“Good,” said Dagskar, as the dwarf tumbled to the ground at his feet. “Now put ’im back on da wagon, but don’t kill ’im. I needs a live one.”
“Fer what?” asked Nazbad suspiciously.
“Don’t worry yer knob about it, shaman,” Dagskar said, turning away. “It’s all part’a da big plan.”
As he stepped around the front of the building he jumped up on the wagon and raised his arms. “All right, boys!” he shouted. “Move out. It’s time t’kill some stunties!”
The goblins cheered, and the swarming column started into the pass that led to the unfortified dwarf hold.
Godri frowned as Fafgir Farrisson, the veteran thunderer who he had asked to lead the reinforcements to the bridge, marched up to the mouth of the hold with his thirty dwarfs behind him, and bowed before Rodrin and himself.
“By Grimnir, what’s this?” Godri asked. “Why have you returned? And unscathed? Where is my son?”
Fafgir, a grizzled old brawler with a broken nose and a grey beard to his waist, shuffled nervously before he replied. “Your son ordered it so, my thane,” he said. “We sounded a rally call when we were a mile away, to let him know help was on the way, but a horn came in response—‘fall back and defend—enemy coming’. We blew a query note, but the reply came the same—‘fall back and defend—enemy coming’.” He paused again, looking uncomfortable. “Then… then the call cut off, all of a sudden.”
Godri felt a cold hand close around his heart. “And you did not go forward?”
Fafgir straightened, looking both stiff and nervous. “We followed the orders, my thane. We fell back, and we are ready to defend. I… I hope—”
“You did the right thing, veteran,” said Godri. “If my son thought it best that you fall back, then it was best.”
He raised his head and surveyed the dwarfs who stood behind Fafgir. “Now go and prepare for battle. We have need of every one of you on the front lines.”
The dwarfs saluted him, thudding their armoured and bearded chests with their fists. Fafgir bowed, then led them away.
As they marched off, Rodrin put his hand on Godri’s shoulder. “Brother…”
“There is no time for that,” snapped Godri. “Make your final preparations and return to me, for I would fight at your side. Unless some miracle has happened, they will be here soon. We must be ready.”
“Aye, brother,” said Rodrin. “We will be.” He too bowed and left, leaving Godri alone but for his hammerers.
Godri turned to Arn, their leader. “Bring me my armour and the axe of my fathers. It is time.”
And it was. Not a half hour later, just as Arn was buckling on his last pauldron, and Godri was tugging his tight-fitting gromril and gold helm down over his head and lowering the stern-visaged visor, a cry went up from the cannon crews on the platform above the open door.
Godri took the axe Thaggstok, with which his father’s father had saved Clan Byrnik from the vile skaven a thousand years ago, and stepped to the King’s Wall and looked to the south and west. Rodrin joined him, returning in his finest armour, a warpick over his shoulder and his horned helm under his arm, and followed his gaze. Where the narrow path from the bridge opened out at the top of the valley, a dark stain was spreading, like black blood spilling from a wound. Goblins. Hundreds of them.
The cold hand around Godri’s heart tightened into a fist. “My son is dead,” he said. “The filth would not have won past him if he still had strength to draw breath.”
Rodrin groaned beside him.
Godri put a hand on his shoulder, then stepped out beyond the King’s Wall and beckoned him and the hammerers to follow. “Come,” he said, hefting Thaggstok. “We go to war.”
He was glad he had lowered his visor. Rodrin and the others would not see his tears.
SEVEN
As he and his boys strode down the sloping track to the valley floor, Dagskar looked down to where the stunties had dug their hole. The mouth of it was built out from the rocky face of the mountain on the far side of the valley, and their little above-ground settlement spread out from it in a half-circle. The sturdy little stone buildings were all tightly packed together, with pastures and fields of wheat and vegetables making a band of gold and green beyond them.
He smiled as he watched the little black specks of the dwarfs moving up to take their places at the edges of the settlement. They were spread very thin along their lines. Very thin. His boys must outnumber them six to one.
