Bunching its legs again, it leapt at his throat. Eldanair stepped neatly to the side and scored a deep wound up its side as it hurtled past him. Growling and barking madly like a hound, its jaws snapped shut at his trailing black hair as it soared out into empty air. For a moment it seemed to hang in the open expanse, legs kicking madly, before it plummeted two hundred feet down into the darkness, still growling and yelping.
There was an anguished scream of hatred, and Eldanair felt a sharp pain at his neck as the arrow sliced past him, scoring a stinging wound. He grimaced as he felt hot blood on his neck, and he leapt away from the orcs closing on him, jumping lightly from rock to rock.
He rounded a massive boulder and jumped, clearing an area of untouched snow some six feet across. Landing in a roll, he spun as he came up to one knee, an arrow nocked to his bowstring. As the orcs rounded the bend he loosed, the arrow thudding into the first orc’s chest. Without thought it tore the arrow from its flesh, hurling it to the side, and with a roar threw itself towards the elf, its cleaver high.
The two orcs surged forwards, but the ground suddenly gave way beneath them. With great care, Eldanair had constructed the light platform of gorse and sticks, before covering it with grass and snow. The orcs bellowed as their weight collapsed the flimsy structure, and they slipped down, disappearing into the gloom. Four seconds later there was a distant clatter of metal as the bodies struck the sharp rocks far below.
Eldanair was off again, racing through the snow, a ghostly apparition that plagued the greenskins for the rest of the night. Several more died from his cunningly laid traps and snares. Tripping a concealed line of twine, sharpened stakes of wood swung around on a taut green branch to slam into the chest of one orc. Two hours later several more died as Eldanair caused an avalanche of rock to fall upon them, forcing the survivors to find a different route.
An hour before dawn, Eldanair killed another two, rising from beneath the snow to launch a volley of arrows into them, fleeing again as the survivors charged at him. They were more wary of him now, though, and checked their pursuit quickly.
These attacks were not without risk though, and as dawn rose he limped back to his companions, a black-feathered arrow embedded deep in his side.
“Eldanair!” called Annaliese as she sighted the elf, and the girl ran to him, catching the exhausted elf in her arms. She forced him to sit, and stripped off his clothes around the wound. He saw the young human knight scowling. The wound was ugly and red, and Annaliese bathed it with water, clearing away the excess blood from his skin.
He would have pulled the arrow loose himself, but the goblins used wickedly barbed arrow tips that would rip at his skin as he tried to pull it loose. This was no doubt what the humans were discussing as they looked upon his wound. One of them, the ugly, brutish, black-clad one called Grunwald made a pushing motion.
“Yes,” said Eldanair in the language of the elves, nodding at the man. He nodded back, understanding, and offered Eldanair a piece of leather to bite upon. The elf looked at the leather strip in scorn, and shook his head. Shrugging, Grunwald took of his hat, and wiped the back of his hand across his brow.
Placing one hand on the elf’s shoulder, the witch hunter got a good grip with his other hand on the feathered shaft of the arrow. Without ceremony, he pushed hard upon the arrow, pushing its head deeper into his flesh. Blood welled from the wound, and Annaliese’s face was pale. Eldanair winced against the pain but did not cry out. Grunwald pushed harder, and at last the cruelly barbed arrowhead burst from his back. Swiftly the witch hunter pushed the arrow through the elf’s flesh, wrapping his hand around the arrowhead and pulling the length of the shaft through the wound.
Eldanair passed out briefly, and in that time the wound was cleaned as best it could be, and bound with cloth. When he awoke, he hissed in pain, probing at the dressing with his long, pale finger. Nodding his thanks, he pushed himself to his feet, and indicated that he was ready to continue.
He was tougher than he looked, thought Grunwald.
