Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  ‘Right.’

  If the sight of the road had been uplifting, the appearance of the towers of the Lower Gate looming in the starlight was like a draught of the finest beer. Not long after, a voice hailed them from one of the turrets built into the mountain on the western side of the road.

  ‘Stand fast!’ came the challenge. ‘Who goes on the road?’

  ‘A band of tired folk coming from Undak Grimgazan,’ Stofrik shouted in reply.

  ‘The watch fortress down yonder?’

  ‘Aye, the one with the blumming great beacon fire burning, you numbskull,’ Gabbik called out. ‘Send for the lord of the Lower Gate, we have dire news.’

  ‘Lord Garudak is already abroad with the gate guard. Wait there a moment.’

  They waited and for the first time Gabbik felt the chill of the night. His clothes were soaked with sweat and his hair plastered across his head, but the summer was turning and a breeze from the mountaintops warned of cold weather to come. The seasons shifted quickly in the Dragonbacks and there was some muttering amongst the other dwarfs as they noticed the drop in temperature.

  ‘An early winter will be good news,’ said Nakka, sensing the same.

  ‘How so?’ asked Gabbik.

  ‘Those orcs won’t like to camp on our doorstep with snow settling on their thick skulls.’

  Before Gabbik could comment further a crack appeared in the cliff face beneath the guard turret, revealing a door cunningly wrought from the rock itself. A dim light shone from within while a handful of mail-clad dwarfs sortied forth, weapons in hand.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ said their leader, whose horned helm was edged with gold and sapphires. ‘Quickly now.’

  ‘Can you get to the Lower Gate from here?’ asked Stofrik.

  ‘No, we have to travel overground,’ replied the guard captain, beckoning to them. ‘Come in, quickly now.’

  ‘We have to get to the Lower Gate,’ said Stofrik. ‘We need to gather more axes and go looking for the longbeards.’

  ‘Let’s get the womenfolk and children in, at least,’ said Gabbik. ‘They can be escorted down later.’

  This was soon agreed, although true to expectation Haldora refused to take shelter with her mother and insisted that she would help find Skraffi and the others. Gabbik relented for the sake of saving time, and the armed dwarfs bid farewell to their families and continued down the road. They came upon more manned towers and battlements further south, and as they told their story a few dwarfs from each fortification joined them, swearing to help in the search for the greybeards that had led the wolf riders away.

  When they reached the Lower Gate themselves, they found the immense portal shut, but the walls were manned and soon horns pealed to announce the returning warriors. Swung by counterweights and gears, the gates opened to admit the ragged-looking group and their new recruits, and soon the hall within was bustling with dwarfs coming and going with food, water and ale, as well as the news of the missing longbeards and the orcish horde.

  ‘My father has taken five hundred south to the watch fort at Gundak Karazin,’ Lord Garudak’s son, Menghir, told them.

  ‘Send runners after them, tell them to come back,’ said Gabbik. ‘Or there’ll be five hundred less axe-wielders to protect the Lower Gate. They can do no good down there.’

  Menghir promised to do so, and also summoned rangers and other thanes of the Lower Gate deeps to bolster their party further, so that when Stofrik announced it was time to head back to the woods their group was several hundred strong. Last preparations were made. Whetstones sharpened axe blades and knives, shattered shields were replaced, dints knocked out of helmets and belts hung with pouches of bread, flasks of beer and waterskins. The Lower Gate clans were keen hunters and a good number of them brought crossbows and bows, and packs filled with ammunition.

  Gabbik found Haldora asleep on a bench, Nakka’s wolf pelt cloak drawn over her, its owner a short distance away talking with the gate guards.

  ‘We should leave her,’ Gabbik said, glancing at his daughter. ‘She’s all done in.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ said Nakka. ‘You’ll have a storm to weather when she wakes up.’

  ‘I’ll take that, if it means she stays safe and sound for the rest of the night.’

  Nakka didn’t argue as they rejoined the group getting ready to set out.

  When the gates opened once more the sky was lit by both moons, a strange pinkish quality to the air. The road outside thudded with booted feet as the throng marched forth, the sound of their tread resounding from the mountainside.

