[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  Thorrik grunted, pleased by the human’s words but his face still burning with rage. He cleared his throat. “Kadrin is not a place for what might pass amongst you humans as humour. I warn you now, once. So much as think such a disrespectful thought, and the Slayer King will have you gutted and left upon the mountainside for the crows to pick at. Kadrin is not the place for levity, and you had best remember that.”

  With a final glare, Thorrik swung back around and continued to lead them down the broad passageway. Grunwald shook his head incredulously at Karl as he caught the knight’s eye, and the preceptor gave him a quick shrug of the shoulders, a look of mock grievance upon his face. “You are an idiot,” Grunwald said softly, before turning to follow Thorrik.

  “I didn’t know he would be quite so touchy,” said Karl to himself.

  Annaliese shook her head slightly, her eyebrows raised in reproach, though there was a hint of a smile on her lips. She patted Karl on his armoured shoulder as she passed.

  The knight watched the girl walk away from him, her short-cropped blonde hair seeming to glow with a light of its own. He had at first been disappointed when he had seen that she had cut her flowing, wavy hair, but he had to admit that her shorter style was growing on him—it showed her face better, and made her seem a little older. His eyes lingered on her slight figure, the sway of her hips beneath her robe and chainmail that fell almost to the ground.

  He whistled softly through his teeth, and shook his head at himself. Then he led his thirty Knights of the Blazing Sun on, passing beneath the statue of Grimnir and into the mighty, besieged, Kadrin Keep.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  For five days they had been stuck inside the keep as the enemy attacked it night and day, and Grunwald’s patience was frayed to the point of breaking.

  “We should never have come by the damn steam engine,” Karl snarled. “By now I could have been more than half way to the Ostermark. But here we are trapped like mice inside this accursed dwarf fortress, with no chance of breaking out.”

  “I thought you liked the journey,” remarked Grunwald.

  Karl glowered at him. “I am ordered to bolster the ranks of my order in Bechafen. They are dying out there fighting against the damn forces of Chaos, and here we are locked inside a castle in foreign lands.”

  “Yes, I know, Karl! You haven’t let any of us forget it in the last three days.”

  “I am sick of the sight of you, witch hunter. But there isn’t really any way that I can avoid it.”

  Grunwald rose to his feet, his face dark. Karl remained seated, his face bitter and resentful.

  “What are you doing here anyway, Grunwald?” snapped Karl. “Following the girl around like some lovesick fool? Giving her Sigmar’s guidance, my arse. Not really a job befitting a witch hunter, is it? She’s hardly some evil sorceress. What is it? You want to rut with the girl or something?”

  Grunwald’s fist cracked against Karl’s cheek, throwing him backwards off the barrel he was sat on. He scrambled to his feet, his face angry.

  “What, is that it? Hit a nerve, did I?” he spat. “You are old enough to be her father, and ugly enough to scare off a dwarf maiden. You think she would ever dream of bedding one such as you?”

  “Quiet! I have no such intentions or delusions. I have no such interest in the girl.”

  Grunwald glared at the knight for a moment, before sitting back down, rubbing his bruised knuckles.

  The knight remained standing, glowering in anger.

  “I am not trying to seduce the girl,” said the witch hunter. He sighed. “I was married once, you know. A beautiful girl, with the sweetest nature a man could ever dream of.” He snorted. “Never knew what she saw in me.”

  “What happened to her?” said Karl, still standing.

  “She died in childbirth. The babe was lost, too. It was a girl. Would have been about Annaliese’s age by now.”

  “Ah,” said Karl, sitting down, rubbing his cheek where the witch hunter had struck him.

  “It’s not like that,” said Grunwald.

  “Like what?”

  “I know what you are thinking. That I lost my wife and daughter, and that Annaliese lost her parents. You think I am adopting the girl—a surrogate daughter to replace the one I lost.”

  Karl frowned. “You could do worse.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “What do you mean by that?” said Karl, his voice sharpening once more. His eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, Udo?”

  “Watching out for the girl. Ensuring she is no danger. To the Empire… to herself.”

  “A danger?” Karl huffed in derision. “What possible danger could she be? You think she is what… a heretic? You templars of Sigmar see much where there is nothing.” His voice was heavy with scorn.

