“No way back then,” muttered one of the knights behind Grunwald darkly.
“We shall make it through,” said Annaliese, her voice calm and strong. “Sigmar is with us.”
The last detonations died away, rocks settled and they were surrounded once more by an oppressive silence. Dust continued to fall for several minutes, until that too ceased. Grunwald took off his broad hat, and brushed the stone dust from its rim.
They began to march once more, through twisting passageways and climbing up and down steps hewn from the rock.
“Annaliese,” said Eldanair, making Grunwald jump with shock at the voice at his ear. He had heard the elf speak only a handful of times, and he was not used to the strangely alien, singsong voice of the warrior. Annaliese turned towards the elf, who was as tense as a taut bowstring. The elf gestured sharply to his ear.
“Thorrik,” said Annaliese, understanding Eldanair instantly. “Stop the column. Can you hear anything?”
The column drew to a halt, and Karl barked sharply at his knights to silence the sound of their clanking armour.
At first they could hear nothing. But then, very faintly they too could hear what it was that had alerted Eldanair.
Very distant, very faint, there was the sound of drumming. A dull roar echoed from afar, and the sound of metal striking metal, in time with the drumming—the sound of blades being rhythmically crashed against metal shield-rims.
Abrek snarled something in the dwarfen tongue, and seemed ready to begin running straight towards the sound. Thorrik nodded his head but said something in an authoritative tone, holding the slayer at bay.
“The greenskins are near,” said Thorrik, his voice filled with anger, but perhaps also a hint of eagerness, Grunwald thought. “Drawn to the sound of the detonations.”
Several of the knights swore, and Karl barked once more, silencing them.
“If they come, then we fight them,” said the preceptor.
“Oh, they come,” said Thorrik, his voice menacing and full of growing enthusiasm. “And we will face them.”
“Our main aim is to get out of these mines—to get to the Empire,” said Grunwald, his voice containing a warning. “We fight if we must—but we do not seek battle here.”
Abrek began speaking, harshly and quickly, his voice rising in anger, punching the air with his pickaxe to make his point. Though Grunwald could not see Thorrik’s face, hidden as it was in darkness, he could feel the tension in the dwarf, the conflicting desires. At last he said a single word in his language. When the slayer raised his voice to argue, Thorrik barked this one word again, more forcefully.
“Aye,” said the ironbreaker, turning towards Grunwald. “It is as you say, manling.”
The column began moving once more. In the distance, the sound of the greenskins grew louder.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
They travelled through the stygian darkness for what seemed like days in the claustrophobic tunnels, trusting that the dwarf slayer Abrek knew where he was leading them. It was not a clear, direct route they took, but rather it meandered left and right, up and down, and Grunwald lost count of the number of intersections and cross-passages they passed.
They halted several times to rest and eat, chewing the dried, salty meat that Thorrik had acquired from Kadrin Keep. They ate in silence and in darkness. Strange sounds seemed to come at them from all angles, the sounds of metal on stone, odd scraping sounds, dull roars and the sound of falling rocks.
The drumming had faded, and Grunwald hoped that they had managed to bypass the greenskins moving somewhere within the abandoned mines, though in truth he found that being unable to hear the passage of the hateful creatures was even more worrying. The humans jumped and started at the odd reverberations that echoed up to them from the depths of lower passages, the scuttling sounds of creatures scratching just beyond the lantern-light, and at the strange winds that seeped from cracks and fissures in the passage walls.
Hot air was exhaled from the deep, blasts of steaming, wet breath that wafted up from below. Small rocks tumbled down from the darkness above them as they passed through vast caverns carved, Thorrik said, thousands of years earlier by the writhing of monstrous beasts of the underworld that the ancient ancestor gods had wrestled. Giant stalagmite columns rose from the uneven ground, climbing high into the darkness, glistening with moisture and gleaming with a cold light of their own.
Clusters of glowing pinpricks of light speckled overhead, numbered in their tens of thousands, an imitation of the stars that pierced the heavens at night.
