense, even greater than any he had yet seen within the dwarf hold, and behind it rose the colossal doors that formed the gateway out of the mighty hold.
Those doors were hundreds of feet high, and giant clockwork wheels and cogs were constructed into their design. Giant idle pistons, levered arms and immense anvil-like counter-weights were built into the grand pillars astride the doors, and Grunwald guessed that it was these mechanics that would open the doors when the time came for this mighty dwarf army to sally forth.
Grunwald had been surprised that he and the other humans had been allowed to bear weapons to such an august ceremony, but he saw now that they could pose no threat to the dwarf king, armed or not.
Spread out on the terraced chamber floor was the army that Garagrim was soon to lead through those great doors, and it made Grunwald’s mind boggle to see such numbers arrayed below him.
Thousands of clan warriors of Karak Kadrin had been mustered, and they stood in serried ranks behind their thanes and chieftains. Banners of beaten metal and beautifully crafted icons were held aloft on steel poles, the standards bearing clan symbols and runes.
But these dwarf warriors were outnumbered easily five to one by the garishly painted slayers, who stood with hands resting on the heads of the axes, their silence unnerving. A sea of orange, spiked hair and painted faces, the slayers stared solemnly towards the arched entranceway through which their patron king would emerge.
Grunwald studied the faces of the closest slayers—they had been daubed with blue and black inks and dyes, and intricate coiling patterns and runes covered their flesh. Eye sockets had been smeared with ash, making the slayers’ menacing eyes appear to peer out of darkness. Some held aloft the heads of mighty enemies that had been bested in battle—trolls, massive greenskins, scaled beasts and furred creatures that defied name. Many of the slayers towards the front of the mass array of force were covered in scars and old, healed wounds, and these ancient warriors bore weapons gleaming with jewels, gold and throbbing runes of power.
“Those unable to achieve death,” whispered Thorrik. “For while all slayers seek to attain their honourable end, a slayer must fight with all his strength and ability in battle, else he will not be allowed within the drinking halls of our ancestors. So it is that the mightiest slayer warriors find their deaths hard to achieve, and they seek out the most powerful foes on the field of battle, striving to one day meet the enemy that they could not
overcome. They are truly tragic figures. Giant slayers, dragon slayers, daemon slayers—tragically, for some the quest for death is never ending.”
Grunwald estimated that there must have been in the region of eight thousand slayers gathered below, each warrior utterly fearless, as hard as stone and eager for battle. It would have been terrifying to face such a foe, and yet it was said that the armies battering upon the fortress from the valley beyond was numberless.
The deafening horns sounded again, deep and reverberating, and the alcove doors below were thrown open. The Slayer King and his son marched forth. They were closely followed by an entourage of doughty warriors bearing huge two-handed hammers and wearing armour inlaid with gold, and by dozens of dwarfs holding tall banners and icons aloft, but it was the king who drew Grunwald’s eye.
As broad as he was tall, the Slayer King was borne upon a broad round shield of gold, carried by four powerfully built warriors. His fierce head was lifted, and a deafening roar rose from the gathered dwarf warriors, accompanied by ten thousand feet stamping in unison. The booming resounded through the chamber, and the Slayer King was carried onwards through the din. A long cloak of gleaming dragon scales was fixed to his shoulders and hung down over the shield bearing him to trail onto the flagstones behind. He wore a glittering horned crown of gold studded with precious stones, and his mighty beard, dyed bright orange, was tied in intricate braids that looped back upon themselves, such was its length. Above his crown rose a tall crest of spiked orange hair, worn in the same manner as the thousands of slayers before him. Unlike them, however, he wore heavy and ornate armour—the armour of his office as king of Karak Kadrin—and it glowed dully with hundreds of runes.
Before the king walked an honoured white-bearded dwarf, his face lined with age and his beard trailing in his wake. Despite his age, this revered ancient one had arms as thick as tree-stumps, and he held above his head a large golden platter draped in rich cloth, upon which lay the kingly weapon of his lord—a giant double-bladed axe that seemed to shimmer and vibrate with barely restrained power.
Walking steadily beside the shield-bearers that bore the Slayer King was the king’s heir and son, Garagrim Ironfist. War-mourner was his title, Thorrik had told Grunwald, though the full import of this title was lost on him. This fearsome warrior stalked forwards, arrayed for battle in the manner of the slayers, eschewing armour and treading across the stone floor barefoot. His orange beard was hung with icons of Grimnir, and his heavily muscled forearms were wrapped in chain. These chains were fixed to a pair of axes he carried, perhaps to ensure that he was never rendered weaponless in the heat of battle. His face was streaked with ash and his arms covered in coiling blue ink.
The kingly entourage drew to a halt, and the shield-bearers lowered their liege gently to the ground. He stepped forward, off the golden shield, and stood at the top of a raised stone tier looking over the steps across the host of Karak Kadrin, and silence descended.
Then the king spoke, his deep-throated voice carrying across the entire gathered force thanks to the acoustics of the architecture. None stirred, not a single warrior or slayer shuffled, and his words were met with stony silence. Though the humans could not understand Khazalid, the guttural, harsh language of the dwarfs, they picked up on the spirit of the speech, and it was filled with pride, strength, doom and anger.