For a time, it seemed as though they had left their pursuers behind, and the group began to think they had finally outrun them. They were nearing the lands of the Empire, the ground levelling out beneath them, leaving the high mountains behind. They were still high, and the wind was icy cold, but they could see the landscape beginning to change. Trees, albeit small and tough, were more frequent here, and the group felt almost deliriously buoyant. Still, they had not slept for days, and the exhausting race through the mountains was taking its toll. One knight almost stepped off a rocky precipice, his face ashen, and he had to be pulled back from the brink. He had not even registered the danger.
“We need to find a place to rest,” said Karl, voicing the exhaustion of the group.
“Up on the rock face,” said Thorrik, pointing. There was a series of heavy overhangs a few hundred feet up a scree-covered ridge. “There might be caves there,” he said. “Or at least protection from the wind.”
“There is no escape route up there,” said Karl. “We will have our backs against the wall when the enemy comes at us.”
Thorrik waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve had enough of running,” he said. “Better to be warm and rested and face the enemy than to continue on and be too weak to lift a blade when they come.”
“I thought the dwarfs were hardy folk,” said Karl, making Thorrik scowl deeply.
“I could march for another week if need be,” said the dwarf, “but I don’t think any of you beardlings will last another hour.”
There was truth in what the dwarf said, and Grunwald knew it.
“I think the dwarf speaks true,” he said. Annaliese nodded her head, too tired to speak. Finally, Karl nodded his assent, and the dwarf led the way up the slope, carefully studying the rock face.
“I would expect there to be caves there,” he said, indicating a little further around the ridge. Grunwald trusted him—the dwarfs certainly seemed to have a deep understanding of the mountains and the rocks.
He was exhausted almost beyond words, and at that moment he almost didn’t care if the greenskins pursued them still—all he could think about was rest.
Wincing as he held the wound at his side, Eldanair placed a hand on Grunwald’s shoulder. The witch hunter saw a dark patch upon the elf’s tunic where the blood from the wound had soaked through the bandages, but it was not this that the elf drew his attention to. He raised his hand, pointing into the distance behind them.
There they could clearly see their pursuers, still doggedly following their trail. Grunwald swore.
They continued to climb the slope, until they reached the overhanging rock face that leant out above them, giving them a modicum of protection. Thorrik was still convinced that there would be caves further around, and so they made their way around the cliff face, keeping a wary watch on the approaching greenskins.
“Do you think they have seen us?” said Annaliese, her face drawn.
“Most certainly,” said Grunwald. The reflections of the setting sun off the knights’ armour would be seen for miles, as red as fresh blood.
“Ah!” came Thorrik’s voice, filled with satisfaction. He stood before a yawning cave-mouth, the interior dark and expansive. A flight of small bats burst out. The days had blurred together into one nightmarish march, and he flopped to the ground, as tired as he had ever been.
Eldanair said something curt, eyeing the cave with distrust, sniffing at the air. There was a faint odour emanating from within, something almost imperceptible. Perhaps it was rotting meat, Grunwald thought. Yes, that was it—the cave had probably been the refuge for some wild animal; wolves or a bear.
“How long?” he asked Karl.
“Two hours before they reach us, I’d say,” replied the preceptor.
“Wake me when they come,” said Grunwald, and promptly fell asleep on the rock.
It was dark when he was shaken awake. He saw Annaliese’s face hovering above him.
“They come?” he said, and t
he girl nodded her head. She looked determined and ready for battle, for all that she was exhausted.
He stretched sore and tired muscles as he rose to his feet. He saw Karl staring down into the valley and joined the knight.
“Have you had any rest?” he asked.
“A little,” said the preceptor. His skin was drawn and pale—indeed it must have been agony to have trekked so far in his full suit of armour, wounded as he was.
“So, what’s the plan?” Grunwald said.
“The plan? We hold them here, or we die,” replied the preceptor, his voice emotionless with exhaustion.
“Good plan,” replied Grunwald, which got a weary smile. They waited half an hour as the enemy gathered below. There were almost sixty of them—a force that they had little hope of besting, and the mood was grim.
