All eyes turned to Magnus.
“You’re asking more than you know,” he said. “That place is built on solid stone. There’s not a patch of honest earth in this whole valley. It’s all damned granite. But if a weak point could be found, then maybe we could do something. I don’t have answers for you now, but I can study the possibilities with my men.”
Scharnhorst looked at him slightly less coldly than usual. Though he would be the last to admit it, the general was no doubt aware that his judgement over the placing of the great cannons had been faulty. Magnus’ stock had not exactly risen, but that of his main rival had fallen, leaving them more or less where they had been at the beginning of all this.
“Very well,” said Scharnhorst, curtly. “We’ll adjourn to let the engineers do some work. We’ll convene again at dawn. Whatever answers we have then, we’ll need to make a decision. I’ll not waste my men away on this Sigmar-bereft plain while the margravine mocks us from the comfort of her perfumed boudoir.”
He turned on his heel, and stalked back to his tent. Slowly, and without speaking, the commanders rose and returned to their companies. For once, Kossof had little to say. He seemed to have been taken aback by the slaughter of his followers. The flagellants had been the slowest to pull back, and had suffered terrible losses. The crack of the whip had been savage in penitence since.
As Magnus walked back to the gunnery companies, Hildebrandt came alongside him. His hands were black from working on the guns.
“What did Scharnhorst have to say?” asked the big man, bristling with curiosity.
Magnus shrugged.
“Not much,” he said. “The man has no ideas. Those Morgramgar guns have surprised everyone. Including me. They’re monsters.”
Hildebrandt looked like he was angling for something. “And have you come up with anything yourself?” Magnus shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “I played for time. There are some tricks I can remember from the old days. We might be able to do something with the Helstorms. Or a tunnel. I need to think about it.”
Hildebrandt lost his patience.
“You know what I mean, Magnus,” he said. “The Blutschreiben. You can’t keep it hidden any longer. It was designed for a situation like this.”
Magnus looked at Tobias in frank amazement.
“I told you it wasn’t to be used,” he said. “Do you know nothing of me at all? I haven’t kept it hidden out of spite. It doesn’t work! Let that be an end to it!”
Hildebrandt let out a frustrated breath.
“Then why have you still kept the components, stashed away in those crates of yours? It could be reconstructed in a day. With the barrels of the guns we have left, we have something that would make those great cannons look like ladies’ pistols.”
Magnus turned on Hildebrandt, his gaze low and threatening.
“Enough,” he said, his voice flat. “It will not be used. I won’t debate with you. We’ll have to find some other way to solve this puzzle.”
Magnus didn’t wait for a reply, and stalked off into the darkness. After letting a long weary sigh escape his lips, Hildebrandt did likewise. His huge shoulders were slumped in resignation.
Only after they were gone did two more figures creep from the shadows.
“Sounds interesting, wouldn’t you say?” said Messina coolly.
Herschel gave him a warning look. “I think we’ve done enough,” he said, his voice full of worry. “We’re just making things worse.” Messina glared at him.
“You’re in this already, Lukas,” he said, his voice harsh. “Come with me. I’ve an idea what they’re talking about.”
The Tilean strode confidently off towards the baggage train. Only later, and reluctantly, did Herschel follow him, looking over his shoulder as he went.
When Magnus returned to his place in the camp, a fire had already been lit. Sitting next to it was Thorgad. He was smoking again, and rings of vapour were floating gently into the night air.
“Where’ve you been?” growled Magnus. The dwarf had been missing for some time. His help would have been invaluable when reconstructing the damaged artillery pieces.
“You haven’t done well, Ironblood,” said Thorgad bluntly. “I’ve not seen a campaign run this badly since my youth. And that was many lives of men ago.”
Magnus scowled. He was in no mood to indulge the dwarf’s insufferable arrogance. Despite Thorgad’s eagerness to join the company, he had done little enough to justify his place. He was becoming a liability, just like that snake Messina and his lapdog.
“Watch your tongue,” Magnus said sullenly. “This is not a good time.”
Thorgad snorted. It might have been a laugh. Or perhaps just an expression of contempt.
“There hasn’t been a good time since we left Hergig,” he said, his eyes twinkling with malice. He hefted his axe lightly in his left hand. In the firelight, the keen edge sparkled. “This is Glamrist. As old as that citadel over there. I brought her with me to cleave heads. She’s thirsty, but there’s no blood to drink. I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered.”
