First Altdorf, then Averheim, had become victims of the foulness seeping down from the north. The other cities of the Empire had fallen besides, but he had been at both Altdorf and Averheim, and had led the Companions in battle against the enemy alongside the Emperor Karl Franz himself, as well as the wild-haired Slayer King of the mountain folk, Ungrim Ironfist.
The thought of the latter only made the weight on his soul all the heavier. The Slayer King had died so that they might live, and escape the trap Averheim had become. While Jerrod knew little of dwarfs, he knew from the weeks they’d spent fighting beside one another that such a death had long been Ironfist’s desire. That made it no less sorrowful, and he felt a moment of pity for the remains of the once-mighty throng which had followed Ironfist out of the Worlds Edge Mountains and into defeat. Like the Bretonnians, they too were the last gasp of a shattered people. And like the Bretonnians, they had no way of knowing the fate of those they had left behind.
He turned slightly in his saddle, to glance down at the heavy form of Gotri Hammerson as the dwarf runesmith stomped alongside Jerrod’s horse. He was old, older perhaps than many a storied Bretonnian keep, Jerrod thought, and as hard as the stones of the mountains they now travelled through. He and the dwarf had not become friends – not quite – but they had fallen into a companionable routine. Their outlooks were not entirely dissimilar, for all that the dwarf mind was a thing utterly alien to Jerrod.
It was Hammerson who had seen them safely away from Averland, after the magics of Balthasar Gelt had plucked the battered remnants of their forces from the clutches of the Everchosen. Hammerson had led the Emperor and his motley assemblage of humans and dwarfs through the Grey Mountains by hidden dwarf roads. Indeed, it was only thanks to Hammerson that they had been able to proceed at all. Unguided, the army would have foundered, burdened as it was by the number of wounded.
Even with Hammerson’s aid, the going had been difficult. Mindless dead clustered in the high crags, their only purpose to kill the living. Pools of suppurating wild magic had given birth to monsters and daemons. Too, the mountains were home to hundreds of orc and goblin tribes. Even the hidden dwarf paths had not been entirely safe. More than once, the battered group of men and dwarfs had been forced to defend themselves against greenskins which swept howling out of the crags. There, only Zhufbarak guns and Gelt’s spellcraft had carried the day, a fact which proved no small frustration to Jerrod and his remaining knights.
While he respected Hammerson, his feelings for the wizard, Gelt, were mixed. The man, clad in filthy robes and a tarnished golden mask, made Jerrod’s skin crawl. He stank of hot metal, and there was something… otherworldly about him. Jerrod had felt similarly when in the presence of the Emperor, who had wielded lightning at the Battle of Bolgen.
Unfortunately, whatever power had infused the Emperor now seemed to be gone, ripped from him by the hands of the Everchosen himself. He was nothing but a man now, in a time when men were all but helpless.
Jerrod sighed. He had seen two great nations consumed in fire and blood, and he longed to do something, anything, to achieve some small measure of retribution, no matter how futile. Nonetheless, even with guns and sorcery, it was invariably a close thing. The greenskins had ever frenzied forth in great numbers, but now, as the world came undone, they seemed particularly driven to madness. It was as if some unseen power had caught hold of them and set their brute minds aflame.
But even battle-maddened greenskins had been as nothing compared to what had come after. Even as the column of refugees had reached the pine crags that marked the northern boundary of Athel Loren, the wind had carried the sound of berserk howls. They had been pursued all the way from Averheim by an army of the Blood God’s worshippers, and it was at the infamous Chasm of Echoes that they had been forced to make their stand. While Gelt and Hammerson’s dwarfs had held the pass, Jerrod and the Emperor had ridden hard, braving the forest’s dangers in an effort to make contact with Athel Loren’s defenders.
Jerrod looked up towards the head of the column, where the Emperor walked alongside his griffon, Deathclaw. The animal was limping, but even so, it looked as dangerous as ever. It was a rare man who could ride such a beast without fear. Rarer still was the man who actually felt some form of affection for his monstrous mount. That Deathclaw seemed to reciprocate this affection was merely proof of Karl Franz’s worthiness, and the rightness of Leoncoeur’s decision to bring aid to the embattled Empire.
