[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  “Thank you, brother,” said Katrin. “These are my friends and they seek refuge within the temple.”

  The warrior priest nodded, and his eyes flicked to Eldanair, then to Annaliese and her young charge, then back to the hooded elf.

  “The girl and child we welcome with open arms. But I would see the face of the warrior before allowing him to pass,” the warrior priest said softly.

  As if he understood the words, Eldanair pulled the hood from his face, his bearing proud and noble as he looked into the priest’s eyes. One of the warriors of Sigmar’s eyebrows rose slightly, though his expression did not change. He held up a hand towards the elf, and Annaliese felt a flutter within her, as if something ethereal and invisible stirred within.

  “Your heart is pure and that of a brave warrior,” said the priest. “Nevertheless, I regret that you may not pass within these gates.”

  “What?” said Annaliese sharply. “If it were not for him, we would all have perished. I was not aware the temple was so unwelcoming.”

  The priest turned his gentle eyes towards her, and she felt an aura of strength and calm descend over her.

  “Would we humans be allowed within a temple of elven kind? Would we be allowed within the ancestral halls of dwarfenkind? It is not through being unwelcoming that I bar his entrance. It is merely out of respect to the temple.”

  Annaliese glared at him, pushing away the feeling of calm that he was exerting.

  “Fine,” she snapped, and turned towards Eldanair. With hand signals and gestures, she quickly made the situation known. She tried to communicate that she would come back out once Tomas was safe. He shrugged slightly, and looked down his nose at the Sigmarite priest. Turning swiftly, he pulled the hood down low over his face, and melted into the fir trees.

  “The temple will provide food and firewood should the elf require it, lady,” said the priest softly. Annaliese flashed him an angry glance.

  “He would not accept them,” she said. The priest merely shrugged in response, and turned to lead them through the gatehouse. Gravel crunched underfoot as they made their way back onto the road beyond.

  It seemed like a dream to Annaliese when they finally rounded a bend and saw the glory of the temple of Sigmar, and her foul mood evaporated instantly. Braziers of warming fire welcomed them, and lights could be seen through the small, high windows that had been constructed with as much thought to defence as to architectural beauty.

  In the dim moonlight, Annaliese could see that at the apex of the domed roof of the temple glittered a golden statue of man, a mighty hammer in his hands. Her mouth opened in awe. With the coming of sunrise, the statue would be lit up as if blazing with divine light.

  The doors of the temple creaked open, and warmth and light spilled out. Annaliese felt a surge of well-being as she entered.

  “I am home,” she whispered.

  Udo Grunwald walked his horse alongside Thorrik, giving the tired beast a rest. It was skittish, and he could feel it trembling as wolves howled in the distance. It must have been nearing midnight, but he was determined to press on to the temple. It was around three hours further on, he estimated—they should reach it an hour or so before dawn.

  Karl Heiden, preceptor of the Knights of the Blazing Sun, was leading the column, and the night was filled with rhythmic clopping of hooves on the black rocky ground that gave the pass its name. There was but a score of the knights accompanying them, the remainder of the order having set up camp just outside the valley, so as to enter at dawn. Grunwald and Thorrik had both been keen to continue on, and Karl had requested permission from the Templar Master of his order to escort them. It was a noble gesture, and Grunwald was thankful for the company. Every fourth knight carried a burning brand aloft in his armoured hand, letting off a warm, flickering glow.

  The mountains rose up on either side of the valley, and the trees were thick on their slopes.

  “Good road, this,” commented Thorrik, lowering the burning brand he held towards the ground. Grunwald grunted in response. He hadn’t paid the road much notice. “Made by my kinsmen before the War of Vengeance.” He stamped one of his feet solidly onto the stonework, making Grunwald’s horse shy. “Good, solid, dwarf work,” continued Thorrik. “Will last until the end of the world, when Grimnir himself will return to us.” The dwarf glanced up at Grunwald. “We must part ways soon, lad. I must deliver this,” he said, indicating with a thumb to the wrapped item on his back. “I am oath-bound to one now drinking in the halls of the ancestors,” he said gruffly, obviously uncomfortable with such talk. He cleared his throat. “I won’t be around much longer to keep saving your neck.”