  “No,” said Grunwald forcefully. “I don’t. But that does not mean she could not be dangerous.”

  “Explain.”

  Grunwald sighed. “The girl had a vision. True or not, it doesn’t matter to me, but others believed her. The temple of Sigmar is placed in a tricky situation—either it refuses her, and risks causing dissent at a time when unification is needed, or it accepts her claims and allows her to go north to fulfill her vision.”

  “I fail to see the danger in that…”

  “Think about it, man. What is the purpose of the devotees of Sigmar? His warrior priests? They are to inspire strength, unification, resilience and courage in the soldiery. A man who might flee will not do so in the presence of his warrior god—it would be an act of shaming cowardice. Thus, the priests of our order are trained from childhood—to ensure that they will not run in the face of the enemy, to make them hard, able and fearless warriors.”

  “I understand—it is similar with Myrmidia in the realms south of the Empire. But how does that relate to Annaliese? She is no warrior priest.”

  “No, she is not, but that is the point. The church does not allow the average Empire citizen to wield the weapons of a priest or carry forth the word of Sigmar.”

  Karl leant back, understanding dawning on him. “I see. So, she is a special case—soldiers would not see her any differently than any other priest—indeed she would probably be the focus of more attention, what with her being a woman. A man would be even less likely to run in panic in front of a woman representing his god. That would be shameful indeed. So, you are here to make sure that she doesn’t do something that would weaken the resolve of the soldiers—that she herself does not baulk in the face of danger.”

  “Something like that,” said Grunwald. He was still unconvinced of the girl’s purity, but letting the knight know that would be utmost foolishness.

  “Seems like a strange job to give you,” remarked Karl. “Surely you would be better placed rooting out necromancers and cultists.”

  “Aye,” said Grunwald. “But I am not here by choice—this is a task I have been ordered to perform.”

  Karl sat rubbing his cheek thoughtfully for a moment. “If a woman priest would be more inspirational to soldiers than a man, then why does the church of Sigmar not promote more female priests? I cannot recall seeing a single one.”

  “There is a very good reason for that,” said Grunwald. “Because they have in the past been hunted down by witch hunters such as I and burnt as heretics and witches.”

  Karl’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”

  “Hundreds of years ago, there was an order of female priests. But Sigmar smote the city that housed their temple, levelling it with a flaming comet that fell from the heavens. It is believed that their existence angered him. There is fear amongst the church that to allow women to become priests would encourage Sigmar’s rage once more.”

  “So, why let Annaliese live then, wearing the garb of a priest?”

  “Why indeed?” said Grunwald darkly. He thought of the witchfinder general’s last words before he left the temple in Black Fire Pass.

  “It would be for the best, Grunwald, if the girl had an accident. Out on the road som
ewhere, away from prying eyes. She would be forgotten, and the church would continue as it always has.”

  Grunwald had nodded, uneasy with this task that seemed far from noble, but trusting his superior.

  Now, he was not so sure.

  Kadrin Keep, which Thorrik would often refer to as Slayer Keep, was a grand, powerful bulwark—the kind of structure that seemed to Grunwald to be impossible to destroy. It would have been easier, he thought, to destroy the mountains themselves. Indeed the keep was more mountain than fortress, or perhaps more correctly it was both.

  Carved from the hard rock of the craggy peaks, the keep rose high above Kadrin valley, just to the south of the Peak Pass itself. The passages and halls of the fortress-hold riddled the mountain. Vast hall upon vast hall, the hold was larger than any city of the Empire. It delved deep below the earth and rose to the peak’s highest point.

  It was an immense city beneath the surface, and all the necessary components were housed within it.

  Thousands upon thousands of dwarfs dwelled within, split amongst their various clans, and there were vast areas dedicated to breweries, smithies, stores, eating and drinking halls, barracks, mine-workings, libraries of ancient lore, storehouses and anything else that the hold could ever possibly have need of for survival. The witch hunter realised that a dwarf growing up within the hold need never step outside, need never glimpse the grey skies overhead or feel the icy bite of the wind upon the mountainside.

