by Gav Thorpe
Barundin bellowed to his quarrellers, who turned their crossbows towards the war machines. With a steady staggered volley, the quarrellers loosed a storm of bolts at the engines, most of the missiles missing or breaking harmless against the machines themselves. However, a few robed bodies, pinned with crossbow bolts, littered the bloodstained stones after the salvo.
With the war machine crews reloading their engines, the goblins surged forwards again under another storm of arrows. To Barundin’s right, the hammerers were still fighting against a swarm of cave squigs, and many of their number lay dead amongst the corpses of the savage beasts heaped in front of their line.
The goblins advanced as a sea of spiteful green faces poking from beneath their black hoods, spitting and snarling. The horde advanced haphazardly as fights broke out amongst the ranks of unruly fighters; their chiefs cracked heads together and shouted shrill commands to keep the tide of grobi moving. The light from dozens of fires glinted cruelly from serrated short swords and barbed speartips, a constellation of fiery stars in the fumes and shadows.
Bursts of green energy erupted from the advancing line as cavorting shamans gathered their magical powers and unleashed them, spewing forth vomits of destruction and blasts from their staffs. Axe and hammer-wielding warriors to Barundin’s left were hurled from their feet by the sorcerous attacks, green flames licking up from their shattered bodies.
A particularly ostentatious-looking shaman stood near the centre of the approaching horde, his tall hood bedecked with bones and crudely shapes precious stones, delved a hand into a pouch hung from his crude rope belt and pulled forth a fistful of luminous fungus. Devouring these, he began to hop from one foot to the other, cackling and yelping, swinging his staff around his head. Sickly green tendrils of energy began to leak from his mouth and from under his hood, rising up like a mist around the grobi. Green sparks leaped from hood tip to hood tip, until a mass of warriors in front of the shaman were swathed in a flowing green cloud of energy. Invigorated by these conjurations, the goblins surged forwards ever more quickly, the tramping of their feet echoing from the high walls.
A detonation to Barundin’s right attracted the dwarf king’s attention and he turned just in time to see a shaman bursting from the ranks, bathed in crackling green force. With manic energy, the shaman fell to the ground, flailing madly, legs and arms jerking spasmodically. The creature began to glow from within and then, after a few moments, exploded in a cloud of green-tinged arcs of lightning, striking down a handful of his fellows stood too close.
‘Brace yourselves!’ bellowed Barundin, setting his shield and getting a firm grip on his axe.
The foremost goblins were now less than two dozen yards away and charging fast. As they closed the gap, their ranks parted to unleash a new terror. Frothing at the mouth, their eyes glazed, goblins wielding immense balls on lengths of chain burst from the goblin horde. Intoxicated by strange mushrooms and toadstools, imbued with narcotic strength, the fanatics began to spin madly, their heavy weapons whirling around with deadly speed. Some careened off dizzily, smashing into one another in bloody tangles of metal, while others spun back into the grobi army, cutting a devastating swathe through the night goblins, who advanced onwards, unconcerned with their losses.
Several of the fanatics fell or tripped before they reached the dwarf line, crushing their own heads and bodies with their heavy iron balls, but a handful made it as far as the dwarfs. The carnage was instant, shields and mail no protection against the crushing blows of the twirling lunatics. A score of dwarfs were reduced to bloody pulps by the first impact, and as the fanatics bounced back and forth, ricocheting from one dwarf to another they left a trail of mangled bodies in their wake.
A great groan rose up from the dwarf line and they began to edge away from the fanatics, pushing and shoving at each other to get away from the demented goblins. Even as the line buckled under the onslaught the goblin charge hit home.
Their shieldwall broken in places by the fanatics, the dwarfs were unprepared for the grobi and many fell to jabbing swords and wild spear thrusts as they attempted to reform the line. As they weathered the initial assault, the dwarfs locked their shields together and pushed back, hewing down the goblins with their axes and hammers, smashing helmeted heads into the faces of their foes and breaking bones with their steel shields.
