“There is no Stirland state patrol within twenty miles and you ’aint scouts or militia,” he said gruffly. “I’d say you are deserters. Cowards. Your word is worth less than pig shit.”
The smile dropped from the leader of the outlaws’ face.
“Brave words for someone so heavily outnumbered, dwarf.”
His greedy eyes flicked towards Thorrik’s pack, and the object wrapped in leather on top of it.
“Give us your belongings, and we will be on our way. No harm need come to you, friend.”
“Call me friend once more, pig face, and I will carve the fat from your bones,” growled the dwarf. “Where are your companions? I thought it would take more of you cowardly dogs to pluck up the courage to rob a clan warrior of Karaz-a-Karak.”
One of the deserters, grobi-face, looked around him “Where’s Anton, sergeant? And Valdar?”
“Shut your hole,” snarled the big outlaw. “The time for niceties is over, dwarf. Shoot him.”
The two archers drew back their bows, and Thorrik roared a war cry in Khazalid, the dwarfen tongue. Hefting his axe, he surged forwards. There was a flash of movement in the darkness further up the trail, and one of the archers fell, a black bolt protruding from his neck. The other archer fired, the arrow streaking through the air towards the dwarf.
Thorrik turned his shoulder into the path of the arrow, and it skidded off one of his heavy gromril pauldrons, unable to penetrate or even dent the thick metal plate. He closed the distance to the leader of the outlaws with surprising swiftness, and the big outlaw swore as he stepped backwards to make more room for himself, drawing a massive double-handed greatsword from his back.
A brigand darted in from the left, a short sword stabbing towards the dwarf’s exposed face. With a powerful swipe of his arm, Thorrik deflected the blow with his armoured forearm and slammed his axe into the man’s neck, and blood fountained from the mortal wound.
Thorrik saw an ugly brute of a man appear from the darkness and a pistol boomed, shattering the leg of another of the outlaws, who fell screaming to the ground. The newcomer wore a dark great-cloak, and had a broad-brimmed hat upon his head. A heavy black breastplate protected his chest, and his body was criss-crossed with buckles and straps from which hung an impressive array of knives and deadly implements.
Then the newcomer was amongst them, his mace pulverising the face of one who had turned to face this new threat.
Thorrik stalked towards the overweight leader of the outlaws, aware of the axe-man stepping to his flank but keeping his eyes locked on the fat man the other had called sergeant.
“What’s the matter, friend?” he snarled, his voice gravelly. “Things not turning out how you had hoped?”
Thorrik saw an arrow fired in haste glance over the shaven-headed man’s shoulder, and saw the archer draw a long knife from his boot. The thug lunged, but the dark-clad figure caught his wrist, keeping the knife turned away from him. A heavy mace smashed down onto the brigand’s shoulder, shattering it with a sickening crunch. He screamed in agony and dropped to his knees. His cries were silenced as the mace swung in and crushed his skull.
Thorrik turned as the axe-man to his right darted forwards, and he deflected the descending axe blade with his own. Twisting the blade, he knocked the axe-man off balance and into the path of the outlaw leader who had stepped forwards swinging his greatsword murderously. The outlaw pulled the blow with some difficulty, and stopped just short of cleaving his comrade in two.
The dwarf stepped forwards and smashed his axe into the brigand’s knee, and he fell heavily.
The leader of the outlaws spun, feeling a presence behind him, turning to see a pistol levelled at his head. He stood frozen for a moment, like a deer caught in the light of a lantern, his eyes wide and staring. Then the trigger was squeezed and the man’s head was blown apart in a spray of bone and blood.
There were no more outlaws standing, though several of them were moaning in pain from their prone positions in the snow.
“I didn’t need your damn help,” growled Thorrik, squinting up at the shaven-headed man.
“And I didn’t come to your aid,” replied the man, holstering his smoking pistol. “I have been hunting these men for several days.”
“Rob you, did they?” asked Thorrik. The man nodded his head.
“Stole my horse.”
The dwarf grunted in response.
“Get it back?”
