[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  Muttering, the dwarf picked himself off Grunwald and stood, brushing his beard with his hand. Grunwald just glared at him, shaking his head, his ribs aching.

  “You alright?” he asked Annaliese, and the girl nodded back at him. The elf was speaking to himself, his voice scathing, as he looked through the slats upon the side of the carriage into the darkness beyond. The dwarfs through the carriage were huffing and stomping their feet, their voices rising in tones of anger and accusation. Many looked half asleep as they straightened helmets knocked to the side and retrieved fallen stowage.

  “Why in the name of the gods did this thing stop?” he asked Thorrik, who glared back at him with humourless eyes. He coughed something in his crude language.

  “How should I know, manling?” snapped the dwarf in Reikspiel.

  “I wonder where we are,” said Grunwald, joining Eldanair in peering out of the metal slats. “And what time of day it is. Such notions as day and night mean nothing down here.”

  “Well I would say it is around midday on the surface,” said Thorrik as he began to load his pipe from a pouch. Grunwald gave a snort and looked at the dwarf incredulously. Not a sliver of light penetrated this far beneath the mountains—it was like some hateful, Stygian abyss.

  “And how could you know that?” he said derisively.

  “I’m a dwarf, manling,” snarled Thorrik, his eyes blazing in the flickering lantern flame. “You wouldn’t understand such things.”

  Grunwald snorted again, and turned back to peer out into the darkness. Now that the engine had halted, there was no movement of air, making it feel even more heavy and oppressive.

  “Judging by the time that has passed and the speed of Grimgrandel, I would guess we are almost half way. Somewhere between Zhufbar and Mount Gunbad. Possibly beneath Black Water.”

  “Beneath what?”

  “Black Water—the inland sea of the mountains.”

  “So you are saying that above us is not only miles of rock, but also a sea?”

  “Aye, lad. No need to get so worked up. This is dwarf engineering—built to last.”

  Great, thought Grunwald, shaking his head. He looked back out through the slats, squinting his eyes to see something, anything outside. Nothing. It was as if the world ended a foot beyond the carriage. He turned his head to say something to Thorrik, but as he opened his mouth to speak, a black arrow hissed past his head. It struck the metal roof of the carriage and ricocheted down into the press of dwarfs milling around on the next aisle over.

  More arrows slipped through the slats of the carriage, clattering loudly, and dozens more shattered on the outside of the carriage. One of the arrows slammed into the leather backrest a hair’s-breadth from Thorrik’s face. The dwarf pulled the arrow from the leather, his face furious as he looked at the crude black dart—its tip was of sharp stone, bound to the wooden shaft with sinew, and the flight was stringy and frayed raven feather. Thorrik’s face reddened.

  “Grobi!” he bellowed in a thunderous voice. He slammed his helmet down over his head, and leapt to his feet, scrabbling for his shield and axe. “Grobi!” he yelled again.

  The dwarf handgunners primed and readied their weapons, and within seconds they took up places at the side of the carriage. Though Grunwald had been unable to see anything in the gloom beyond, the dwarfs clearly were more adept and within seconds the air was filled with the deafening booms of the guns firing. Smoke filled the carriage. Eldanair fired his longbow out into darkness, and Grunwald, hunkering down away from the slats through which arrows still penetrated, dragged free his heavy crossbow.

  Annaliese was beside him, crouching down away from the windows, her eyes fearful.

  “Stay down,” ordered Grunwald. He then hefted his crossbow pointing it out through the slats. Lanterns had been turned out into the darkness, and he could see the reflection of hundreds of eyes out there. He could hear them now too, their cackling and their screeches. He fired, sending the crossbow bolt slamming between two of the glimmering reflections, which disappeared instantly.

  A sharp whistle rang out along the line of carriages, and venting steam hissed out of dragon-headed vents along the top of the carriage. The angled metal shutters running the length of the carriage began to close, and the sound of arrows striking them from the outside echoed dully within. Gears and heavy metal cogs ground, and the sides of the carriages began to unfold outwards, like mechanical drawbridges being lowered. Dwarfs stepped forwards side-by-side, locking their shields together as the carriage-walls were lowered. The arrows of the enemy shattered against shield and helmet, and Grunwald ducked down behind the armoured wall of dwarfs, re-loading his crossbow.