  Gabbik was bone-weary in the shoulders and knees, but there was not a power under or on the earth that would make him stay behind that night.

  ‘This looks like a good spot,’ said Nurftun.

  He hooked his lantern onto a low-hanging branch as the other dwarfs converged on his position. The woods were thinner here, but the ground rose up in a knoll studded with rocks, almost a sheer cliff on one side, a stream a few paces wide running along the bottom.

  ‘Reckon it might be,’ said Skraffi. He looked over his shoulder and could see the wolf riders still, now nothing more than a stone’s throw away. It appeared that they had realised what was going on and were plucking up the courage to attack. Farbrok had suggested they find a defensive position just in time.

  ‘Up to the top, by that broken stump there,’ said the Grimsson elder. ‘There’s a few holes and bushes that’ll slow them down.’

  The eleven dwarfs plodded up the narrowing slope, leaving lanterns in their wake to light the lower reaches of the hill. By the time they had reached the summit, their backs to the cliff, the goblins were closing in fast, sensing the final confrontation was approaching. Enthusiastic yaps and screeches resounded through the woods as the ring of beasts and greenskins constricted on the dwarfs.

  Skraffi rubbed a hand along the flat of Elfslicer’s blade, his fingers touching the rune, skin highlighted by its inner glow. Beside him, Farbrok had his hammer in both hands, making test swings to gauge the steepness of the slope and the sureness of his footing. He kicked away some broken branches to clear a space. Around them the other longbeards did likewise, staying close to each other but each picking the spot where he would make a stand – possibly their last.

  ‘Never figured it’d be goblins,’ said Nurftun.

  ‘What’s that?’ replied Skraffi.

  ‘After the elves didn’t get me in the war, I always figured I’d live to seven hundred and die in me bed or at the seam. Never thought no goblin would be the one to shuffle me off to the ancestors’ halls.’

  ‘We ain’t there yet,’ said Farbrok. He squinted down the slope. ‘How many do you reckon there are?’

  ‘Seventy, maybe eighty,’ someone said off to Skraffi’s left. It sounded like Erzakaz Skullingrim. ‘Enough to go around.’

  ‘Kill the wolves first,’ said Skraffi. ‘They’re more dangerous than the bloody goblins.’

  Snarling and snapping, the wolves came surging up the hill, moving quickly between the trees. The slap of Grodin Fundunstull’s crossbow broke the still at the summit, followed by the whistle of the bolt and a pained scream from below. Grodin grunted and groaned, winching the string back, and managed to loose another shot before the riders were on them.

  Skraffi ignored everything around him, focusing on a wolf and rider coming straight at him. There was a fallen log a few paces in front of the dwarf veteran and he stepped forward as the wolf bounded over it, swinging up his axe to catch the creature in mid-jump. Elfslicer carved into the creature’s chest, slicing out through the shoulder.

  His movement carried him sideways, the dead wolf thudding to the ground where he had been a moment before. The goblin falling from its back lashed out wildly with a stone-tipped spear. Skraffi answered with his axe, taking the goblin’s head off with one swing.

  A shout warned him to turn, giving him just enough time to step back as Farbrok slammed his hammer into the head of a charging wolf, the blow
carrying through its shattered skull to crush the chest of the greenskin riding it.

  Skraffi returned to his spot, kicking the wolf corpse down the hill to give himself more space. Another beast and rider came at him and he did the same as before, catching wolf and rider unawares as they vaulted the fallen tree.

  A third had seen this trick and circled to Skraffi’s left, hoping to come at him from the side. The longbeard had been waiting for that too and he stepped nimbly into the beast’s charge, heedless of snapping fangs and swinging scimitar. The former shattered on the plate protecting his left shoulder, the latter bounced harmless from the mail coif guarding the back of his neck. Skraffi smashed the haft of Elfslicer into the goblin’s face even as his shoulder barged solidly into the side of the wolf, ribs and organs giving way under the impact.

  The wolf uttered a strange cry, almost like the shout of a goblin, and limped away into the gloom. The goblin had been deposited onto the ground, jaw and cheek shattered. It spat teeth and cackled spitefully, driving the point of its blade towards Skraffi’s groin. The blow went wide, shrieking from mail. Skraffi ended the greenskin with his boot, splitting its head into the dirt with one heavy stomp.