Jerrod had fought alongside the man for months. While at times Karl Franz seemed aloof and otherworldly, Jerrod had come to admire him, foreign sovereign or not. The Emperor inspired the same sort of loyalty in his men as the resurrected and re-crowned Gilles le Breton had in Jerrod’s own countrymen. Especially his Reiksguard, the knights who acted as his personal bodyguard. Jerrod had got to know one of them quite well – Wendel Volker.
It was Volker who had brought the sad tidings of Middenheim’s fall to the Emperor at Averheim. Volker was young, but his hair was white and his face worn like that of a man twice his age. His armour was battered and scorched, and he moved at times like one who was trapped in a dream. He was, like many men in these sad times, broken. He had seen too much, and endured more pain than any man ought.
Volker was walking beside the Emperor, one hand on the hilt of his sword. He had not left Karl Franz’s side since arriving at Averheim’s gates, leading a tiny, exhausted band of riders – the only survivors of Middenheim. How Volker had got them out, he’d never said, and Jerrod hadn’t asked. They had arrived only days before Archaon’s forces, and had ridden their horses to death to reach the dubious safety of the city walls. As if he’d heard Jerrod’s thoughts, Volker slowed, turned and soon fell into step beside Jerrod’s horse.
‘Hail and well met,’ Jerrod said, leaning down. He extended his hand. Volker took it.
‘Never thought I’d see this place,’ Volker murmured, without preamble.
Jerrod looked around. ‘Nor did I.’ He shivered. ‘I wish there had been some other way.’
‘You and me both, manling,’ Hammerson grumbled. He looked up at Volker. ‘It’s no place for men nor dwarfs.’
‘Few places are these days,’ Volker said. He ran a hand through his frost-coloured hair. ‘And fewer by the day.’ He blinked and looked up at Jerrod. ‘I’m sorry, Jerrod, I spoke without thinking.’
Jerrod smiled sadly and sat back in his saddle. ‘We’ve all lost our homes, Wendel,’ he said. He swept an arm out. ‘We are all that remains of three mighty empires, my friends. The last gasp of a saner world. I would that it were not so, but if it must be, at least we die as the Lady wills, with courage and honour.’
‘I’m sure Sigmar is of a similar mind,’ Volker said, with a grim smile. He looked at Hammerson. ‘And Grungni as well, eh?’
‘I doubt a manling knows anything of the mind of a dwarf god,’ Hammerson said sourly. He sniffed. Then, ‘But aye… if death comes, let it come hot.’
‘No danger of it being otherwise, given our rescuers,’ Volker said. He pointed upwards, towards the sky, where the fiery shapes of phoenixes swooped and cut through the air. They were ridden by elves, Jerrod knew.
It had been by purest chance that he had found himself on the path to Ystin Asuryan, as their rescuers had called it. Fiery birds, white lions, and tall, proud elven warriors clad in shimmering armour had marched along its length, and gone to the aid of Hammerson and Gelt against the followers of Chaos. Now, the remains of that host escorted them deeper and deeper into the winding heart of Athel Loren.
All at once, Jerrod was reminded of where he was. Around them the trees seemed to press close, and strange shapes stalked through the gloom, watching them. This forest was no place for men. And there was no telling what awaited them within its depths.
Gotri Hammerson ignored the shadows and the trees and the whispers and concentrated on the path ahead, as Jerrod and Volker continued to speak.
Let the forest talk all it wanted. He didn’t have to listen. That was where the manlings always went wrong… they listened. They couldn’t help it. They were curious by nature, like beardlings, only they never grew out of it. Always poking and prodding and writing things down. And on pulped wood or animal skins at that, he thought. They trust their knowledge to things that rot… That tells you all you need to know.
Still, they weren’t all bad. He glanced at Volker, and at Jerrod, who sat slumped in his saddle. The Bretonnians were a hardy folk, and they knew the value of an oath. It was a shame that they had the stink of elves on them, but that was humans for you. Naive, the lot of them. You couldn’t trust an elf, everybody knew that. Common knowledge in Zhufbar, that was. Couldn’t trust elves, halflings or ogres. Not an honourable bone in any of that lot.