  Eldanair was standing on the bench beside him, firing arrows over the heads of the dwarfs into the darkness. He swayed to the side as an arrow streaked towards his head, his face impassive, and sent an arrow back in response.

  The heavy stabilising columns of the carriage sides boomed as they hit the ground, and with the grinding of gears and the hiss of steam, the slats rotated from their closed position, forming broad sets of stairs onto the ground of the tunnel.

  There was a deep bellowing war-cry and Grunwald saw one of the unarmoured dwarfs with bright red spiked hair step forward, elbowing his way through the shield wall to stand alone and defiant. He raised his axe up over his head and roared incoherently. An arrow slammed into the meat of one of his powerful, thick upper arms, driving through the flesh to protrude out the other side a good six inches.

  He grabbed it in one meaty fist and pulled the length of the arrow through the bloody wound, teeth clenched and hissing against the pain, before tossing it dismissively to the ground. With another roar, he hefted his axe and thundered down the metal stairs, lumbering at the enemy now revealing itself as it stepped forwards into the light blaring from focused lanterns on the engine.

  Another red-haired berserker warrior launched himself towards the foe creeping forwards, and as the line of dwarfs stepped down the stairs to meet them, each pounding footstep in unison, Grunwald got his first look at them.

  They were small, shorter even than the dwarfs advancing towards them, and their greenskinned frames were weak and spindly, all but hidden beneath black robes and pointed hoods. They held a veritable wall of barbed spears out in front of them, and they hissed and screamed at the dwarfs.

  Grunwald stepped alongside the dwarf handgunners, who stood still within the carriage, laying down a wall of fire over the heads of their advancing kin. Dozens of the deep-dwelling goblins were ripped apart by each volley, but their bodies were trampled uncaring beneath the feet of the others pushing forward. Hefting his now loaded crossbow to his shoulder, he fired. The bolt slammed into the forehead of a wildly screaming goblin whose black robe was rimmed with yellow stitched dags, and who had been waving a leg bone over his head from which dangled all manner of teeth, hair and a strange likeness of a grinning moon. The goblin fell without a sound, and was lost amongst the leering crowd of goblins.

  The red-haired dwarf berserkers reached the line of the enemy, and they splintered the spears angled towards them with wild swings of their axes before ploughing into the midst of the foe, cutting and rending. Their weapons traced bloody arcs through the air, and they cut down dozens of foes before they were overcome, falling to their knees and bleeding from a score of wounds. They were lost from sight as the black-robed goblins swarmed over them, jabbing with blades and spears.

  A moment later a goblin pushed to the front, a severed dwarf head held up above his head. He screamed incoherently and hurled the head towards the dwarf line. As the goblins advanced, one of them kicked the bloody head across the floor, and others bustled against one another to continue the game.

  Grunwald heard a rumble of outrage rise from the dwarf ranks, and they closed towards the goblins with renewed determination.

  “Ware the beasts!” roared Thorrik as the advancing rank of night goblins before them parted. A group of powerful creatures, little more than gaping mouths
on legs, were pulling their diminutive retainers forwards, who were trying to maintain some control over them with chains and spiked goads. As he watched, one of the creatures broke away from its master and turned on it, ripping an arm from its socket with one crunching bite.

  The other creatures had their cold, black eyes focused on the dwarfs, and needed no encouragement. Their handlers released them, and they came bounding across the stone floor of the tunnel towards the dwarfs.

  “Hold the line!” roared a voice as the dwarf warriors continued their relentless advance, stepping shoulder to shoulder, their overlapping shields creating a near impenetrable wall of steel.

  Thorrik was in the front rank, and he focused on one of the beasts leaping towards him, its gaping mouth exposing thousands of crooked, serrated teeth. Little more than a reddish ball of muscle, the creature was all mouth, and it barrelled towards him at a great speed. Thorrik had fought these war beasts of the grobi many times in the tunnels he and his kin guarded, and knew they were dangerous foes.