“Dead easy,” he said. “Like steppin’ on ants.”
As his army reached the bottom of the hill Dagskar called Nazbad and his underbosses to him. “Right,” he said. “Spread out and surround da town, but keep well back ’til I gives da word, got it?” He glared around at them as they nodded and grunted. “Anybody what goes in early, I feeds ’em to da troll, feet first.”
“I’d like t’see ya try it,” said Nazbad.
“Mess with me and y’just might,” snarled Dagskar.
The shaman began to puff up and Dagskar sighed and put up his hands.
“Alright, alright, Wartfinger,” he said. “I knows yer mad at me, but if y’wants dat stuntie hole for yer boys, den we’s gotta work together, got it?”
“I wants it, alright,” said Nazbad. “Da question is, can you get it?”
“I can if y’stop jawwin’ at me and pitch in like y’promised,” said Dagskar. “Now, listen. Tell yer spider-boys t’sneak up da mountain and get behind da stunties. When dey sees my boys attack from da front, dey comes down and sticks ’em in da rear, right?”
Nazbad glared at him suspiciously. “Sounds like yer givin’ my boys da hard bit again,” he said. “Sneakin’ behind enemy lines.”
“It’s all da hard bit!” snapped Dagskar. “We’s fightin’ stunties, ain’t we? Now, go tell yer boys what t’do, den come back ’ere and make with da waaagh! Move it!”
The shaman glared at him, and for a second, Dagskar thought he’d have to kill him right then and there, which would be bad timing to say the least, but at last the shaman snorted.
“I’ll send ’em,” he said. “But not all of ’em. I ain’t goin’ into a scrap with da likes’a you without some boys ta watch my back.”
He gave Dagskar a final look, then turned and strutted away as if it was him who was the boss.
Dagskar watched him go, then turned to his under-bosses again. “Alright, get yer boys set. We go as soon as he starts ’is chant.”
As the boys split up and hurried back to their mobs, Dagskar glared again at Nazbad, who was giving the orders to his riders. The shaman was asking for it. Well, he’d settle him as soon as the battle was over—maybe even a bit before.
Skaari shuffled behind the wagon full of corpses, gasping for breath and wincing in pain as it trundled forward, following the goblin horde that advanced on the dwarf settlement. The goblins had tied him to the wagon’s tailgate and made him run behind it the whole way from the bridge, and had whipped and kicked him when he had fallen. Consequently, his knees and shins were cut to ribbons, adding to the symphony of pain that was playing at full volume in his battered body.
The homey smell of hops wafting across the fields from the brewery broke through his agony and brought his head up. He looked around. The bulk of the goblins were marching straight for the settlement. Only a mob of spider riders was taking a different tack, scuttling off toward the hills to the east. Skaari groaned as he took in the scene. The sight of the stout stone buildings of the settlement, seen over the heads of the advancing goblin army, filled his heart with an agonizing mix of hope, fear and shame.
The hope was that the buildings would stand, and that the green tide that swept forward would break upon them and recede. The houses looked so solid and strong, it seemed impossible that there could be any other outcome, and yet, he had thought the same thing of the dwarf line at the bridge, just before the spider riders had attacked.
The fear was for the dwarf-wives and children who hid themselves in the hold be
yond the settlement. If the dwarfs who defended it died, then the wives and children would die too, and not in the heat of battle, but trapped and tortured by evil-minded savages who had hated dwarf-kind since the dawn of time.
The shame came from the thought that his foolishness and pride might yet cause that unthinkable outcome. To think that what had started as his selfish attempt to amend a paltry embarrassment might lead to the downfall of the hold weighed on his heart like a capstone. He ran through the steps, as if hoping that somehow this time the end would be different. His embarrassment at being trapped under a cow had made him volunteer for the scouts, where his shot at the squigs had let the goblins know they had been scouted, which had brought them to the bridge before the reinforcements had time to arrive. There he had failed to protect Aurik, and then failed to escape the goblins when he had the chance, so that he had no chance to bring them the possibly battle-changing intelligence of the rivalry between the greenskin leaders.