“No,” came the reply. The man moved to one of the wounded men who was moaning in pain. Without ceremony he slashed the outlaw’s throat with his knife, and moved on to the next. “These bastards ate it.”
“Ah,” said Thorrik, wiping the blood from his axe head on the tunic of one of the dead men. “Good eating, horse.”
The man glared at Thorrik, but the dwarf ignored the manling and sat down heavily, stirring his steaming broth.
He glanced up from his now overcooked supper, scowling, and watched as the man found the last of the living outlaws. The injured deserter had tried to crawl away, leaving a bloody trail behind him, and Thorrik watched in silence as the dark-clad man placed his knee in the small of the outlaw’s back, and pulled the brigand’s head back. It was grobi-face, and he whimpered in fear. Without hesitation, his throat was cut.
Leaving the dying outlaw where he lay, Grunwald picked his way back through the snow and retrieved his heavy crossbow from where he had dropped it before joining the fight in-close. The dwarf was sitting smoking an ornate, dragon-headed pipe when he returned.
“May I?” he asked, indicating towards a large stone opposite the log where Thorrik sat.
The dwarf grunted, which Grunwald took as assent. He sat down heavily, and began wiping and blowing the snow from the firing mechanism of his heavy crossbow.
“You fight well,” he said when it became clear that the dwarf was not going to initiate a conversation.
Again the dwarf grunted.
“You as well,” he said eventually. “For a manling.”
“My name is Udo Grunwald.” He extended a black-gloved hand towards the dwarf, who gave a long puff on his pipe before he extended his own hand, ensconced within his heavy gauntlet. To Grunwald, the dwarf’s grip felt like it was crushing the bones of his hand.
“Thorrik Lokrison, Ironbreaker of the mining Clan Barad of Karaz-a-Karak, guardian of the Ungdrin.” Grunwald noted that the dwarf had a strong grasp of Reikspiel, the language of the Empire, though it was heavily accented.
“Karaz-a-Karak…” said Grunwald, forming the strange dwarfen words with some difficulty. Clearly his pronunciation was inadequate, for Thorrik scowled.
“It is the greatest of all the dwarfen holds, the seat of the High King himself. In the tongues of men it is known as the Everpeak.”
“Ah,” said Grunwald, recognising the name. “That is far across the Worlds Edge and Black Mountains to the south-east, is it not?”
“Such are the names known by manlings, aye,” said Thorrik gruffly.
“You are a long way from home, Thorrik.”
“Thank you for reminding me,” said the dwarf sharply He took a long pull on his pipe, eyes glittering angrily. He sighed heavily. “It has been eight years since I have seen the great hold.”
Grunwald’s eyebrows rose. “A long time to be away.”
“To your kind, manling. But aye, it has been too long.”
“What has kept you from returning these past eight years?”
“A throng was raised from Karaz-a-Karak at the High King’s order nine years ago. The warriors of Clan Barad responded to this call, and I was a part of their muster. For seven years we have been engaged in the north of your Empire, bolstering your defence against the hordes massing in the north.”
“You have been fighting within the Empire, to protect our border?” asked Grunwald. His estimation of the dwarf and his kin rose steeply.
“Aye. The High King takes the oath sworn by King Kurgan very seriously.”
“King Kurgan…
”
He knew the name, for it was said that the king fought alongside blessed Sigmar in his battles against the greenskins.
“That was… thousands of years ago.”
“An oath is an oath,” growled Thorrik. “Enough talk.” He retrieved a heavy metal bowl, spooned out a generous portion of his stew and handed it to Grunwald, who thanked him with a nod. The dwarf spooned out his own portion, and began to eat noisily. Grunwald stabbed the pieces of meat on the end of his knife. The food was heavy and simple, but flavoursome. Thorrik grumbled about it being overcooked.
“Wasn’t much meat on this goat,” he said into his stew. “Wish it was horse.” He punctuated this statement with a snort, and Grunwald wondered if he were making a joke.