  Still, he had learnt a thing or two about them in his years as an ironbreaker, and as it launched itself at him, he waited until he saw the large black irises of its eyes roll backwards, a moment before impact. Then he took a quick step forward, and smashed the boss of his gromril shield into its face, shattering teeth and halting it in its tracks. It felt like he had slammed the shield into solid rock, and Thorrik was forced back a step. His axe sang out, and he sank the blade into its bulbous head, killing it instantly.

  Others were not so experienced, and the reddish creatures chomped down upon shields, ripping them away with brutal shakes of the head, severing more than one arm in the process as their jaws snapped viciously.

  Arrows flashed in as shields were ripped down low, and several dwarfs groaned in pain as the shafts sank into exposed necks, and pierced mailed chests. An arrow struck Thorrik in the forehead, but no goblin weapon could hope to pierce the precious gromril that protected him.

  The dwarf to his left was struggling with one of the beasts, pulling his shield down, shearing through the metal with its powerful jaws. Blood began to flow as teeth bit into the arm strapped behind the shield, and the creature began shaking its head to and fro furiously as it tasted it. Thorrik smashed the creature between the eyes twice before it went limp, but even in death it did not release its grip. The dwarf, gritting his teeth against the pain, hacked at it until it was cut nearly in half before he was able to rip his arm free.

  Seeing a flash of movement above, Thorrik yelled a warning as one of the beasts descended from above, a screaming goblin clutching its back. A white-fletched arrow thudded into it as it fell, but it slammed down amongst the dwarf line, its overextended jaws engulfing a warrior to the knees. Blows rained down on it, scoring deep wounds in its side and cutting its rider down, but it bunched its powerful legs and leaped up into the air once more, dwarfen legs and boots protruding from its mouth.

  But then the lines of dwarfs and goblins struck, and the killing began in earnest. Thorrik hacked left and right with his axe, scything down goblins, carving through the flesh of the diminutive creatures. They snarled hatefully, baring sharp teeth and their eyes flashing, as they stabbed at him over their shields with spears. Barbed blades jabbed at him and he was struck a dozen times, but not one of the blows was able to pierce his armour.

  His axe smashed into one of the goblin’s wooden shields, splintering the wood and shattering the arm behind. With his return blow, he drove his axe blade into the goblin’s leering face, and dark blood splashed out as its skull was caved in. The dwarfs to either side stepped forward with him, pushing into the goblin masses and hacking with their weapons. The dwarfs were heavily outnumbered, but the goblins died in droves before them.

  Setting their shields against their shoulders, the dwarfs began to physically push the goblins back, heaving forwards to the beat of a metal drum that started up. With each solid step, the dwarfs stamped their feet into the ground and grunted heavily, creating a deep pounding echo through the cavern. Goblins were cut down and trampled beneath the heavy boots of the dwarfs as they pushed forwards.

  The dwarfs were as unrelenting as rock itself, and the goblins were being crushed, trampling each other to death in the press of bodies. Thorrik ground forward, pushing with his shield and his shoulder. He stamped down on the neck of a goblin, and pushed forwards, stepping over the bodies of the slain.

  Crushed between the dwarfs pushing forward and the weight of other goblins behind them, the enemy panicked, and tried to flee. Still, there was nowhere to run, and the axes of the dwarfs rose and fell repetitively, killing and maiming. There was no skill needed here, now—it was like chopping wood. Thorrik hacked into the terrified, hated goblins, his weapon covered in gore. The slaughter was immense—hundreds of bodies lay crushed behind the advancing dwarf line.

  Grunwald fired a last bolt into the fleeing masses and lowered the crossbow from his shoulder. The dwarf casualties had been few—it was an impressive display of strength and order. He had been a soldier for long enough to know that if the dwarf line had been breached, then the goblins would have pushed into the gap and surrounded the dwarfs. And in such a fight, their sheer numbers would have swayed the battle—every last dwarf would have been cut down in the resulting chaos.

  But the dwarfs had not faltered and Grunwald was impressed with their unfaltering resolve. They fought as one, and it seemed that there was not a hint of doubt within them, not a thought of retreat, or even of the possibility of losing.

