Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  ‘Set me down,’ he snarled at his thanes, returning to his own battle.

  ‘My king, you can barely walk,’ said Morek.

  ‘Do it!’ snapped Bagrik, ignoring the hearth guard captain’s protests.

  The thanes obeyed and put the war shield on the ground, the hearth guard that were left locking their shields together in a feeble wall of bronze and iron in front of them. Quickly, they unclasped the manacles around Bagrik’s boots and the king hobbled off the shield to stand with his thanes. Looking over the shield wall, Bagrik saw that the Norscan warlord had whirled around and was coming again.

  ‘Crouch down,’ he said, stowing his axe and gripping the lip of the massive war shield with both hands. ‘Here and here,’ he added, nodding to either side for the thanes to follow his lead.

  Stowing their blades, Haggar first yanking the banner of Ungor free and ramming it hard into the earth beside him, both dwarfs gripped the war shield like their king.

  ‘When he tears through the hearth guard, lift the war shield up and get behind it,’ Bagrik told them. ‘Stay strong and don’t give any ground, not even an inch!’

  ‘We are unyielding…’ said Morek.

  ‘…strong as stone and steel,’ Haggar concluded.

  As Bagrik had predicted, the Norscan warlord smashed through the hearth guard wall, killing those unlucky enough to be in his path in a chorus of screams and showered blood. Beyond the slain warriors, he found a stern-faced dwarf king and his thanes waiting.

  ‘Heave!’ Bagrik yelled.

  The three dwarfs lifted the war shield as one, thrusting it up at a high angle.

  Carried by the momentum of his charge, the Norscan warlord didn’t have time to slow and the chariot crashed against the gromril bulwark. Bagrik and his thanes roared together, ramming their shoulders against the underside of the shield, boots gouging into the frozen ground as they were pushed back. The crack of wrenching bone echoed dully through the metal, as the war machine lurched madly to its side, frame splintering when it struck the ground.

  Gasping for breath, Bagrik staggered backwards and together with Morek and Haggar, let the war shield drop. It fell with a clatter of resounding gromril and was still. The three dwarfs turned on their heels.

  The chariot was a broken mess of shattered bone. A spear of it impaled the daemon beast through its grotesque body. Ichorous fluid leaked from the wound.

  Bagrik hobbled the few feet to the bone wreckage, unslinging his axe as he followed the long furrow gouged in the earth left by the chariot. He severed the mewling creature’s head with a grunt.

  Morek and Haggar were behind the king when the Norscan warlord emerged out of the carnage, skin cut in a dozen places but very much alive.

  ‘Find the shaman,’ Bagrik snarled over his shoulder at them, gaze fixed on his foe.

  The clank of armour told the dwarf king that his thanes had no intention of leaving him.

  ‘Find him now!’ he snapped. ‘Save Ithalred.’

  Morek’s face was set like stone. Haggar turned to him, unsure what he should do. In that brief moment, Morek saw that victory was close. A cohort of longbeards had broken through to them past the clot of bondsmen and huscarls. In the distance, he saw a band of triumphant slayers take down the last of the mammoths, its shaggy hide set ablaze by torches before they butchered it.

  ‘Take the banner,’ the hearth guard captain told Haggar. ‘Lead them,’ he said, pointing to the beleaguered warriors that had just broken through.

  Haggar nodded, tramping back to the banner and wrenching it from the earth. Bellowing belligerently, he joined the embattled longbeards and waded into the fight.

  ‘You,’ said Morek, turning to the startled handful of hearth guard from the king’s bodyguard that still lived, ‘with me.’

  Though he knew little of sorcerers and their distrustful ways, Morek was experienced enough to realise that their ilk often cowered in the rear ranks of an army where they could practise their magic unopposed. This, he felt in his gut, was where he’d find the shaman. Only a thin line of bondsmen stood between Morek and the rear echelons of the dwindling horde. Beyond that was only the sea. There was nowhere else left to hide. Gripping the haft of his rune axe tightly, he made for the foe he had in his sights, the name of Grimnir on his lips.

  Emboldened by the presence of the banner of Karak Ungor in their midst, the longbeards redoubled their efforts. As they fought the Norscans back, Haggar at their fore, a throng of clan warriors waded in on the flank, having slain a pack of vicious war hounds and their whelp masters. Together the dwarfs drove the northmen back, foot by bloody foot, to the crags at the bottom of the cliffs.