After the meal, Thorrik offered Grunwald a spare pipe, but he politely declined, hoping that was not some breach of dwarfen etiquette. Thorrik merely shrugged and grunted, and took up his own pipe once more.
Cracking his neck to either side, Grunwald pushed himself to his feet, shouldering his heavy crossbow.
“I wish you well, Thorrik Lokrison,” he said. “And I thank you for the food.”
The dwarf did not stand, but merely squinted up at him. He grunted what may have been a farewell, and took another long pull on his dragon-headed pipe.
Thorrik watched as Grunwald disappeared into the darkness. He seemed solid enough for a manling, and at least he did not talk as much as most of them. They were usually incessant with their inane chatter—as if they needed to cram too many words into their short lifetimes. He had long ago given up trying to understand the ways of the humans, and his eight years in the northern states of the Empire had only reinforced this.
But an oath was an oath.
He brushed the light dusting of snow off the oiled leather that protected the precious item he bore from harm.
Aye. An oath was an oath.
CHAPTER THREE
Annaliese slammed into the doorframe as she scrabbled frantically backwards. She tried to push herself to her feet, but fell backwards out into the living area of the cabin in her haste to escape the horrific creature clawing its way towards her.
It pulled itself forward upon wasted, skeletal hands. It was still half wrapped in blankets, and it dragged them along behind it. Still it smiled its deathly grin, its eyes blazing with icy fire fixed on her.
“Father!” she cried out as she kicked backwards out of the grasp of the creature as it made to snatch at her leg. “Father, it’s me!”
It spoke then, but the voice was not the one she knew so well, nor did the creature’s lips move in time with the words that were spoken.
She could not comprehend the garbled torrent of words, and with horror she realised that it was not a single voice at all—it sounded as though a multitude of creatures were attempting to speak to her at once, their voices blurring and overlapping.
“Tzch’aaaarkan gharbol’ankh’ha mesch’antar’mor,” drawled the strongest of the voices, a sound that made Annaliese’s skin crawl.
Rising to her feet finally, she ran into the small, stone kitchen and slammed the heavy door behind her. Her terror granted her strength, and she dragged the heavy wooden counter in front of the door. She backed away and leant up against the shuttered window, breathing hard.
That thing was no longer her father. She prayed to Morr and to Sigmar that her father’s soul had passed on, that this truly was just his abandoned flesh and that his soul did not live on in torment within the foul creature. The idea was horrific, and she wished she had not thought it.
There was the wet sound of rotten wood smashing, and a cold hand grabbed her around the throat. Splinters of damp wood sprayed in from the window behind her.
Annaliese tried to scream, but found she could not, as the cold strength of the hand tightened its grip. She grabbed at the arm, her fingernails tearing at flesh. She felt her fingers go numb against its unearthly cold.
A sibilant whispering came from behind her. It was the same host of voices that had whispered forth from the throat of the creature, only this was spoken right into her ear.
“Sth’aaark Tzch’aaaarkan,” it hissed.
She scrabbled around frantically as her vision began to waver, and her hand closed on a bone handled knife in an instant, she lifted the knife and hacked at the arm that pinned her to the wall, feeling ice-cold blood begin to flow. The grip did not relent, and she sawed frantically against the wrist of the creature. Cold blood washed over her, making the knife so slippery that she almost lost her grip on it. The blood made the creature’s hand slippery as well, and with a lurch, Annaliese freed herself from its grasp, pushing away, gasping for air.
A heavy weight threw itself against the door leading to the living area, and the wooden counter rocked from the blow. She threw her weight against it, and turned to stare wide-eyed at the smashed shutters of the window. A heavy arm swept the remainder of the wood away, and she flinched.
She saw the shape of the monster silhouetted against the pristine white snow outside. She could see nothing of its features except for its eyes, blue flames that flickered and burned coldly. It reached forward and ripped the shattered shutters from their hinges, not noticing the thick splinters of wood that pierced its flesh.
“Always have a weapon to hand,” her father had always told her. “And never allow yourself to be cornered—always have an escape route.”