A score of centuries of hatred boiled up from within the dwarf army and they lashed out vengefully. The explosion of violent anger erupted along the dwarf line, engulfing Barundin, who threw himself forward, axe raised.
‘For Zhufbar!’ he shouted, bringing his axe down into the hooded head of a goblin, shearing through its skull with a single blow. ‘For Grimnir!’
Hacking to his right, he chopped through the upraised arm of another foe, and the return blow sheared the head from the shoulders of another. The rune axe blazed with power, trailing droplets of dark grobi blood that spattered into the king’s beard. He did not notice it, for the battle rage was upon him. As the goblins closed in on him, Barundin’s rune armour and shield rang with blows, although the gromril plates remained true and he felt nothing. Another wide swing of his axe tore down another two goblins, a bloody furrow carved across their chests, their tattered robes flung into the air.
Growling and panting, Barundin slashed again and again, his arm strengthening with every corpse hurled to the ground. All around him was bedlam as dwarf weapons cut through flesh and bone and goblin spears and swords broke upon dwarf-forged steel. The clattering of metal and wood, the bellowing of dwarf curses and the panicked shrieks of the grobi filled the cavern, resounding back off the walls, growing in volume.
Step-by-step, the dwarfs advanced into the hall, trampling over countless bodies of the goblins they had slain, spitting vengeful oaths at their hated foes. Their beards and armour doused with goblin blood, they were a horrific sight, their eyes fixed with the madness that only millennia of enmity can create. With every axe blow, with every hammer strike, the dwarfs repaid the goblins for each and every dwarf death at their hands, for every mine they had taken, for each hold they had overrun.
There was a purity in Barundin’s fury; he felt a keen sense of satisfaction with each goblin death. The righteousness of his anger filled him with purpose and he easily ignored the soft, clumsy blows of his enemies, his axe hewing death all around him.
He was broken from his destructive reverie by panicked shouts to his left. Cutting down another handful of goblins, he broke free from the knot of grobi that had surrounded him and saw the cause of his kinsmen’s dismay.
Towering above both dwarfs and grobi, eight gigantic trolls strode through the goblins’ line, pushing and kicking aside their small masters. Each three times the height of a man, the stone trolls were lanky, their limbs taut with whipcord muscle, their fat bellies gawky and distended. As the trolls lumbered forward their blunt faces regarded the dwarfs stupidly, and they scratched idly at their ragged, pointed ears and swollen bellies, or dug clawed fingers into their bulbous noses. Their greyish-blue skin was thick and nobbled, and had a cracked appearance like old granite. One of the trolls stopped and looked around in dazed confusion, moaning loudly into the air, the goblins around it trying to urge it forwards with shouts and the hafts of their spears. The other trolls loped forward and broke into a long-strided run that covered the ground with surprising speed, dragging rocks and crude wooden clubs behind them.
As it reached the dwarf line, the foremost troll raised a massive fist above its head and brought it down upon the helm of one of the dwarfs, crushing it with a single blow and snapping the warrior’s back. A backhanded smash crumpled the shield of another, driving shards of steel into the bearer’s ribs. Another troll, a rock gripped between its hands, flattened another dwarf with its improvised weapon, and then stopped and bent over to peer dumbly at the twitching corpse.
Their momentum suddenly halted by the stone trolls, the dwarfs found themselves on the back foot. More and more goblins were swarming forwards
, circling left and right, avoiding the left of the dwarf line where the trolls were wreaking horrendous damage on the dwarfs around them.
‘My king!’ called Durak, pounding his hammer into the chest of a goblin and pushing past the falling corpse. The gatekeeper turned and pointed behind him.
Turning to look, Barundin daw that the dwarfs had advanced away from the doorway into the hall, and there was a growing number of goblins gathering behind them.
‘We’ll be cut off,’ said Durak.
‘Not if we’re victorious!’ Barundin replied, catching a sword on his shield and then swinging his axe to decapitate the greenskin attacker.