Magnus knew he was being goaded. He was almost too tired to care.
“Then go back,” he muttered. “You seem to know your way around here.”
“Maybe I will,” Thorgad said. “But that would be a shame. Because then you’d never find your way into Morgramgar. Which is what I’m here to show you.”
For a moment, Magnus felt his heart leap. So the dwarf knew the way in. But then scepticism rushed back in. If this was some kind of sick joke, then the stunted bastard would feel the force of his bunched fist, and damn the consequences.
“All right,” he said, warily. “You’ve got my attention. Now I suppose you’re going to tell me the solution’s obvious, and only a thick-headed umgi could have missed it.”
Thorgad placed Glamrist down beside him, and beckoned Magnus to come closer.
“You remember that I told you Morgramgar was old,” he said. “I doubt the humans in there have any idea how old. These mountains have seen many inhabitants come and go, and few remember them all. There are strange places under the earth here. Rock halls, glittering with amethyst. Mighty caves worn by the ever-grinding of unseen rivers. All of them overlooked by your folk. You’ve never been much interested in what’s beneath your noses, always chasing after the next flashy thing on the surface. Just like the elgi, curse them.”
Magnus had to work to conceal his impatience. Like most dwarfs, once Thorgad got going with a story he was hard to rein in.
“The point of this, as you’ll have grasped if you had any wit about you, is that if you can’t get into a place by going over ground, then you’ll have to consider going under it. It’s that simple.”
Magnus felt his earlier excitement ebb. The dwarf was proposing nothing he didn’t know about. But delving into the solid rock around Morgramgar would take a legion of men, and equipment they didn’t have. He felt sarcastic and disappointed.
“So what do you suggest?” he said. “Start digging from here? We should emerge under the citadel in, say, a few months. Perfect. I can already see the look on Scharnhorst’s face when I tell him this.”
Thorgad didn’t reply for a few moments. He looked like he was weighing up whether it was worth going on. His face was openly scornful.
“There are times when I can’t guess what other men see in you, Ironblood,” he said at last, his voice dripping with irritation. “Your men have made you look a fool, and you’re no closer to finding a way to break the citadel open. If I were you, I’d listen to good advice. I’d say you need as much of it as you can get.”
Magnus felt his temper bubble up within him. Days of setbacks and humiliation had taken their toll. He was near the end of his strength. He could see himself reaching out to knock the smug stunted one from his complacent perch. He hadn’t been in a fight since Hergig. Perhaps it would do him some good.
Thorgad must have noticed the murderous look in his eyes. Maybe for the first time in
his life, he backed down. Clearly, there were more important things at stake than pride. And, for a dwarf, that said a lot.
“Enough of this,” Thorgad said, shaking his head. “While we bicker here, time is being wasted.”
He leaned forward, his face now deadly serious.
“You took me on this campaign with nothing but my word,” Thorgad said. “Never let it be said that a dwarf doesn’t know how to repay his debts. Come with me. I’ll show you a way to the heart of the citadel.”
Magnus was about to pull back, but something in the dwarf’s eyes held his attention. Thorgad was in deadly earnest.
“How do you know this?” said Magnus warily.
“You don’t need to know,” replied Thorgad. “But you’re in need of something. I’ll take up less than an hour of your time. Can you afford to pass the chance by?”
Magnus thought for a few moments. His body ached. His mind was sluggish with fatigue. A large part of him wanted nothing more than to roll himself up in a blanket and fall into a deep sleep. Thorgad could have been talking rubbish. But, once again, the dwarf’s eyes held him. They were deep, set under protruding eyebrows, and caught the glint from the firelight. Thorgad’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Very well,” said Magnus, half-cursing himself. “Show me what you’re talking about. But it had better be worth seeing.”
Thorgad nodded, and got up laboriously.
“You’ll need to come with me now. There’s some walking to do. Take a weapon.”
The two of them walked across the camp swiftly. Around them, men were settling down for the night as best they could. It was still bitterly cold, and the harsh terrain offered no respite from the chill. The bonfires burned all across the plain. Above them, in the distance, the unearthly illumination from Morgramgar stained the crisp night air. The towers were black against the black of the night, punctuated only by the shining windows. At the very summit of the central tower, the glowing lime-green glass leered out across the plain like a collection of deathly eyes.