Yet here she was, backed into a corner with nothing more than a carving knife. She cursed, knowing that on the other side of the wall was her father’s precious sword, agonisingly out of reach. No matter how poor they had become, he had never even considered selling the blade, and Annaliese had never broached the subject. It was the last link he had to his former life as a soldier, and she knew that he missed those times. But one accident had taken all of that away from him when the thumb of his right hand, his sword hand, had been severed. There was no soldiering work for a warrior that could not hold a sword.
Flipping the knife around in her hand so that she held it downwards like a dagger, Annaliese leapt forward as the deathly creature began to clamber through the window frame, a ceaseless cacophony of hateful gibberish spilling from its throat. She slammed the knife into the side of creature’s neck, the blade sinking to the hilt before ripping it free once again.
What would have been a fatal blow to any man barely slowed its advance. Reaching a blue-tinged arm further into the kitchen, it pulled itself through the window, falling with a limp thud upon the stone floor, dark, matted hair falling over its face.
Still, Annaliese didn’t need to see its face to recognise that this creature was once Jonas Scriber, the farrier’s apprentice. Its once ruddy, furnace-reddened face and arms were bereft of colour, and it pushed itself heavily to its feet, towering over the slight framed teenage girl. Its face, too, was set in a deathly grin, its broad features daemonically lit by flaming orbs. Its shirt was ripped open, and it bore several wounds, deep gashes in its skin that exposed the red muscle beneath. It lurched towards her, as if trying to embrace her in its massive arms.
She ducked and slashed her knife across its gut, slicing the skin open. She was knocked to the side as the wooden bench blocking the door was wrenched away by a powerful push from the other side of the door, and she stumbled towards the monster that had been Jonas.
One of its heavy arms clubbed her to the ground, the blow numbing her shoulder and arm.
The multitude of voices seemed to get more excited, and they spoke quickly, the garbled words spilling from its mouth in a horrid torrent of foul, insensible words.
Pushing up with all her force, she rammed the knife into the soft flesh beneath the monster’s chin. The blade punched up through the roof of its mouth, sliding on into its brain.
It twitched for a second, transfixed, and with a push with her shoulder she sent the creature sprawling backwards, the gore-covered knife still clasped in her hand.
She felt another presence behind her and turned blindly, her bloody
knife slashing out, carving an arc towards the creature that was her father. Too late she realised who it was, and though she tried to pull the blow, the knife bit deeply. Its head was knocked to the side by the force of the blow, and it stumbled into the door frame, falling to its knees.
With a cry, Annaliese dropped the knife and knelt by its side. Its head rolled around to fix on her once more, and she recoiled from its blood-drenched, smiling visage. It reached for her, but she surged up, sprinting into the cabin’s living area.
Her gaze settled on her father’s short-bladed sword. She pulled it from its display hooks in the log-wall, and turned grimly towards the dark shapes moving towards her, the pale witch-lights of their eyes casting a cold blue tinge across the room. She ripped the scabbard from the sword, and stood with the glinting blade held ready before her.
This was not her father, she reminded herself.
And if this truly was her time to pass into the halls of Morr, then she would be damned if she didn’t take these creatures with her.
She stepped backwards to give herself some room, her mouth set into a determined line as she lowered herself into a ready stance, the short-sword held out before her.
“You are not Jonas, and you are not my father,” she breathed as the puppet-like figures staggered towards her.
The unnaturally cold air was filled with the tumultuous din that spilled from the throats of the monsters, a dozen voices whispering and hissing all around her. The twisted, slashed face of the creature that was once her father continued to grin at her as it advance towards her, and she backed away frantically from its outstretched hands.
Annaliese was far from an expert swordswoman, but these creatures, with their stilted and awkward movement, were far from skilled foes. As the zombie-like creature that resembled Jonas reached for her, she hacked at it with her sword, the blade severing several blackened, frostbitten fingers. The creature’s eyes blazed ever brighter, until she plunged the point of the sword into its chest, piercing the heart. The fire flickered and died, and the creature slumped to the ground a marionette with its strings cut.
[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos Page 3