  The witch hunter smiled. In truth he would miss his dour companion. His horse shied again, whinnying sharply and tugging at the reins in his hand. “Hush,” he said, patting it on the neck as Thorrik glared at it hatefully from beneath his helm. The horse pulled at its reins again, more forcefully, its ears flat against its head.

  “What is wrong with that confounded beast?” grumbled the dwarf as Grunwald tried to calm it.

  “Something’s spooked him,” said Grunwald, struggling with the horse. He saw that the knights’ horses were uneasy as well, though their training kept them from acting up. He saw Karl raise his hand for the column to halt, and Grunwald held a hand to his trembling mount’s neck, whispering quietly to it. Its eyes were wide.

  There was another howling of wolves, closer this time, and he heard Thorrik hiss as he swung to stare into the dark fir woods that walled the roadway.

  “Have you never heard wolves before, dwarf?” scoffed Grunwald. His grin slipped when more howling sounded, closer again than before.

  “Grobi,” snarled Thorrik, dropping his heavy pack to the ground and hefting his axe in one hand, the other still holding his burning brand aloft.

  “What?” said Grunwald.

  “We are being attacked!” roared the dwarf as the first shape streaked from the darkness of the trees, hurtling towards the column of knights.

  Teeth bared and a feral growl emanating from deep in its chest, the huge wolf bounded across the uneven ground. A greenskinned creature clung to its back, grinning broadly to expose a fearsome array of needle-like teeth.

  Before the knights could react to Thorrik’s warning, the wolf leapt at the closest warrior of the Blazing Sun. The wolf was immense, easily the size of a small horse, and it closed its slavering jaws around the steed’s armoured neck. The horse screamed in terror and fell beneath the weight of the wolf, as the creature perched upon its back thrust its crude spear into the chest of the knight, denting but not piercing his breastplate. Nevertheless, his legs were crushed as the weight of his panicked, barded steed fell upon him. The hateful green-skinned creature leapt from its mount onto the knight, ramming the spear tip through the knight’s vision slit, as the blood-hungry wolf killed his horse.

  “Goblins,” snarled Grunwald, as more of the creatures swarmed from the concealing darkness of the tree line, bounding towards the column. He released his grip on his horse’s reins, and it reared, hooves flailing, before a hurled spear drove into its chest. It bolted, its lifeblood pumping from the mortal wound.

  At a shout from Karl, the knights wheeled their steeds to face the threat, maintaining their discipline despite the confusion that was erupting.

  Thorrik roared a dwarfen war cry and hurled his burning brand into the face of one of the charging creatures before hefting his axe in both hands and slamming it into the side of the head of a wolf that leapt towards him, caving its skull.

  Grunwald drew and fired one of his pistols, sending a goblin flying from the saddle, blood spraying out behind it. He threw himself to the ground as the monstrous wolf leapt at him.

  The knights flailed around them, discarding their lances in favour of their heavy cavalry blades. They hacked down at the wolf riders, killing several, but other knights were being knocked from their steeds as more wolves launched themselves at their warhorses.

  As he rose to h
is feet, Grunwald slipped his mace from its belt, and leapt at a wolf that was tearing at a fallen knight. It turned as he closed on it, baring its teeth and its feral eyes filled with animal ferocity and hunger. The mace smashed into the side of the creature’s head, smashing teeth and bone, and it fell with a whimper.

  Grunwald heard Karl trying to organise his knights, barking commands and orders. He saw a hurled spear slam into the side of Thorrik’s helmet, and his head jerked, but the blow could not even scratch his gromril armour, nor did it knock him back a single step. He merely turned, cursing in his own language, and cut down another leaping wolf, his blade smashing it to the ground.

  The witch hunter snarled as a jagged blade cut across his forearm, and he spun, smashing his attacker from the back of a wolf. The goblin hissed at him as he leapt at it, its scrawny limbs kicking out at him. Grunwald slammed a boot into the creature’s head, hearing a satisfying crack as its neck broke.