  ‘Victory is near!’ Haggar cried, determined to keep the banner aloft, the grip of his rune hand like iron. Blood spurting across his eyes, he saw one of the Norscan leaders raise a warhorn to his lips. A keening cry ripped out of the curled instrument, echoing discordantly across the craggy shore.

  It was answered by a bestial call, throaty and reverberant. The sound of it hurt Haggar’s ears and he winced in pain. From amongst the crags, from out of the shallow caves and dark hollows, monsters emerged.

  Dank-looking skin, gnarled by warts, red scar-tissue weals and patches of discolouration swathed the tall and sinewy bodies of the creatures. Bent-backed with spiked protuberances erupting out of their spines, they loped forward in a gangling fashion. Long talons scraped against the ground at the end of rangy arms, covered in tufts of coarse hair. Flat ears, scarred and chewed, flared from ugly heads that snarled in anger.

  ‘Trolls,’ Haggar muttered with distaste, and knew that the fight was far from over.

  Bagrik spat on the purple ash remains of the daemon steed.

  ‘You need to find a stronger beast, north-man,’ he told the Norscan.

  Through the gouge in his black iron war helm, the warlord’s eye narrowed in anger. He leapt over the wreckage of the chariot and threw a thunderous blow at the dwarf king.

  Bagrik was taken off guard by the sudden attack and only just parried it. A punch swept in to his left temple and the dwarf blocked with his vambrace. Ignoring the pain seizing his forearm, he smashed his axe haft into the Norscan’s stomach. It was like striking iron. The black blade flashed in a blur of movement as the Norscan rained frenzied blows against Bagrik’s hard-pressed defence.

  Waiting for an opening, after a second flurry of attacks, Bagrik smashed the top of his axe into the Norscan’s armoured chin. The blow rocked him, and the heathen chieftain staggered only for the dwarf to shoulder barge him in the chest. Bagrik was about to end the move with an overhead strike when one of the warlord’s huscarls from those gathered around them threw himself forward. Bagrik reversed his blow, stepping aside with his good leg, and cutting the huscarl in half as he charged past screaming. His legs ran on for a few seconds, before slumping over next to his steaming torso.

  ‘Like I said at Broken Anvil Hill,’ snarled Bagrik to the Norscan warlord, who had since recovered. ‘Just you and me.’

  Knots of struggling warriors littered the field now, order and discipline breaking down into individual combats. Morek dodged his way through the scattered melee of isolated groups of fighters. Hacking foes as he went, the hearth guard in tow, the dwarf captain reached the thin line of bondsmen. Cutting through them quickly, the small throng found themselves at the rear of the Norscan horde. Morek saw they were close to the right flank, where the elven cavalry had split. One force, mainly made up of the dragon knights, encircled the prone form of Ithalred. Morek caught glimpses of the stricken prince through the legs of the elven steeds. The second, led by Lethralmir, continued the charge, cutting through the northmen ranks with horns blaring.

  Morek reasoned that if Ithalred was indeed ensnared by the shaman then the wretch must be close by. He headed for the dragon knights. It wasn’t long before the dwarf got his reward.

  Seemingly alone, scattered elf corpses littering the ground around him, Morek saw the shaman. Like summer haze, the Nors
can shifted in the dwarf’s eye-line. Morek blinked, twice, three times before he appeared to solidify. With his back to the Sea of Claws, the shaman gestured with needle-like fingers as he worked his sorcery.

  He was only fifty feet away.

  ‘Uzkul!’ yelled the dwarf, axe upraised.

  The shaman twisted to face the dwarf. His movements were clipped and rapid like a snake as he outstretched a hand with his palm facing out.

  Morek and the hearth guard had run half the distance when the shaman closed his palm into a fist and the Sea of Claws exploded.

  Erupting from the freezing depths was a fell creature of the deeps. A watery torrent announced the monster’s sudden emergence, raining down in sheets from its long serpentine body somehow held erect in the thrashing waves of the sea. Its keening cry chilled the air around it and turned the blood in Morek’s veins to ice water. Silver-blue scales shimmering wetly, the ice drake glared down at the pathetic dwarfs, its black orbs full of malign intelligence. Lowering its saurian snout, the monster opened its mouth, baring fangs. Its breath smelled like cold copper and rotting fish.