  ‘Keep going, lads, we might just win this one,’ Farbrok shouted.

  Skraffi turned to see the old Grimsson surrounded by a pile of mangled wolf and goblin bodies – at least half a dozen of each. Another joined the dead a moment later, Farbrok’s hammer shattering the mount’s legs before snapping the rider’s back almost in half.

  Then Norbrin Troggklad fell with a cry. Two wolves had come at him at once, the first cut from throat to belly by his axe but the second leapt into the ageing dwarf, jaws snapping around his upper arm. The goblin on its back jabbed its spear into the eyeslit of Norbrin’s full helm and blood spurted.

  Erzakaz was there a moment later, his axe taking off the head of the wolf and the leg of the goblin in a spray of dark blood, but it was too late for Norbrin.

  The remaining ten longbeards retreated a step, closing the hole left by Norbrin’s death. The raiders came on again and again, slamming cudgels and spears into shields, claws raking, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Skraffi swung his axe without pause, ignoring the stray scratches and bruises inflicted by his attackers.

  Farbrok was the next to die, caught in the side of the throat by an arrow. He pitched forward like a felled tree, hammer tumbling from his grasp. Skraffi couldn’t believe it, staring in dumbfounded shock for a moment. He and Farbrok had never been friends, but they had grown up in the deeps at the same time, always there in the tough times against elf and goblin alike.

  The wolf riders were pulling back, realising the dwarfs were not the easy victory they had hoped, leaving the dirty work to the bows of their companions. The night air was filled with more short, black shafts hissing and sighing past, thudding into tree and shields, pinging from mail and plate.

  ‘We can’t stay here,’ growled Grodin. ‘They’ll pick us all off.’

  ‘They don’t have enough arrows,’ argued Erzakaz. ‘Keep close to the trees and your shields up.’

  This strategy worked for a while, affording some protection against the arrows of the goblins, but it was not long before one of the greenskins devised a smarter plan. Soon the arrows were dipped in the tar from the lanterns the dwarfs had left behind and set alight. Flaming projectiles set leaves and branches blazing.

  As if that was not enough, the same bright goblin, possibly, realised that they could use smoke to drive the dwarfs off the hilltop. Skraffi could see it snapping orders at the other greenskins, getting them to hack down green branches and leaves to pile them near the base of the slope, downwind. The trees around the dwarfs were starting to burn more fiercely as a lamp was dashed against a rock, its flaming oil spraying across the piled wood.

  The wind was quite strong and soon the flames were fanned into vigorous life, thick smoke pouring up the knoll. Skraffi’s eyes were watering and he could feel his throat closing up.

  ‘S’no good,’ he coughed, ‘we have to break out of here.’

  ‘They’ll cut us down,’ said Erzakaz. ‘I’d rather die as smoked fish than skewered boar.’

  ‘I’m going to take some of the beggars with me,’ said Skraffi, taking a few steps down the hill. ‘Who’s with me?’

  ‘Damn right we are,’ said Grodin. ‘When they let me in to the Hall of Ancestors I’ll be throttling a goblin in each hand.’

  ‘All right, let’s make this short and sharp,’ said Erzakaz.

  He raised a horn to his lips and let out three pealing notes. The dwarfs gathered into a tight knot and started advancing down the hill.

  Ahead, Skraffi could see shapes in the darkness, moving to and fro through the smoke, silhouetted by the flames and lamps. The shadows of the wolves looked gigantic, the goblins on their backs hunched figures with exaggerated noses and spindly fingers.

  Erzakaz sounded his horn again, causing much perturbation amongst the goblins. There was sudden activity, goblins on foot dashing around looking for their mounts while others rode back and forth in the gloom. This close, the smoke was so thick Skraffi could barely see ten paces in front of him. He could hardly breathe and the air was hot enough that he feared his beard would burst into flames from a stray spark.

  Something loomed out of the smoke and Skraffi swung his axe without thought, slicing the muzzle from a wolf. The creature bucked, throwing the goblin from its back, and leapt away with an odd yapping noise. Grodin’s hammer finished off the goblin.