In some places there were oddly glowing patches of foul-smelling fungus. Swearing, Thorrik and Abrek angrily kicked and stamped the bloated, palid growths into nothingness and great clouds of spores rose from them as they deflated. The humans and the elf covered their mouths and noses so as not to breathe in any of the foetid spores.
There was much evidence of mining activity in the passages and corridors, and in many places the roof and ceiling was supported with great iron beams. The rock faces were rough and broken, and the passages twisting and convoluted as they followed seams of precious metals.
There was no warning when the first attack came. They were passing through an open area that might have once been a dwarf encampment, and there were numerous entrances and side-passages that opened into the room. An arrow streaked out of the darkness and took one of the knights, who had raised his visor against the heat, squarely in the face. An instant later there was a braying sound of a horn, seeming to come at them from all sides. Other arrows whistled in at the column, striking the shields that the knights raised defensively, and clattering off the stone floor. More distant horns and the sound of heavy feet pounding on stone began echoing all around them.
And then the enemy was upon them, bursting from side corridors, roaring and beating their weapons against their shields. Some carried crude torches of dripping, stinking pitch, and the flames lit up their brutish, savage faces starkly. There was no time for thought as frantic combat erupted on all sides. Grunwald fired his pistol into the face of a hulking orc that launched itself at him with a pair of massive cleavers and fire burst from the barrel of the gun. The orc fell to the ground, but others leapt over the corpse, their gaping maws filled with thick tusks, roaring as they set upon the column.
Karl yelled orders, and the Knights of the Blazing Sun met the charging enemies with shield and sword. They stepped forward, their broad-bladed swords cutting and stabbing frantically. Steel sang through the air as blades sliced into thick-muscled green bodies, cutting through limbs and hacking into necks as thick as a man’s body. The savagery and suddenness of the attack was staggering. Blood began to flow freely, and the sound of roars and screams echoed deafeningly over the din of clashing swords and shields.
A monstrous figure stalked out of the darkness towards Grunwald, a massive orc warrior, encased head to toe in crude, heavy armour. Its helmet was all-encompassing, fashioned to house its massive, protruding jaw, and curving tusks emerged from square, steel mandibles. It bore a jagged, steel shield and swung a heavy, thick bladed cleaver at Grunwald as it stepped forwards.
The witch hunter swayed back and the lethal blow whistled past his face. Drawing his second pistol, he fired it at close range into the chest of the hulking greenskin, the sound painful to the ear. The lead shot smashed though the steel plates of the beast and deep into its body, knocking it back a pace. Stepping forward quickly, Grunwald smashed his mace into the head of the creature. With a sickening crunch of metal and bone, the beast took the blow, its heavy head knocked to the side, but it recovered quickly, slamming its shield into Grunwald’s face, making him stumble backwards, his head ringing.
A knight plunged his sword deep into the beast’s side and it roared, backhanding the knight to the ground before turning towards Grunwald. The witch hunter smashed his mace into the orc’s cheek, crushing metal and fracturing bone.
Ignoring the injuries that would have dropped any man, the armoured orc dro
ve its knee up into Grunwald’s stomach, and he doubled over, the air forced from his lungs. The orc followed up the attack with a brutal elbow that struck him on the side of the head, and the next thing he knew he was flat out on his back, his vision hazy, and with the creature looming over him.
A white-fletched arrow thudded into its eye socket and it roared. Then a golden hammer smashed into its head, knocking the creature to its knees. A second hammer blow crushed its skull and it sank finally to the ground, dark blood welling from the mortal wound.
White dots of light shimmered before Grunwald’s eyes, but he pushed himself to his feet, his head ringing.
“We have to move!” shouted Karl. There was just too many of the enemy attacking from too many sides for the knights to be able to mount an effective defence.
“Back!” roared Thorrik from the head of the column. “Back to the tunnel!”
Step by painful step, the column retreated from where it had come, swords flashing and blood spraying. Wounded knights gritting their teeth against the pain were half-carried half-dragged back by their comrades, while other knights and the pair of dwarfs formed a protective arc around them.