  ‘Valaya’s mercy,’ breathed Morek, rigid with terror, as he realised he was already dead.

  Another longbeard lost his head as a troll bit it off. Most of the clan warriors were already dead, so too were the Norscan bondsmen, as many eaten by the monsters as were slain by the dwarfs. Slowly, Haggar and the remaining longbeards were being forced back. One of the trolls reached for him, acidic drool dripping from its bottom lip that hissed as it struck the ground. Haggar hacked off its claw at the wrist. The creature squealed in agony, before the dwarf thane lunged forward and put his axe blade into its misshapen skull. The monster fell back, and was trampled by its ravenous kin.

  To his right, Haggar saw a wretched plume of bile and fluids erupt from a troll’s extended maw. Awash with the foul acid, a longbeard went down screaming. Another lost an arm as one of the monsters, its flesh already knitting together from the stomach wound the longbeard had delivered, ripped through his upraised shield and staved in his head.

  ‘For Ungor!’ Haggar cried, determined not to let his clan’s honour slip again. But it was an impossible task. For every troll they slew, another with its wounds regenerated, came back at them.

  ‘Hold the line in the name of the king!’ he yelled, hoping that Morek was faring better.

  Morek was dead. Bones smashed against the ice-hard earth, blood oozing from his armour where the monster of the deep had mauled him.

  Or so the dwarf had imagined his fate until he was thrown aside, the ice drake diving downwards like a spear. Chunks of rock and frozen debris erupted from the impact as the dwarf felt himself skidding on his armoured stomach across the ice-slick ground.

  Slightly dazed, Morek came to his senses and found he was staring into the stern face of the elf bodyguard Korhvale. The dwarf captain nodded reluctant thanks, inwardly chagrined at being saved by an elf. The king may have found some peace with the fey creatures from across the sea; Morek had not.

  Struggling to his feet, he saw that the hearth guard were up too, and charged the ice drake as it lurched upwards for another strike. Morek was running towards them, Korhvale in tow, when a blast of freezing air roared from the monster’s gaping maw. Three of the charging hearth guard were frozen solid, weapons raised in attack. Surging forward like silver lightning, the last of the dwarfs was snapped up in the creature’s jaws and devoured before he even had time to scream.

  Morek ground to a halt, watching the beast warily as it rose up like a scaled column and chugged the hearth guard’s body down its gullet.

  ‘We must kill that thing,’ he said to Korhvale, standing alongside him. From the corner of his eye, Morek saw that the shaman’s attention was back on the elven prince.

  ‘And that bastard is next,’ he added, pointing him out.

  The White Lion nodded, eyes flicking quickly from the shaman and back to the ice drake.

  ‘One of us must try to distract it–’ Morek began, but Korhvale was already running towards the beast. Upon seeing fresh prey the ice drake darted towards the elf, opening its hungry mouth for another morsel.

  The creature was inhumanly fast.

  Korhvale was faster. He sprang forward as the ice drake came for him, rolling beneath its jaws as they clamped thin air. Korhvale came out of the roll and onto his feet in a single fluid motion, unhitching his axe as he braced himself. The White Lion was mere feet from the creature, elf runes on his axe blade blazing white as he held it aloft.

  ‘Charoi!’ The dwarf heard him cry, as Korhvale brought his weapon down against the ice drake’s neck in two hands. Scales sheared away like parchment as the blow went through skin, flesh and bone to emerge on the other side embedded in the rock.

  The ice drake let out a surprised shriek before its severed head lolled over on its side, and the blood and viscera in its neck gushed out in a grisly flood.

  ‘Or you could just lop its head off,’ Morek muttered to himself, suddenly aware of a group of elves approaching.

  ‘The beast is dead,’ uttered Korhvale upon his return. ‘Thelion of Saphery and his sword masters,’ he added, gesturing to the new arrivals.

  The elf called Thelion bowed curtly, his robes and trappings indicating that he was a mage. His warriors were a different breed however, clad in long coats of silver mail, wearing pointed helms and carrying great swords that were nearly half as tall again as Morek. Each one hefted the huge blade as if it were a feather.

  ‘Sword masters indeed,’ Morek said to himself. Muttering an oath to Grimnir for the fallen hearth guard, frozen and devoured by the slain ice drake, the dwarf turned his steel-hard gaze upon the shaman. He’d be damned if the elf was going to kill him, too.