And you certainly couldn’t trust a forest. That much wood in one place was unnatural. It did odd things to the air, and the light. And this particular forest was a wellspring of grudges, stretching from the time of Grugni Goldfinder to the present day. Many a dwarf’s bones were lost beneath the green loam of the deep forest, their spirits trapped by the roots, never able to journey to the halls of their ancestors.
It was a bad place, full of bad things, like a pocket of old darkness in an abandoned mine. At least we’ve got the ancestor gods on our side, Hammerson thought. He felt a moment of shame, but pushed it aside. It wasn’t the manling’s fault, no matter what some among his dwindling throng might grumble. Still, there wasn’t a dwarf alive who wouldn’t be discomfited by the thought of one of their ancestor gods – and Grungni no less! – blessing a human so.
And there was no other explanation for it. Balthasar Gelt was blessed. How else to explain how runes flared to vigorous life in his presence? In the wizard’s vicinity, gromril armour became harder than ever before and weapons gained a killing edge that no whetstone could replicate. Hammerson sniffed the air.
He didn’t even have to look around to know that Gelt was near. The wizard glowed with an inner fire, like a freshly stoked forge. The air around him stank like smelted iron, and when he spoke, the runes that were Hammerson’s to shape and bestow shimmered with the light of Grungni. Hammerson could feel the human’s presence in his gut, and it bothered him to no end to admit that, even to himself.
Why had the gods gifted a manling with their power? And a wizard at that – a blasted elf-taught sorcerer, without an ounce of muscle on his lean frame and no proper axe to speak of. And he rides a horse. With feathers, Hammerson thought sourly. Couldn’t trust a horse, especially one that could fly. A horse was just an elf with hooves.
And speaking of elves, and their lack of trustworthiness… Hammerson stumped ahead, one hand on the head of the hammer stuffed through his belt, to join Caradryan at the head of the column. The elf looked as tired as Jerrod, for all that he sat erect on his horse. His overgrown chicken was somewhere above them, turning the night sky as bright as day. Only an elf would ride a bird that burst into flame if you gave it a hard look. Caradryan, like Gelt, smelt of magic. He stank of wildfire and burning stones. It was a familiar odour to Hammerson.
‘So you’ve got it then, have you?’ he said, without preamble. He’d heard the Phoenix Guard weren’t allowed to talk, so he was anticipating a short conversation. Or maybe just a nod, or grunt of acknowledgement. ‘Ungrim’s fire?’
Caradryan blinked and looked down. ‘What?’ he said, and his voice crackled like a rising flame. His eyes shone strangely, but Hammerson wasn’t afraid to meet them. He’d got used to eyes like that, on the march from Zhufbar to Averheim. Ungrim had been like a flame caged in metal, sparking and snarling, aching to unleash its power.
‘I thought you lot couldn’t talk,’ he said.
‘We can speak. We simply did not. Asuryan commanded it,’ Caradryan said. The elf’s face twisted, and what might have been sadness filled his eyes.
‘Nice of him to let you talk now,’ Hammerson grunted.
‘Asuryan is dead. And silence is no longer an indulgence we can afford,’ Caradryan said.
‘Just like an elf. Wouldn’t catch a dwarf breaking a vow just because he misplaced his god,’ Hammerson said, bluntly.
Caradryan’s expression became mask-like. ‘What do you want, dwarf?’
Hammerson looked up at him. ‘Got a bit of godfire in you, elf. Don’t deny it. Ungrim Ironfist had it, before he fulfilled his oath. I can feel it from here. Worse than that bird of yours. I’m surprised that horse hasn’t died of heatstroke.’ Hammerson looked away. ‘Godfire or no, if you’re leading us into a trap, I’ll crack your skull.’ He patted his hammer affectionately.
‘Why would I rescue you, only to lead you into a trap?’ Caradryan murmured. Hammerson frowned. He didn’t like being reminded of that. He was no prideful beardling, and he knew that the presence of the elves had been instrumental in turning back the tide of blood-worshippers who had caught up with the dwarfs and their mannish allies in the pine crags. But it was impolite to mention it, and even an elf ought to know better.