  There was more movement, swirling the smoke more than the wind, but the dimness made it almost impossible to locate a target. Thick trunks and swaying branches fooled Skraffi, looking like squatting wolves or goblins holding swords and shields.

  The crackle of the fires was close, burning Skraffi’s lungs, causing his eyes to stream with tears. He could only breathe in short gasps, Elfslicer in one hand, his other held across his mouth and nose, holding his beard as a filter. Orange spread through the trees like dawn breaking, but even this light was too little to show anything ahead.

  The goblins fired blind into the smoke, arrows clattering from trees and armour, slicing the fumes with swirls in their wake. Wolves howled and goblins snapped at each other, seemingly all around, but still Skraffi and the other dwarfs could find nothing to fight.

  A horn blast close at hand drew their attention.

  ‘That was no goblin horn,’ said Skraffi, sure of the fact. ‘That’s a dwarf horn!’

  Lifting his instrument to his lips, Erzakaz replied, letting loose a long peal of a note. Sure enough, there was a returning blast, copying the old dwarf’s call.

  Skraffi broke into a jog and the others followed step, hurrying through the trees.

  ‘Durazut Angbok karak!’ Skraffi bellowed, uttering the war cry of the Angboks as more arrows sliced up the hill from the darkness.

  Now they heard the ringing of metal on metal and gruff dwarf voices raised in challenge. The goblins were shrieking fearfully and their mounts yammered and yelped, but Skraffi could see nothing of their rescuers. He pressed on, almost falling over a dead goblin slumped against a root, its throat cut open.

  ‘Durazut Angbok karak!’ he called again, hoping for a reply, but all he could hear were sounds of battle and frightened greenskins.

  Glancing to his left and right, he saw that he had become separated from the others somehow.

  ‘Erzakaz? Grodin? Troffik?’ His calls went unanswered. ‘Anybody hear me?’

  Then he heard it, faint but unmistakeable.

  ‘Durazut Angbok karak!’

  He headed towards the shout, calling out every few steps. The woods were not like the tunnels where he know every echo and reverberation, but he was able to orientate himself to the sound bouncing from tree to tree.

  The ground was levelling and he had passed the fires when finally he caught a glimpse of another dwarf. For a moment he thought he had reached safety, but as he neared the figure, he found that it was Asdr
ek Firebeard, propped up by his own axe buried in a wolf, his back and chest pierced with more than a score of goblin arrows. Clearly the fighting wasn’t yet done and Skraffi raised his axe once more, thinking the worst. It would be typical of his luck to get killed by a stray arrow or panicked goblin when salvation was so close at hand.

  Eyes streaming, hair and beard stinking of fire fumes he staggered onwards, thinking that the smoke was thinning. He could feel a breeze on his left cheek and turned towards it, remembering that the wind had been coming roughly from the south, from which direction their assistance likely came.

  He almost tripped over another dead goblin and then came across four more, all of them decapitated. They had run into someone very handy with an axe.

  ‘Anybody there?’ he called out.

  ‘Skraffi?’ He didn’t recognise the voice in the distance but headed straight towards it, shouting wordlessly.

  The smoke seemed to vanish, leaving him in a clearing, the night sky above, a cluster of dwarfs ahead. Through tear-filled eyes he saw Nakka, wiping a cloth along the blade of his axe.

  ‘Grungni’s shiny runes, you’re alive, you old beggar!’ exclaimed Nakka, grinning widely. He held his axe to one side and slapped Skraffi on the shoulder with his free hand. ‘I am so pleased to see you, old fella. I don’t know what Haldi would have been like if we’d lost you.’

  Slowly others congregated in the clearing, both the longbeards and the expedition that had found them. Sat on the ground, Skraffi was coughing hard still, drinking his own weight in water from the canteens given to him, when Gabbik appeared.

  ‘Hello, lad,’ Skraffi croaked.

  ‘Hello, pa,’ Gabbik replied. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘And you.’

  They looked at each other in awkward silence for a moment and then Skraffi held out a hand, asking to be pulled up. Gabbik obliged, hauling the old dwarf to his feet. Skraffi patted his son’s hand a couple of times before letting go, and with a look they both assured each other that everything was as should be.