  He saw Karl then, battling like a hero of old, his sword cutting down goblins and his horse shattering skulls with its flailing hooves. A diminutive greenskin leapt from the back of its own mount onto the saddle behind Karl, spider-like fingers scrabbling at the knight’s helmet, a serrated dagger held in its other hand. His warhorse reared; both the knight and the goblin fell to the ground, and Grunwald lost sight of the preceptor.

  He hefted his mace and took a step back to get a better footing as a pair of wolf riders leapt towards him, tongues lolling from the maws of the massive grey-furred mounts. One of the goblins tumbled forward off its steed, and the wolf of the second rider yelped in pain and collapsed to the ground, its back legs giving way beneath it. The witch hunter saw a metal crossbow bolt protruding from the hindquarters of the wolf, and the air was suddenly filled with a second flight of bolts fired from the tree line.

  The wolf that had lost its rider leapt at him, huge paws slamming into his chest, jaws widening as it sought his throat. He was knocked backwards onto the ground, and he felt the rancid, hot breath of the foul creature on his face. Desperately he held its jaws at bay with a gloved hand clamped around the beast’s throat, but the strength and weight of it was immense.

  His sight was obscured as hot blood sprayed into his eyes, and he felt the monstrous creature go limp, collapsing on top of him. With a surge of adrenaline-fuelled strength he pushed the dead weight from him, and rose unsteadily to his feet, wiping the thick gruel of viscous gore from his eyes.

  A short, stocky figure turned away from him, hefting a double-headed axe.

  A throaty war cry sounded all around him, Grunwald saw a host of the stocky figures trudging forward, hefting axes. Grunwald grunted with exertion as he clubbed his mace into the head of a goblin half-crushed beneath its dead mount, smashing it like a piece of fruit, and watched as the dwarfs descended on the goblins, vitriolic hatred guiding their blows. Their axes carved a bloody swathe through the greenskins, and the last of the wolf riders were soon fleeing into the darkness, the sound of their howls growing ever more distant.

  Grunwald wiped the blood and brain matter from the ridges of his mace as Thorrik greeted his kinsmen dourly, speaking in their own rumbling, guttural tongue. He looked around and caught sight of Karl, swearing profusely as he brushed the mud from his armour.

  “How many?” he asked the preceptor as he drew alongside him. The knight looked up, his eyes angry.

  “Too many. Six knights, and four horses. One more horse will have to be destroyed.” Even as he said the words, the pained screams of a horse were silenced, “Damn it, things must be bad if there are goblins raiding the entrance to the pass.”

  “Aye,” said Grunwald.

  “You alright? Got yourself cut?” asked Karl, seeing the blood dripping from the witch hunter’s arm. Grunwald glanced down at the wound.

  “Nothing much. Should have seen it coming,” he said dismissively.

  “I’m glad they turned up,” muttered Karl, nodding his head towards the dwarfs. The leader of the dwarfs was conversing with Thorrik while the rest of their number got to work piling up the dead goblins and wolves. It looked like there were over two dozen of the wretched corpses all told.

  They were not as heavily armoured as Thorrik, he noted. Each of them wore a heavy coat of mail and a thick furred cloak, and carried axes and sturdy crossbows. They moved about their work with diligence and within minutes they had a large blaze going, and the air was filled with the stench of burning flesh.

  The witch hunter and preceptor walked to Thorrik’s side, and the dwarf he was talking to turned his stony gaze towards them. He looked older than Thorrik, though it was hard to gauge his age, and his grey-streaked beard would have touched the ground if it had not been tied up and folded back on itself in a series of intricate braids. He had a pipe in his mouth, and blue smoke puffed from his nostrils.

  “I thank you for your timely arrival, sir dwarf,” said the knight. “I am Karl Heiden, preceptor of Myrmidia, and this is Udo Grunwald, templar of Sigmar. Had you not arrived when you did, I fear that my losses would have been considerably higher.”

  The dwarf grunted in reply, and said something in his native language, pipe-smoke billowing around him.