Eldanair launched arrows through gaps between the tight packed warriors, each fired with deadly accuracy. Karl fought like a man possessed, his broadsword carving a bloody swathe through the orcs launching themselves at him. He turned their heavy blows with his battered shield, and sent lightning ripostes that ripped throats open and severed vital arteries. Grunwald, his head buzzing, repacked his pistols with shot and powder, and they boomed loudly in the enclosed space as the knights backed into the corridor.
With only one route of attack coming against them now, the numbers of the orcs meant nothing, and Thorrik and Abrek stood side by side in the narrow entranceway cutting down every enemy that surged against them.
Abrek was bleeding from dozens of cuts, and he snarled like a beast as he fought. Blood was splattered all over his face, chest and arms, giving him a daemonic appearance, and he fought with the wild frenzy of a berserker. The slayer gave no thought to defence, merely intent on attack. His pickaxe was covered in gore, and he swung it murderously, slamming its spikes through skulls and puncturing chests with brutal rage.
Thorrik was as resilient as the mountainside itself, and though dozens of blows rained down on him, few made more than a scratch on his powerful gromril armour. With every blow that struck against him he seemed to grow more powerful, his axe-blows falling with greater strength and speed. Nothing seemed able to breach his defence, and the orcs began to fall back, demoralised and frustrated.
The greenskins pulled back, and a flight of arrows whistled through the air towards the pair of dwarfs. Though they clattered off Thorrik’s armour and shield, they sank deep into Abrek’s muscled flesh, and he snarled against the pain, drool and blood dripping down over his beard. Two arrows protruded from his chest, one from his thigh and another from his shoulder. Another arrow sliced into the bunched muscles joining his shoulder and his neck, passing cleanly through and out the other side. Uncaring of his wounds, he seemed ready to throw himself back into the fray, but a sharp word from Thorrik held him back.
Drums and howls from the greenskins seemed to announce the arrival of some new terror, and there was a blood-curdling roar that erupted from the darkness. Abrek’s gaze snapped up, his eyes mad and eager, and Thorrik spoke to him again, quickly and loudly.
The slayer seemed to ignore him, and only a heavy hand on his shoulder restrained him from hurling himself back into the abandoned arena of battle. He turned then and spoke quickly and forcefully, and Grunwald saw Thorrik’s armoured head nod in response. Eldanair sent shafts streaking into the room, and there were muffled roars as they struck home. The bellow of something far larger than an orc reverberated once more, and a monstrous, hulking shape loped into the firelight.
Standing almost eleven feet in height, the creature was hunched and long limbed, its gangly, powerful arms hanging almost to the ground. Its head was large and its features exaggerated, a large bulbous nose sprouting from beneath a pair of malicious yellow eyes. Big flaps of skin hung to either side of its face, overgrown ears studded with crude bone decorations, and its mouth was a wide slash with thick, slab-like teeth.
It was naked but for a loincloth of matted fur, and its flesh was the colour of foul water. In each taloned hand it carried a long bone ending in a bulbous lump, and as it saw the dwarfs standing in the passage entrance it roared once again, thick ropes of spittle splattering from its gaping maw. It broke into a loping run, and Abrek said some final words to Thorrik, before the ironbreaker slapped the slayer on one meaty, bloody shoulder and turned away.
“Come! We must be quick!” shouted the heavily armoured dwarf as Abrek screamed incoherently and threw himself towards the troll closing towards him.
His pickaxe was raised high over his head as he ran to his death.
Quickly Thorrik led them down a series of twisting corridors and side-passages, and Grunwald pushed past the knights to his side.
“He will surely die,” said the witch hunter.
“Aye, if Grimnir favours him,” replied Thorrik curtly.
“You know the way out?” he asked.
“Aye,” replied Thorrik, though he ventured nothing more. The witch hunter dropped back to Annaliese’s side. It seemed the elf had fallen back as a rear guard, for he was nowhere to be seen.
In the distance they heard the roar of the troll, though whether they were bellows of pain or victory was impossible to discern.
“May you find peace at last, Abrek,” intoned Thorrik.