  They seemed incapable of fear and failure was something that seemed unacceptable. Grudgingly, he had to admit that he felt more secure now in the knowledge that these grim warriors were the ones who guarded the mountain passes of the Empire—but if a foe could best these hard fighters, then surely the Empire was doomed.

  He saw Karl Heiden walking towards him, the visor of his helm raised, and a smile upon his face. A trio of knights marched behind him. Blood was splattered over their platemail, and the broken tips of several arrows were embedded in their shields.

  The witch hunter nodded to the knight as he strode up the stairs.

  “Not much of a fight,” said the knight. Grunwald grunted in reply. It could have gone much worse, he thought.

  Karl’s gaze flicked past the witch hunter towards Annaliese, and he smiled at her. “Survived the battle then, lady?” he said.

  “As you said, it wasn’t much of a fight,” the girl replied, holding her head high.

  “True, and I am glad to see that you are unharmed,” he said. He looked around, at the darkness of the cavern. “This truly is a marvel of engineering,” he said, shaking his head. “To think the dwarfs carved this tunnel out of solid rock, all the way through the mountains. It’s an astounding feat.”

  Grunwald grunted. The dwarf warriors were returning to the steam engine, cleaning their axes of goblin blood. There was a sharp whistle, and the warriors began climbing the stairs into the carriages once more. There was no song or boasting amongst their number—the dwarfs remained grim and dour, even in victory.

  “Makes you wonder what stopped this engine,” remarked Karl.

  “The cursed grobi caused a cave-in up ahead,” said Thorrik, climbing the stairs into the carriage with heavy metallic steps. “Grimgrandel would have been derailed had it not halted. The engineers are clearing the way.” His words were followed by the sound of detonations—the sound of the dwarfs blasting the way clear.

  “You and your kinsmen fought well,” said Annaliese, looking at the ironbreaker. The dwarf huffed in reply, deflecting the praise.

  “The grobi have no fight in them. Take the battle to them, hard. Kill a bunch of them. The rest will run,” he said, shrugging. “It is in their nature.” The dwarf eyed the weapon held in the girl’s hands, and his eyes gleamed greedily.

  “That is a fine hammer you wield, lass,” he said.

  “It is a holy weapon of Sigmar,” she said, holding it up before her. Her eyes were bright with pass
ion and fervour. A blush spread over her face. “I fear I am unworthy to wield it.”

  “Certainly not,” said Karl smoothly. “You are a vision, lady. Like a warrior-woman of old.”

  “You are kind,” Annaliese replied, looking down demurely. She gripped the hammer more tightly in her hand, and her eyes rose looking into Karl’s, who stared at her appraisingly still. “Many would say that a woman has no place in war.”

  “They are fools,” said Karl earnestly. “A woman is capable of far greater strength than any man. Men are filled with unbridled aggression, a need to destroy, to assert themselves over the land and each other—women are creators and fight for purer ideals—to protect that which they love: their children, their future, their home. And in such a fight, she is stronger than a man—for she has more to lose.”

  Thorrik snorted and turned away. Karl threw his retreating figure a dark look. Annaliese was looking at him with wide eyes, and he flicked his earnest gaze back to hers, and continued. “The goddess of my order, Myrmidia, is wise, strong and fierce. Her enemies fear her skill in battle, and her friends are awed by her discipline, her mercy and compassion. She is an inspiration, an ideal, that no man can hope to match.”

  The whistle blew once more, and the steam engines hissed. Karl lowered his head in a half-bow to Annaliese, nodded to Grunwald, and hurried down through the press of dwarfs to rejoin the trio of knights awaiting him on the tunnel floor.

  Grunwald saw Annaliese’s eyes follow the handsome knight as he led his comrades back towards their own carriage, and he shook his head slightly.

  An explosion of steam burst from valves and cylinders, and with the turning of gears and levers the sides of the carriage began to close.

  Within the hour, Grimgrandel was moving once more, plunging through the darkness beneath the mountains, grinding its way inexorably towards Karak Kadrin.