‘There’s too many of them,’ Durak yelled as a handful of goblins rushed forward to attack him.
Barundin grunted as he cut down another goblin, and risked a glance around. The fanatics and trolls had carved a bloody hole in the left flank of his host, and the warriors and quarrellers holding that side were in danger of being surrounded. His hammerers held the right and the cave squigs had all been slain, but they were being hard-pressed by the sheer numbers of the grobi. Every fibre in his body and soul urged him to keep fighting, but he mastered his natural hatred and realised that it would be folly to stay. Nothing would be achieved if they were cut off from their route back to the Ungdrin. He spied a hornblower not far away and hacked his way through half a dozen goblins to reach the dwarf’s side.
‘Sound the retreat,’ Barundin said, spitting out the words with distaste.
‘My king?’ replied the hornblower, eyes widening.
‘I said sound the retreat,’ snarled Barundin.
As the king fended off more goblins, the hornblower raised his instrument to his lips and blew the notes. The horn blast echoed dully over the clash of weapons, the angry shouts of the dwarfs, the low moaning of the trolls and the screeches of dying goblins. It was picked up by other musicians along the line, and soon the dwarf army was reluctantly stepping back.
In a fighting withdrawal, falling back in small groups of a dozen or so warriors, the dwarfs made their way back to the edge of the hall and their line reformed into a semi-circle around the doorway. Barundin and his hammerers held the apex of the arc, the Ironbreakers to his left and right, as the other dwarf warriors retreated back down the steps.
With a shout full of wrath and disappointment, Barundin sheared his axe through the gut of a troll, spilling out the noxious guts, the air filled with the acrid reek of its powerful stomach juices. As the goblins backed away from the spray of filth, Barundin and his rearguard broke from the fighting, quickly backing away through the gateway and onto the steps.
‘Keep going!’ he roared over his shoulder as he saw some of his warriors hesitating, thinking of turning back to aid their king. ‘Secure the tunnels back to the Ungdrin!’
As steadily and methodically as they had advanced, the dwarfs withdrew from the Great South Hall. At junctions and stairways the Ironbreakers and hammerers paused, holding the corridors and chambers against the goblin attacks while the rest of the army fell back towards the underway, taking up positions to defend. Covered by volleys from the quarrellers and thunderers, the king and his elite fighters broke away from the goblins and trolls.
For several more hours the dwarfs fought on, making the goblins pay a heavy price for their pursuit. In places, the tunnels were literally filled with the dead, as the dwarfs heaped the bodies of the grobi to make barricades to defend, or set fire to piles of corpses to block the goblins’ advance. The two engineers that had accompanied Barundin made small charges of black powder and rigged traps that triggered rock falls and cave-ins on the heads of the following goblin horde, sealing off tunnels or choking them with the slain.
With the black-feathered arrows of the goblins skittering off the walls and ceiling around them, Barundin and his hammerers were the last to set foot on the stairwell winding back down to the Ungdrin. Barundin gave a last, sour look at the realm of Dukankor Grobkaz-a-Gazan, before turning and running down the steps.
He could hear the thundering of hundreds of feet not far behind him as the goblins poured down the stairs after the retreating dwarfs. Their harsh cackles and the flickering flames of their torches followed him.
Bursting out onto the highway from under the wide arched stairwell, Barundin was pleased to see that his host had organised themselves into something resembling an army, and stood waiting not far from the entranceway.
In particular, he saw the four barrels of an organ gun to his right, pointed directly at the stairway. Behind it he saw Garrek Silverweaver, one of the thane-engineers, holding a long lanyward. The engineer gave him a thumbs up as the king marched across the flags to take up a position near the centre of the line that stretched out, awaiting the goblins.
The first grobi burst into view, hurried on by their fellow goblins from behind. They were met by a hail of crossbow bolts and died to a goblin. More followed quickly and were greeted by a thunderous volley of handgun fire that tore them to shreds. Still not aware of the danger awaiting them, more goblins stormed into sight, almost tripping over themselves in their excitement.