  “It seems that you spoke the truth,” said Thorrik gruffly, addressing Karl, his face dark. “The hated greenskins are massing in numbers not seen since the time of King Kurgan himself. They smash against the walls of Kolaz Umgol and the Grimbeard Station like a living tide, and it is said that even Karaz-a-Karak is threatened. This is a grim day indeed.”

  “But these outriders slipped past the defences of the pass,” said Grunwald, concerned. “Others may have done so as well. The temple of Sigmar may itself be under attack.”

  “Aye, it may be so, manling,” said the leader of the dwarf rangers, still puffing at his pipe. His voice sounded like boulders grinding together, stony and hard. “These stinking grobi,” he said, removing his pipe to spit on the ground at the mention of the greenskins, “are not the only of their kind moving out there this night. I can smell their stink on the air.”

  Grunwald felt his anger grow. He turned towards Karl, rage and concern in his eyes.

  “I must get to the temple. It must not be defiled by the likes of these foul creatures,” he said indicating towards the burning pile of goblins. Karl nodded his head.

  “The Knights of the Blazing Sun will ride with you,” said the preceptor, his face unusually serious.

  “Manling,” said Thorrik, and the witch hunter turned towards the dour, dependable warrior.

  “I cannot accompany you this time,” said the dwarf. “My oath binds me. Here our ways part.” The pair shook arms, hands locked around the other’s forearm in the dwarfen manner. Then, with no more than a gruff nod in farewell, the dwarf turned and began marching to the east with his kinsmen. Silently, Grunwald wished the dwarf well.

  “Come,” said Karl. “I will find a steed for you.”

  In the distance, wolves howled.

  Annaliese lay the sleeping Tomas down on a pallet thick with straw, deep within the temple of Sigmar and decided to rest alongside him. Just for a moment, she told herself. She felt like a different person having bathed, washing the grime from her skin. As she washed, she had been pleased to see that the muscles of her legs were defined and strong, before she laughed at herself for her vanity. She would rest her head on the pillow for just a moment, she told herself. Instantly she fell into a deep, restful sleep, her arm protectively round the sleeping boy.

  Somewhere close by, wolves were howling, but she ignored them, feeling blessedly safe deep within the stone fortress. Dimly she registered the pounding of skin drums, but she pushed these intrusions away, thinking they were a part of her dreams.

  They seemed to fade, and she found herself walking in the sunshine through a golden field. Strangely, she was dressed in armour of shining brilliance, but she felt completely comfortable in the war gear. She smiled as the sun beat down upon her, and she brushed her hands through the crops gently swaying in th
e light breeze.

  A bell sounded close by, sharp and loud, and Annaliese woke with a start.

  The room was dimly lit, for someone had turned the lantern down low, though she had never heard anyone come into the room. The bell tolled urgently, and she rolled from the pallet and dressed herself quickly. She noticed that Tomas was no longer asleep on the bed, nor anywhere else in the room.

  The bell rang frantically, and she heard the howling of wolves. She had heard that sound before, in the wilderness hunting with her father. It was the sound of wolves closing in for the kill.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eldanair pulled the arrow from the goblin’s neck as he swept past the dead creature, nocking it to his bowstring. He ran swiftly through the trees, a shadow in the darkness. He made no sound nor left any mark of his passing bar the corpses of the slain as he cut between the dense firs, running hard.

  He came upon a small clearing on the edge of a cliff face and sprang lightly up a rocky outcrop, until he stood on its edge, unfazed by the thousand foot drop below him. From here he could see across to the temple of the human god in the distance. The sound of the warning bell tolled out across the valley, and with his keen elven eyes he could see dark shapes swarming towards the temple.

  Cursing, he broke into a run again, leaping lightly from his precarious position on the rock face and striking out towards the building.

  Having been denied entrance to the human temple, Eldanair had merely scaled the walls, unseen and unheard by the sentries. Such dull senses they had! he had mused. Dropping down to the ground within the compound, he had melted into the shadows, ghosting after Annaliese.

  Despite his ease at circumventing them, he had been impressed with the temple’s defences. High walls and gates guarded the approach to the temple from the north and the south, while the east was protected by sheer cliff that dropped away to the valley far below; the west was guarded by equally impassable cliffs that towered above.