For another day and a half the column wound through the endless twisting corridors. They encountered few enemies, though the sounds of them were all around. Thorrik led them relentlessly, his stamina seeming boundless. Eight of the knights had been killed in the battle against the orcs, and another had died on the flight through the darkness, slipping and falling hundreds of feet from a sheer precipice. Karl was angry and sullen, and he travelled in silence, nursing his own brooding thoughts.
They should be nearing the exit of the accursed mines, Thorrik had said. Two hours, perhaps three, he estimated. How the dwarf navigated through the maze he didn’t know, but he was thankful he was with them still.
Thorrik drew the column to halt with a raised hand, and after a few minutes of silence all could make out the dim flickering of torchlight and hear the scuffling of many feet. The light came from the passageway ahead, and Grunwald thought back, trying to picture how far back the last intersection had been—over an hour, he thought.
“We must go around,” hissed Grunwald.
“This is the only way,” replied Thorrik.
“Then we go through them,” said Karl, having made his way to the front of the column.
The ironbreaker nodded, and Karl ordered his men to be ready. Lanterns were dimmed, and Thorrik led them forward to a dogleg turn in the passageway. There they waited in darkness, hearing the stamp of feet and the brutal laughter of the enemy drawing ever nearer.
In the dim, flickering light of the nearing torches, Grunwald saw Annaliese leaning against the cold stone wall. A multi-legged insect as long as man’s forearm crawled down off the wall and onto her shoulder but she managed to catch her scream before anyone heard her. Hundreds of barbed legs worked in unison, moving like a series of rolling waves, and the creature crawled down over torso, over her left leg and onto the ground. Breathing out slowly, she regained her composure.
As the scuffing of approaching feet seemed to be almost on top of them, Thorrik and Karl stepped out around the corner, sword and axe cutting down the lead greenskins whose eyes opened wide in surprise as they died.
Grunwald was a step behind them. “Sigmar smite you!” he shouted as he gunned down a pair of the enemy with his booming pistols. They were goblins, diminutive and easily overcome, but the witch hunter could see the larger, more menacing forms of orcs behind them.
The Knights of the Bl
azing Sun surged forwards to support their preceptor, and they smashed into the press of greenskins like a battering ram, crushing limbs and trampling over the fallen. Thorrik and Karl led the push, hacking at the frantic goblins, severing limbs and splitting skulls.
There came a strange tingling sensation that Grunwald recognised well, accompanied by a repulsive metallic sensation on the tongue. Even as he heard the ghoulish chanting, the hairs on his arms pricked up, and he roared a warning.
“Sorcery!” he shouted, as the first incantation was completed. There was a sharp sucking sound, as all the air in the crowded corridor was suddenly removed, as if by the inhalation of some infernal beast. Then it was exhaled sharply, and a force of extreme power surged down the passageway. Goblins were crushed, their bodies hurled aside and it struck the knights. Ornate breastplates and shields were crumpled by the ghostly green energy, and Grunwald felt something like a rock-hard fist slam him into the wall.
Knights fell, their helmets bent out of shape by the nigh-on invisible, pummelling blows, and he saw Thorrik stagger back. Whooping and cackling madly, the goblins redoubled their attack, and pushed forwards against the knights, uncaring that they stamped upon their own fallen comrades.
Orcs, big brutes in thick iron armour and wielding heavy cleavers, pushed through the press to lend their weight to the attack, and even Thorrik was pushed back by this sudden surge, his feet sliding through the thick layer of rock-dust upon the floor.
The knight before the witch hunter fell as a cleaver slammed down into his head, hacking though metal and bone. Hefting his mace in both hands, Grunwald smashed the weapon onto the orc’s arm, shattering it, and stepped in to deliver a return blow that crushed the orc’s face.
It fell, but the greenskins pushed forward relentlessly, and another knight was cut down by a brutal hacking blow that cut his arm off at the shoulder. Malicious goblins jabbed at the fatally wounded knight with spears, and he fell amongst them. They cackled gleefully as they ripped his helmet free and clawed his eyes from his sockets. The cries of the knight were sickening, and still the greenskins pushed them back.
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