‘Skoff ‘em!’ Garrek shouted as he pulled the lanyard of the organ gun.
The war machine belched fire and smoke as the barrels fired in quick succession, hurling four fist-sized cannonballs at the mass of goblins. Packed into the confines of the stair entrance, there was no way to avoid the fusillade and the heavy iron balls ripped through the grobi, smashing heads, punching through chests and ripping off limbs. A tangled ruin of green flesh, dark blood and black robes littered the steps.
Aware that they would not catch their prey unprepared, the goblins halted out of sight, although a few came tumbling down the steps, followed by the childish cackling of the goblins that had pushed them. A lull began, and the dwarfs stood in silence, listening to the grating, high-pitched voices of the goblins as they argued amongst themselves about what to do. Now and then a poor volunteer came stumbling down the steps and would have only time to give a panicked shriek before being picked off by a bolt or bullet.
After more than an hour, amid much laughing and shouting, the goblins finally began to withdraw back up the steps. Barundin ordered the Ironbreakers to follow a little way behind and ensure that the goblins were not making a false retreat, and to set guards at the top of the long stairway. With that done, he ordered his warriors to get some rest and food.
As the dwarfs broke out water, cheese, cold meats and stonebread from their packs, Barundin sought out Baldrin Gurnisson, the Thane that had been left in charge of the reserve. He saw the elderly dwarf in conversation with one of the runners.
‘What news from Hengrid?’ the king asked as he walked towards the pair.
Both thane and runner turned towards Barundin, their expressions sorrowful.
‘Come on, tell me!’ snapped Barundin, who was in no mood for niceties. ‘How fares Hengrid Dragonfoe and his army?’
‘We don’t know, my king,’ said Baldrin, wringing a gnarled hand through the long braids of his beard.
‘I couldn’t find them,’ explained the runner, the beardling’s face a mask of worry. ‘I looked and looked, and asked the others, but no one has seen or heard from them since they set out.’
‘I did not know whether to march to their aid or not,’ said Baldrin, shaking his head woefully. ‘I can still go now, if you command it.’
Barundin took off his helmet and dragged his fingers through his matted, sweaty hair. His face was covered in grime and blood, his beard tangled and knotted. His armour was scratched and dented, stained with goblin blood and splashed with troll guts. He dropped his helmet, and in the quiet the clang of its falling rang along the Ungdrin like a death knell.
‘No,’ the king finally said. ‘No, we must accept that they are probably lost to us now.’
‘What are we to do?’ asked the beardling, his eyes fearful.
Barundin turned away from them and looked at his army, which had lost over a tenth of its number th
at day. Many were already asleep, using their packs as pillows, while others sat in small groups, silent or talking in hushed whispers. A good number of them turned and looked at Barundin as they noticed the gaze of their king sweeping over them.
‘What do we do now?’ he said, his voice steadily rising. ‘We do what we always do. We keep fighting!’
GRUDGE SIX
BARUNDIN’S GRUDGE
The empty hall was disquieting to Barundin. Now scoured of the last of the grobi desecration, it was at least an imitation of its former glory, if not a replica. He stood upon the thane’s platform, resting a hand on the arm of the newly carved throne that had been set there. A diamond the size of his fist pierced the top of the back of the chair, glinting in the light of the dwarf lanterns.
Voices echoed from beyond the hall’s portal, once again hung with two mighty doors hewed from the thickest oak, and Barundin looked up to see Arbrek. The runelord leaned heavily on his staff, his flowing grey beard knotted to his belt to stop him tripping on it. With him were several of the thanes, Tharonin Grungrik amongst them, and Loremaster Thagri. The small group crossed the hall and walked up the steps. They stopped just before reaching the dais, except for Tharonin who strode up and stood before the king. Thagri had a book and writing chisel in his hands, and sat down upon the seat. He dipped the chisel in his inkwell and looked up at the king expectantly.