Truly, the hold would be far better off right now if the troll had killed him right at the first, when the goblins had stolen the herd. He would have done far less damage dead than alive.
And he feared he would do more damage yet if he didn’t escape. The goblin boss had some plan for him, he was sure of that, some scheme that would weaken the dwarfen defences even more. Well, he would kill himself before he allowed that to happen. He would strangle himself with the ropes they had bound him in.
No. He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. Death alone was not good enough. Preventing the goblins from using him was only a half measure. If he was going to die, he wanted a death that would truly make up for his stupidity. He wanted it to smash the goblins and save the hold. He wanted to do something heroic—but what? He wasn’t sure he could even free himself from his bonds. They had tied his hands together so tightly that he could hardly feel them anymore, and left him on a short lead. He might be able to chew through his bonds, given time, but the goblins driving the wagon would surely notice before he got very far. Perhaps he could find something sharp.
The wagon slowed. Skaari looked around. The shaman, the goblin leader, and their henchmen had halted in the middle of the summer pasture while the bulk of their army continued forward towards the settlement, spreading out to encircle it as they went. Skaari sneered as he saw a tiny goblin hoist an ugly half-moon standard above the leader’s head—just like goblins, he thought, leading from the rear. Disgusting. The shaman began doing some sort of dance, rattling his fetishes and raising his hands up in the air. Magic. Even more disgusting.
Skaari continued his survey of the area. A mob of roughly forty night goblin reserves waited to the leader’s right, while a dozen spider riders gathered to their left. The troll squatted a little further on, gnawing on a dead cow while four night goblin handlers kept an eye on it.
The goblins driving the corpse wagon reined the frightened ponies to a halt, stopping them near the spider riders, then got down and stood before the wagon, guarding it—and Skaari.
Skaari sighed. He was in a perfect position—less than twenty paces behind the leader and the shaman—if only he could get free and get a weapon. He examined the wagon more closely. There were no metal hasps or hinges within reach that had a sharp enough edge for his purposes. But what about the bodies of the dwarfs that were piled upon it? Perhaps the goblins had left one of them with his dagger or axe. No, there wasn’t a blade among them. They’d been stripped of all weapons. He groaned. He would never get away.
An angry chittering made him look up. One of the night goblins was trotting past the spider riders, bringing some message to the guards who watched the troll, and the spider riders were giving him some lip, jeering at him and flicking snot at him. The night goblin replied in kind, and it looked for a moment that there would be a scuffle, but then the boss of the spider riders shouted at his boys and they quieted down.
Skaari smiled as an idea formed in his head. Perhaps he could do something heroic without breaking free.
Just then the goblin shaman shrieked, and a bright flash of green light exploded over his head. A harsh horn blast echoed across the field in its wake, and a horrible shrilling screech rose up from the goblin army in answer.
“WAAAGH!”
“Here they come,” said Rodrin.
“Good,” said Godri. “My heart thirsts.”
They stood with the hammerers in the gap between the brewery and the mill, letting the bulky buildings guard their flanks as the goblin horde sprinted towards them, screaming and shaking their weapons with the green light of battle frenzy blazing from their eyes.
A trench dug earlier by Rodrin’s miners opened at the dwarfs’ feet. It was a yard deep and filled with sharpened stakes. Any goblins that charged them would fall into the trench first, and then have to climb out again, while the dwarfs rained hammer and axe blows down on them from above. Similar trenches encircled the whole village—a simple but effective way to gain the high ground.
A cloud of black arrows arced over the advancing goblins and angled down towards the dwarfs.
“Shields high!” called Godri, and as one, Rodrin and the hammerers raised their shields over their heads.
It was hardly necessary. Most of the arrows landed well short of the mark. In fact, some shot the charging goblins in the back. Only a few reached the dwarf line, and those barely scratched the paint of their shields.
“Pathetic,” said Rodrin. “We’d be in more danger if they spat at us.”