  He never saw more than a tiny fraction of the hold, yet was in awe at its scale, its majesty and the sheer care the dwarfs took in their craftsmanship, wherever it was to be found. Even the smallest, least-used passages had intricate knot-work carved upon their sides, leering faces of ancestors jutting from walls and painstakingly chiselled runes arching around the groined support arches overhead.

  And it was not a dark place either, as he had expected. The hold was filled with light, though there were invariably many areas of menacing shadow. Lanterns and thick, greasy candles burnt at all hours of the day. Ingenious lamps fuelled by strong alcohol pumped through intricate arrays of pipes and valves ensured that they never burnt low. In the larger halls giant hollow wheels of steel hung from mighty chains, their circumferences pitted with holes through which tongues of flame lit the area.

  The sounds and smells of industry pervaded every vast chamber within the hold, and the pounding of hammers, the mechanical turning of vast gears and toothed-wheels, and the hiss of venting steam pressure—all were a constant hubbub of productive noise.

  Grunwald had seen the forges of Karak Kadrin, and had been awed at their scale. Giant hammers the size of a castle tower pounding at great sheets of super-heated metal, driven by pistons and hissing boilers, and thousands of sweating smiths worked tirelessly through night and day to provide armour for the armies of the Slayer King.

  “It is a tragic tale,” said Thorrik to Annaliese when she asked about the strange title for the monarch of Karak Kadrin. “Generations past a mighty king, Baragor the Proud, suffered a terrible loss that drove him to take up the slayer oath—only in death would his shame be annulled. But the king faced a terrible dilemma, for if he were to seek his death, as a slayer must, then he would be abandoning his oath of kingship, his oath to oversee and protect his hold, and to do such a thing would be a dishonour far worse than death. It was an impossible dilemma, and one that haunted him until his dying day—indeed one that continues to haunt his line, and will do until the day of reckoning comes, when Grimnir comes back to us.”

  “What did he do?” asked Annaliese, her eyes wide. Grunwald and Karl leaned in to listen to the dwarf’s grief stricken words.

  “His oath to his hold was stronger than his slayer oath. And so, he became the first of the Slayer Kings, and the shame of being unable to fulfil his slayer oath would carry down to his heir. In turn, his heir became the next Slayer King, and his after that. King Baragor built the Shrine of Grimnir, and Kadrin became the centre of the slayer cult. Slayers from all across the dwarf holds would make the pilgrimage here, to mourn and lament before the grand statue of the ancestor-god, who is their patron. He grants them the strength and the fearlessness to go to their end with their heads held high, never to take a backwards step in the face of the enemy.”

  “The statue that we saw beneath the mountain?” asked Karl.

  The dwarf gave the knight a pitying look. “No. That is but a pale shadow in comparison to the great shrine, out in Kadrin valley, near Kazad Gromar.” He let the impact of this statement sink in.

  “The Slayer King who rules today is Baragor’s descendant of blood, King Ungrim Ironfist, and he too bears the shame of his forefather.”

  “The slayers, they… scare me,” admitted Annaliese.

  “As well they should, lass,” said Thorrik. “They make even the most doughty dwarfen warrior uneasy, for a broken oath or a personal tragedy could come to us all—leaving us hungering for battle, lamenting life in all its forms and forever seeking the final relief of death.”

  Grunwald saw Annaliese shiver, and indeed he felt a chill at the dwarf’s words himself.

  “And now, Karak Kadrin itself is besieged,” continued Thorrik, his face subtly changing, his mournful expression changing to one of anger. “The enemies arrayed against it are many. The Bloody Sun tribe, they are called. Greenskins arrayed in such force that they make the mountains tremble beneath their step, and are like a carpet of foulness from horizon to horizon. It is said that this is the self-same tribe of greenskins,” he said, spitting onto the ground, “that assail Black Fire Pass. And far off Karaz-a-Karak, the seat of the High King himself.”

  “How is that possible?” said Grunwald. “Orc tribes ally uneasily—how is it that one tribe holds dominance over all the others?”