It was not a long, drawn out speech as it would have been in the Empire—rather it was curt, short and to the point. Garagrim knelt before his king and the mighty Slayer King of Kadrin lifted him to his feet and placed his forehead against that of his son’s, uttering an oath of clearly great importance. A pair of brimming steins of ale were brought forth, and the king and his heir drank deep before throwing the vessels to the ground and crushing them beneath their feet. Grunwald winced as the bare foot of Garagrim bent the metal stein out of shape.
With a final nod to his father, the War-mourner walked down the steps towards his army, and a great clamour of chanting, stamping of feet and the blare of horns sounded out.
“And so the throng of Karak Kadrin goes to war,” said Thorrik, turning away from the spectacle. With the grinding of gears and the venting of steam, the giant doors of the slayer keep opened, and daylight bright and sharp speared inside the hold, bringing with it ungodly screams and the smell of fire. Thousands of crude drums beat from the valley outside—the pounding of the enemy.
A flight of single-manned, steam-powered flying machines lifted from the chamber floor, their rotary blades spinning in a blur of motion, setting the hair and beards of those below flapping with the wind they generated. The gyrocopters flew out through the slowly opening portal, up into the grey skies that were almost blinding after so long without seeing sunlight.
With a roar, the army of Karak Kadrin readied itself for battle, turning towards the ever-expanding archway of light.
“Come,” said Thorrik, his voice gruff. “It is time.”
They descended into darkness, travelling deeper and deeper into the heart of the mountain and the mine-workings that created a labyrinth of passageways far beneath the surface. The sound of chains running out was deafening, as was the heavy repetitive clunk and pounding of the steam engine that lowered the steel platform down into the abyssal darkness below.
Karl was clearly still angered at having to leave his beloved warhorse back in the dwarf hold. The faces of his knights were similarly grim. Eldanair looked directly upwards, his long, emotionless face turned towards the distant light at the top of the mining shaft that was getting ever smaller with every passing minute.
The air was hot and stifling the deeper they went, and Grunwald found himself sweating profusely beneath his breastplate and he took his hat off to wipe his brow. Apart from Thorrik and the miner-turned-slayer Abrek Snorrison who was to act as their guide, the only one that seemed to remain calm as they descended deeper beneath the ground was Annaliese. Her fist was clasped tightly around her symbol of Sigmar, and she spoke the simple prayers that Grunwald had taught her like a mantra. Her face was serene and tranquil. The shuttered lanterns seemed to create a halo-like glow around her, her blonde hair shining in the darkness, luminous and golden.
It seemed to Grunwald that their descent was never-ending, and he would not have been at all surprised to have found themselves transported to the fiery underworld at journey’s end.
Finally, the platform hit solid ground, and the boom of it striking rock echoed up the sheer shaft that led into Karak Kadrin.
The grim slayer Abrek indicated forward with his bearded chin, and barked something in Khazalid to Thorrik. The slayer hefted a massive mining pickaxe in one hand, while in the other he held a lantern, its light blinding, focused with polished metal and shutters to project its light in a single beam.
“This is it,” said the ironbreaker, his voice muffled behind his gromril helm. “Abrek and I take the lead. The rest of you follow, two abreast. We move now. This last mine entrance will be sealed within the hour.”
Karl organised his men, his orders crisp and brooking no argument. He took up position with one of his knights as the rear guard. They all held their swords drawn, and all but those holding dwarf-made alcohol-fuelled lanterns wore their shields strapped to their arms.
“Daughter of Verena, let your light be our guide in the darkness,” said Karl, invoking Myrmidia, the goddess of the Blazing Sun. Grunwald walked at the side of Annaliese in the middle of the party, with Eldanair ghosting their footsteps a pace behind, an arrow nocked to his bow, his face alert and tense. The witch hunter had loaded and primed his wheel-lock pistols, and he walked with one of them held in his left hand—his brutal mace in the other. Annaliese, radiating calm, walked with her hammer held in both hands.
Into the labyrinth of abandoned mining passages they went, lanterns lighting the way. Through twisting corridors hewn of solid rock they marched, the humans pointing their lanterns down dark passages criss-crossing their route, their eyes straining. Some of the corridors they passed were br
oad, and steel tracks like those of the steam engine were laid on the stone floor.
Within minutes, Grunwald had lost his bearings, utterly and completely. If Thorrik and Abrek fell, then they would have little chance of ever making their way out. It was a veritable maze, with passages leading everywhere. They passed shafts that rose higher into the mountain and others that sank still deeper. The concept of time had no meaning down here.
The ground began to shudder, and Thorrik halted the column of marching warriors. There came an echoing boom reverberating up the passageway, and rocks and dust fell from the ceiling onto the column. Grunwald shielded his head with his arm. A heavy rock fell onto Thorrik’s helmet, but it cracked as it struck him, and the pieces fell around him. The dwarf made no reaction. Exactly which direction the sound came from was impossible to discern, as was its distance. Rumbling crashes boomed and rocked the earth beneath their feet. More rock and debris fell, cracking sharply against the knights’ armour, they all looked fearfully around them, feeling the weight of the mountain pressing down upon them.
“What is it?” Grunwald hissed, voicing the thoughts of all the humans.
Thorrik’s voice ghosted back to his ears, sounding distant and faint. “Earthquake?”
“The shaft is being sealed by engineers behind us. What you hear are controlled blasting charges closing off the mines so that the enemy may not find a way into the keep.”
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