‘Who knows why elves do anything? You’re all crooked in the skull,’ Hammerson said, twirling his finger about alongside his head. ‘And you didn’t rescue us. Maybe you helped the manlings, but the Zhufbarak need no aid from your sort.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
‘We didn’t have to offer you our help, you know,’ Caradryan said, frowning.
‘Elves never offer help freely. There’s always a price.’
‘And your people would know all about that, eh, dwarf?’ Caradryan said.
Hammerson looked up at him, and made to retort. But before he could, someone said, ‘There is a price, and it is obvious, Master Hammerson. For we have all asked it, and paid it, in these past few months.’
Hammerson glanced over his shoulder, and saw the human Emperor striding along beside his griffon. Karl Franz had one hand on the beast’s neck, and its striped tail lashed in pleasure as he scratched beneath its feathers. ‘We fight for each other. That is the price and the paying of it, in these times. To fight alongside one another, and for one another, in defence of all that we knew and loved.’
Hammerson grimaced and turned back to the trail ahead. ‘Aye,’ he grunted. ‘Doesn’t mean we have to like it, though.’
The Emperor laughed. ‘No, nor would I ask it of you. Irritable dwarfs fight better than content ones, I have learned.’
Hammerson opened his mouth, ready to deny it. Then he snorted, shook his head and looked up at Caradryan. ‘And what about elves, then?’ he asked.
‘We fight better than dwarfs, whatever their disposition,’ Caradryan said. The elf turned in his saddle and looked at the Emperor. ‘We are drawing near. When we arrive, you will accompany me into the Eternal Glade alone.’
‘Not if I have anything to say about it,’ Hammerson growled.
‘You do not.’ Caradryan didn’t look at him. He spoke disdainfully, as if Hammerson were no more important than a pebble lodged in his horse’s hoof. Then, that was elves for you. They thought the world danced to their tune. Even now, with everything that had happened, elves were still elves. But dwarfs were still dwarfs.
Hammerson stumped around in front of Caradryan’s horse and extended a hand. As the horse drew close, the dwarf reached out and gave the animal a hard flick on the snout with one thick finger. The horse reared and snorted. Caradryan cursed and fought to control his steed. The whole column crashed to a halt behind him. White lions roared in consternation as horses whinnied and men shouted questions. Elves pelted forwards, bleeding out of the forest like ghosts. Hammerson ignored them, and the arrows that were soon pointed at him.
The runesmith crossed his brawny arms and smiled. ‘Seems like I do, lad. Now, before we go a step further, I think we ought to decide who’s going where, and who’s invited to what.’
‘Move aside, dwarf,’ Caradryan said. The air grew hazy
around his head and shoulders, and Hammerson could see the faint outline of flames. Hammerson shook his head.
‘No.’ Behind Caradryan, he could see the Emperor watching the confrontation, and Gelt as well. The latter looked as if he intended to intervene, but the Emperor stopped him with a gesture. Hammerson felt his smile widen. Aye, leave it to the dwarfs, manling, he thought.
‘Move aside, or be moved,’ Caradryan growled. He slid from the saddle and approached Hammerson. Flames crawled across his armour and his flesh was growing translucent, his every pore shining with reddish light. Hammerson held his ground, though every instinct he had was screaming for him to run. The elf wasn’t really an elf any more, even as Gelt wasn’t human. There was a power there he didn’t understand, and didn’t want to. But that power was as nothing compared to the weight of the responsibility on Hammerson’s shoulders.
‘No. Whatever happens, from here on out, my people will be heard and will hear all that is said. We’ve earned that right, in blood and iron.’
‘You’ve earned nothing, dwarf,’ Caradryan said, in a voice like the hiss of flame across stone. ‘That you still live, after being allowed so far into the last, most sacred place of my people, should be enough, even for your greedy kind.’
‘If you think that, then you really don’t know much about us. Whatever is said, it likely concerns us, and I would hear it.’ The Zhufbarak, his warriors, his kin, were all that remained of Zhufbar. As far as he knew, they might be all that remained of the dwarf race. He had a responsibility to them, to see that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. To see that their enemies, at least, remembered them. To see that, whatever else happened, they had a say in how they met their end.
The End Times | The Lord of the End Times Page 13