  “It is something that I have learnt is troubling the greybeards much,” replied Thorrik. “They suspect some foul sorcery, some trickery is at play—some power that binds the orc and goblin tribes together. Whatever it is,” he added, “if it is not broken, the lands of the dwarfs will be overrun. Not this year, probably not next—but if the greenskin hordes do not fracture, I cannot see how the dwarfen holds can withstand such hateful, protracted attack. We live in the shadow times—the end of the dwarf nation draws close.”

  “Your people cannot falter!” said Karl fiercely. “If the holds are lost, then the Empire is lost with them.”

  “Aye, I would guess as much,” said Thorrik.

  The companions sat in silence for a moment, their mood dark. The sounds of industry rang out around them, and dwarf warriors marched past them, tucked away in the corner of the vast hall where they had made their camp.

  “I am going to check on the horses,” said Karl at last, breaking the silence. “Would you care for a stroll on this most fine evening, young lady?” he asked of Annaliese, bending his knee theatrically and extending his hand. “Or morning? Or whatever time it is in this… place?”

  “I would be most honoured, noble sir,” said Annaliese with a laugh and a curtsy. Eldanair too rose up silently from where he sat cross-legged on the stone floor.

  “He doesn’t need to come,” said Karl.

  “Oh hush, leave him be,” said Annaliese.

  With her hand resting lightly on his armoured forearm, the pair strode off, ghosted by Eldanair.

  “Good girl, that,” said Thorrik gruffly.

  “You are troubled, my friend,” said the witch hunter. He had been trying to get some time alone with the ironbreaker for days now. When they had first arrived at Karak Kadrin, Thorrik had been full of energy, for his task was almost complete. He had rushed off to try to discover the whereabouts of the young slayer, so as to deliver unto him the ancient heirloom he bore. But when he had returned, his mood was dark, and Grunwald saw that he still carried the leather-bound relic.

  “It’s nothing,” said the dwarf. “You would not understand.”

  “Try me,” suggested Grunwald.

  “It is this siege. The orcs rising. It
portents of bad times to come,” said the dwarf gruffly.

  “Undoubtedly. But they have done so before, and together man and dwarf has defeated them. It is something else, is it not? Something to do with your… oath.” Thorrik sighed and pulled out his dragon-headed pipe. Grunwald did not say anything as the ironbreaker lit up and began puffing away. Tendrils of blue-grey smoke rose from the fanged maw and nostrils of the snarling serpent pipe.

  “Aye, you are right, manling,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I am unable to complete my oath.”

  “Unable…” said Grunwald, frowning. “Ah,” he said finally. “The young slayer completed his oath, then?”

  “Aye,” said Thorrik gruffly. “He feasts now in the halls of the ancestors, his pride restored. He fell against a stone troll—a mighty foe to be bested by, indeed. He slaughtered more than a dozen greenskins before the fell beast cut him down, so it is said. A good death.”

  The witch hunter could see that the dwarf was in pain, but had not the depth of understanding of dwarf culture to fully comprehend the importance of what he said. Thorrik’s oath could not be fulfilled. What happened to a dwarf who was unable to complete an oath? Grunwald watched as a painted slayer walked past, gnashing his teeth and pulling at his spiked, orange hair in lamentation. He looked sharply back at the proud ironbreaker, concern on his face.

  “What happens now?” he asked, dreading the answer.

  “Just as kings have sworn oaths of duty to their hold, an ironbreaker swears oaths to his clan. They cannot be lightly set aside. I must head back to my clan, in the Ostermark,” said Thorrik, his eyes weary. “And once there, I must request from my clan-thane that I might be allowed to take up the slayer oath.”

  Days passed within Karak Kadrin. Thorrik was gone much of that time, and Grunwald’s mood was heavy. Even Annaliese was growing restless and short tempered, eager to be on her way. She snapped at Eldanair one day, frustrated with his silence and his ghostly presence. Indeed he did seem even more distant and cold since being here within the hold of the dwarfs, but then that was understandable—the looks of loathing, mistrust and often outright hatred directed at him from the dwarfs was relentless. To his credit, he never lowered his gaze from the challenging stares, though he never did anything that could have provoked a reaction, for which Grunwald was thankful. The last thing they needed was to have bloodshed within the group. When the girl snapped at him, he merely regarded her coldly, making no reaction to her at all. When she stalked away from him, he merely continued to follow her, much to her frustration.