As the goblins closed, the thunderers occupying the top floors of the mill and the brewery returned fire, filling the air with smoke and the pleasing stench of powder. The goblins’ screams of rage turned to shrieks of agony as the musket balls ripped through them, bringing down more than a score.
The deeper bark of the cannons boomed from behind the dwarf lines, and cannonballs whistled over Godri and Rodrin’s heads to skip through the greenskin lines like flat stones off the surface of a lake, sending goblins and goblin bits splashing in all directions with each bounce.
The goblins were not deterred. The mad light in their eyes only blazed brighter, and they leapt over their fallen comrades without a second glance—entirely focused on closing with their ancient enemies.
“Shields to the fore!” called Godri, holding Thaggstok aloft. “Dress your line!”
The hammerers brought their shields down and stood shoulder to shoulder, forming an unbroken wall of wood and steel. It was a mere formality. The first charge of goblins tumbled into the trench before them, the screaming savages impaling themselves on the stakes and crashing down on the hard earth to be crushed by those who followed.
Rodrin laughed as he looked down into the pit at the dead and squirming goblins. “It really isn’t fair,” he said.
“They deserve no better,” said Godri, with more emotion than he intended.
The goblins that had survived the fall scrambled to their feet and tried to claw their way up the sheer wall of the trench. Others stabbed up ineffectually with their spears. Godri slashed down at them with mighty Thaggstok, sheering off spear tips and staving in heads. Rodrin and the hammerers did the same, bashing mercilessly at the trapped goblins like they were rats in a gutter.
On the far side of the trench, the advancing goblins were trying to stop from jumping in, but they were being pushed forward by the mass of their fellow greenskins behind them, who did not yet know of the danger. They tumbled in, skidding their heels and shrieking, all their earlier battle lust gone, while some tried to push back through the onrushing press.
“Ha!” laughed Arn, crushing the skulls of two goblins in one swipe. “It’s a massacre. It’ll be over before it starts.”
A roar from the left drew Godri’s attention. Stout dwarf warriors stood on a long earthen rampart that had been built up around the brewery using the dirt dug from the trench, fighting a mob of goblins that swarmed up its sloping front. Near the centre of that line, Borri Graniteskin had pushed halfway down the incline, up to his che
st in goblins and swinging an axe and a burning torch in a dizzying blur of fire and steel.
The greenskins fell back from him in bloody pieces, shrieking and howling as they died.
“Bring me the troll!” the slayer roared, shaking his axe and revealing the clay fire pot he had slung under his arm. “Where is the troll?”
“Grimnir’s bloody axe,” Godri said, as another handful of goblins fell by the slayer’s hand. “The blowhard can actually fight!”
“I never would have believed it,” chuckled Rodrin.
A grunt from Arn drew Godri’s attention to the field again.
“What is that?” asked the thunderer, pointing as he kicked another goblin back into the trench.
Godri followed his finger. A shimmering green translucence was gathering above the dancing goblin shaman, far at the back of the horde. It looked like the phantom fire one sometimes saw at the top of flagpoles and lightning rods—a flickering, half-seen will-o-the-wisp—and it began to drift their way.
“Magic,” spat Rodrin. “The foul winds.”
“Pay it no mind,” barked Godri. “Hold the trench.”
Rodrin and the hammerers growled their agreement and returned their full attention to the trench and the goblins, hacking and bashing at them with a steady, tireless rhythm. Godri did too. From long experience he knew it was better to focus on a threat one could fight than worry about an intangible one.
And the goblins in the trench were at last becoming a true threat. Enough of them had died in it now that it was starting to fill with their bodies, and the scores pouring into it were now protected from the stakes by a carpet of their fallen comrades. Soon it would be so full that they would be able to run across it like level ground.
Godri caved in a goblin’s chest with Thaggstok, then shattered the jaw of another with the back swing. Still not a dwarf he could see had fallen—proof that forethought and preparation were the best defence against mindless savagery.
A dwarf horn rang out from the right flank—a staccato of coded notes. “Enemy behind—riders—surrounded.”
Battle for Skull Pass Page 7