  A small band of huscarls, evidently seeing the shaman’s approaching assassins, and having just despatched a vanguard of spearmen, charged Morek and the elves. The sword masters swept forward unbidden and carved the northmen up in a web of flashing steel. It lasted only seconds, dismembered limbs and impaled bodies already growing cold against the earth.

  A cry ripped from Thelion’s mouth and they surged towards the unprotected shaman, who now gave them his undivided attention. Korhvale fell in behind his kinsmen, a few feet back, whilst Morek brought up the rear unable to keep pace with the long strides of the elves.

  Thin mouth curled into a snarl of displeasure, the shaman splayed his talon-like fingers towards the charging sword masters and a host of serpentine heads spat out on arcs of emerald fire. There was a gurgled cry as one of the sword masters was impaled, his impressive blade clattering to the ground beside his lifeless body. A second died with a flaming emerald band wrapped around his throat, armoured fingers clutching ineffectually at the sorcerous bindings. The last two sword masters were burned down like candles, their bodies engulfed in a green conflagration.

  ‘It has power,’ Thelion said to Korhvale and Morek, using Khazalid so the dwarf would understand him. ‘Stay behind me.’

  ‘A dwarf cowers behind no one, especially an elgi!’ Morek raged, ignoring the mage as he strode forward.

  An explosion of green fire knocked Morek from his feet, gromril armour smoking. Patting out the eldritch flames, the dwarf said, ‘What are you waiting for, mageling, work your magic.’

  At the shaman’s bidding the flaming serpents snapped at the survivors, but they recoiled upon striking a shimmering azure shield.

  Back on his feet, Morek saw that Thelion had stepped forward. Beads of sweat were dappling his forehead already as he forced the probing serpents back and flung a bolt of incandescent silver at his sorcerous opponent. The shaman caught and crushed it, the dying light of the spell exploding through the gaps in his fingers. He fashioned the writhing serpent forms into an emerald lash. Thelion cried out in agony as it wrapped around his outstretched wrist, bilious green smoke issuing from his seared flesh. Making a cutting motion with his free hand, an azure blade appeared and sliced through the binding lace, dissipating
it.

  ‘Go now,’ the elf snarled, through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t hold it for long.’

  Morek and Korhvale went around the mage, the dwarf flinging a throwing axe at the shaman’s skull only to see it deflected by a glowing green palm. He saw Korhvale dodge an incandescent dagger, before sweeping his axe at the foe. Slithering away with preternatural speed, the shaman avoided the blow. Morek waded in moments later, a downward strike from his axe hitting dirt as the shaman’s whickering body made a mockery of his skill.

  Elf and dwarf threw attack after attack at the snake-like shaman, who twisted and weaved and undulated away from every one. Slowly though, he backed away, Thelion taking a painful step forward with every foot the heroes bought him. Thrusting his gem-encrusted staff into the air, the elf mage called down thunder bolts from the heavens to smite his foe, but to no avail. Using his body like a lightning rod, the shaman captured the ferocious energy and instead of being destroyed by it, released it back at Thelion. Struck by the cerulean barrage, the mage was brought to his knees. The last thing the elf saw was the shaman’s eyes aflame with emerald fire… then there was only agony and darkness.

  Morek saw Thelion immolated in a blaze of green fire. Finishing the mage seemed to take something out of the shaman, though, as Korhvale at last landed a blow, cutting a deep gash in his arm. The shaman staggered, dark green blood flowing from the wound, and Morek stepped forward. Sweeping his axe in a punishing arc, he cut the shaman in half, all the way across his waist. The two disparate parts flopped to the ground, spilling bloody intestine.

  ‘Wasn’t so hard,’ said Morek once he’d got his breath back. The dwarf was about to congratulate himself when he realised that the shaman wasn’t dead. The Norscan’s hood had slipped off when the upper half of his body was severed. Beneath it was a serpent-like visage, utterly bald with scaled flesh, snake-slit eyes and fangs. The shaman laughed, forked tongue flicking back and forth from his lipless mouth, as his body shuddered. Morek and Korhvale backed away as the shaman convulsed and spasmed. Their eyes widened as something moved beneath his bloody robes. The thin, barbed tip of a tail emerged, growing steadily with each horrific moment. By the time they reacted, it was too late. The shaman lashed out with his new appendage, upending elf and dwarf.