Annaliese came to join them as they sat watching the orcs’ preparations.
“My stomach is churning,” admitted the girl.
“The hours before battle are always the worst,” agreed Karl, smiling at the girl. “It gets to the point when you just wish they would come at us and get it over with. It never goes, no matter how many battles you fight in. Stick with me and you’ll be alright.”
“I know I will be alright,” said Annaliese with conviction. “I have faith. Sigmar would not lead me to the north only to have me die on some snow-swept mountainside.”
“The gods work in mysterious ways,” said Grunwald.
“Maybe I should stick near you,” said Karl, winking at the girl. “Maybe your god will protect me too.”
“Do that,” said the girl as she rose to her feet. “I’ll protect you.”
Karl laughed and winked at Grunwald behind Annaliese’s back, and whistled through his teeth as she walked away.
“Gods above, she is some woman,” he said.
It took the best part of an hour for the orcs and goblins to ready themselves for battle, as the last of their number arrived. There were almost a hundred of them gathered on the rocky plateau below them now. The largest of the orcs was clearly displeased with the delay, and his bellows and roars echoed up the slope, along with the clashing of weapons, and groans of pain as the target of his wrath was cut down and thrown over the huge bonfire the orcs had set blazing.
“Maybe they will kill each other and forget about us,” ventured Karl.
When they came, there was little warning. Drums began booming through the mountains, and the entire host of greenskins let out a war cry before racing straight up the rock-strewn slope. There was no strategy to their advance, they merely attacked in one surging wave. There was little need for strategy—they would charge up the hill, some would die, and then they would slaughter us all, thought Grunwald.
But he would be damned if he didn’t exact a high toll on the greenskinned bastards.
“Sigmar, give me the strength to kill in your name,” he whispered to himself, wishing that his faith was as strong as Annaliese’s seemed to be.
He listened for a response from the god, some sign that his words were heard—a flash of light, a warmth in his heart, a shooting star, anything. But there was nothing, just the savage roars of the enemy as they surged up through the night, intent on slaughter.
The long night of bloodshed had begun.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Under Karl’s instruction, dozens of flaming brands had been scattered around the perimeter of the cave mouth, held upright by piles of rocks. Larger stones and boulders had been rolled to form a crude, arcing wall, and it was here that the knights made their stand.
Annaliese was at the apex of the defensive position, standing tall, her hammer ready in her hands, the elf at her side. As the greenskins began to race up the steep slope he pulled himself onto the rocks and began to fire, his white fletched arrows slicing through the darkness.
Thorrik stood on the rock wall, hurling abuse at the approaching enemy in the dwarf tongue, his words scathing and hate-filled. He seemed unfazed about the sheer number of the foe, and Grunwald wondered if he welcomed a noble death in battle. He himself didn’t think there was anything noble about death, however it was achieved. Death was cold and dirty, full of pain and regret.
A heroic death in battle? He almost laughed at the notion. It sounded fine in grand speeches by commanders and leaders of men, and when surrounded by friends and family, an ale in hand, far from the true ravages of war. Death wasn’t noble. No one who had smelt the aftermath of a battle, the stink of blood and faeces, of flesh and spilt brains, could say there was anything noble about it. No one who had heard the screams of a man as he took three days to die from a gut wound, or the terrified pleas of a soldier begging the chirurgeons not to amputate his legs could think there was anything glorious about battle.
And yet here he stood, his crossbow bolts stuck into the ground beside him for ease of loading, awaiting his own “glorious” death against innumerable foes. He stood behind the low boulders, and fired into the mass of greenskins, his first shot taking one in the shoulder. Swiftly he reached for another bolt. Without a miracle, they would all die here, but there would be no one to record their deaths. It was not that Grunwald feared death—far from it—but he did not welcome it like some last great achievement. No, he would die kicking and spitting, refusing Morr’s grasp as long as he was able.
Karl walked within the perimeter of the crude defensive wall, shouting orders and encouraging his men with the virtues and strength of the goddess Myrmidia. The knights stood grim and weary, waiting for the enemy to reach their lines.
They didn’t have long to wait.
The first orcs were cut down mercilessly as they scrambled over the boulders, their necks slashed open and their limbs hacked from their bodies. Thorrik stood resolute and fearless on the wall, his axe carving a bloody swathe around him as he hacked the blade down onto the greenskins’ heads, splitting through helmets and skulls alike.
Annaliese called on Sigmar as a greenskin vaulted the boulders, landing before her with a massive blade in each hand. She almost smashed its head from its shoulders with her attack, the orc’s skull pulverised to mush.
Grunwald fired another crossbow bolt into the enemy at close range, punching a burly greenskin off the rock wall, falling amongst his comrades pushing forward from behind. Dropping the black-framed heavy crossbow to the ground, he drew his pistols, and another orc died as its head was shattered by lead shot. Another orc lurched towards him from the left, and his other pistol swung around and boomed, and the creature fell back, blood spraying out behind it.
Holstering the pistols, the witch hunter drew his mace in his right hand and a hunting knife in his left. The face of an orc was crushed with a heavy blow of his flanged mace, the sound of metal shattering bone sickening to his ears. Eldanair continued firing his arrows at close range, the shafts sinking deep into thickly muscled green flesh—indeed he fought with such grace and fluidity that you would not have known he carried an injury except for the growing patch of blood on his tunic where the arrow had struck him the previous night.
A massive greenskin, its flesh almost black, roared and jumped heavily down off the rock wall, the ground thumping beneath it. Apart from its brutal face, it was completely ensconced in thick metal armour plates, and it carried a giant barbed blade in its hands, a weapon nearly as tall as the creature’s seven feet of height.
Grunwald yelled a warning as the monstrous creature stalked towards Annaliese, the witch hunter struggling to defend himself against a pair of snickering, spear-wielding goblins.
Eldanair, hearing his shout, swung neatly around and fired—the arrow punched through the metal plating of the creature’s chest, sinking deep, and it turned its attention to the elf. Standing his ground, the elf fired again, his shot punching through the metal at the orc’s throat, but then it was on him, swinging its weapon in a lethal arc.
Eldanair ducked beneath the blow, stepping neatly to the side, but the massive orc anticipated the move and its iron-encased fist swung out in a
wild roundhouse punch that almost decapitated the elf. He was thrown through the air to smash against the inside of the rock wall, where he slumped to the ground lifelessly.
“Eldanair!” shouted Annaliese desperately. She smashed her hammer into the side of the orc’s brutish helmet, shattering one of the horns protruding from it, and sending the beast reeling. It regained its balance and swung towards her, snarling as it cracked its neck from side to side.
It towered over the girl, each of its arms the same diameter as her entire body, but she stood defiant and unafraid. With a roar, it hurled itself at her.
Three armoured shapes intercepted the massive orc, as Karl and a pair of his knights raced in to cover the breach in the defence. One of them died instantly as the massive cleaver of the orc carved down through his shoulder with a squeal of metal, the blade cutting all the way through to the hip. The two parts of the knight fell to the ground amid a torrent of blood, even as Karl drove his blade into the orc’s chest, and his comrade smashed his own blade down onto the beast’s arms.
Covered in blood, Karl turned from the dead monster to see if Annaliese was hurt, but the girl was looking towards the fallen figure of Eldanair. Her hammer sang through the air as she hurled herself through the melee towards the elf. Swearing, Karl was a step behind her, desperately fending off attacks thrown towards the girl. He slammed his shield into the face of an orc as it slipped to one knee in a pool of blood, and lunged to intercept a blow from a cleaver that would have killed Annaliese from behind.
The girl threw herself to the ground at the elf’s side, checking for a pulse, as Karl stood defensively over her, his sword flashing out at any greenskin that drew near.
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