“You’re not taking us anywhere close to that, are you?” said Magnus. He was no coward, but the citadel had an unclean, unnatural aspect. Under his feet, he could still detect the constant hum of something working.
Thorgad smiled grimly.
“Close,” he said. “But not so close that we’ll be seen. You asked me where I’d been. Scouting. I need to show you what I’ve found.”
They crept towards the edge of the camp. When they reached the perimeter, the watch challenged them. Ironblood’s face was recognised, as was the dwarf’s. They were waved through, though they were watched long after they had passed from the glow of the massed fires and into the dark of the night.
It took Magnus’ eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness around them. The stars were out, but the sickle moon threw little light across the barren landscape.
Thorgad went surely and swiftly, but Magnus found himself tripping over every rock on his path.
“Slow down!” he hissed, as the dwarf threatened to leave him far behind.
Thorgad waited for him to catch up, drumming his fingers against Glamrist with impatience.
“How long do you want to be out here?” he said, irritably. “You’ve longer legs than me. Use them!”
They carried on walking, Thorgad leading, Ironblood traipsing along behind. From the camp edge, they struck out east towards the nearest valley wall. When they reached it, they turned left and followed the sheer rising cliff for some distance. Morgramgar was ahead of them and to their left, its lights shimmering in the deep dark of the cliff base. They were edging closer, creeping along the extreme right hand of the valley floor. In the dark, the going was slow, but soon the far end of the valley was nearing, and the citadel loomed massively to their left.
“Won’t they have watchers on the walls?” said Magnus, looking up in fear. The fortress ramparts were altogether too close.
“They’ll struggle to see anything down here,” said Thorgad, looking unconcerned. “We’re just two black specks against the black rock. They’d have to have the eyes of a daemon to see us.”
Magnus found himself wishing Thorgad hadn’t used that word. There was something strangely daemonic about Morgramgar. He looked over his shoulder. In the distance, the lights of the camp twinkled. With any luck, any watchers in the citadel would have trained their eyes on that.
“Where are you taking me?” he whispered, feeling altogether too exposed. The unnatural throbbing was stronger the nearer they came to Morgramgar. The mountains themselves seemed to be alive with a faint, repetitive movement.
“We’re almost there,” said Thorgad, curtly. “Stop asking questions, and hurry up.”
They crawled on, heads low, hugging the shadows of the steep rise to their right. The further they went, the closer they came to the mighty cliffs at the very end of the gorge. The spires of Morgramgar were now visible in some detail, their edges sharp against the starlit sky. The citadel gave off an aura of palpable dread. Magnus found his eyes repeatedly drawn to it. He was both repelled and strangely attracted to the cluster of green windows at the summit. In his weariness, it was easy to imagine that the structure was some massive, primordial beast, hunched up against the mountain and staring balefully out at the valley beyond.
Magnus blinked, trying to retain his concentration. He was losing his grip.
Finally, thankfully, Thorgad halted. They were several hundred yards from the right-hand flank of the citadel, wreathed in darkness and hard under the lee of the valley wall.
“Here it is,” said Thorgad.
He was pointing to a deep cleft in the stone to their right. It was hidden on either side by massive outcrops of granite. Perhaps only a dwarf would have noticed it. To the casual eye, it looked just like a thin shadow against the endless screen of stone. But, as he came closer, Magnus could see that the cleft headed swiftly downwards. Just beyond the lip of the entrance, the space rapidly expanded.
Thorgad crept up to the narrow chasm, and stepped inside. There was a spark, and the dwarf held a small lantern above his head.
“You’ll need this,” he said, beckoning to Magnus.
Ironblood followed Thorgad into the opening, squeezing through the tight gap and grazing his shoulders against the rough edges. The light of Thorgad’s lantern bounced and reflected off a dazzling wall of smooth, dark chinks. The chamber was little higher than a man, and not much wider either, but it ran off into the distance ahead. As far as Magnus could make out, it went steeply down, before veering suddenly left. Beyond that, Thorgad’s light didn’t penetrate.
“I followed the fissure for some distance,” said Thorgad. “It runs deep into the mountain root. Further along, there is a vaulted cave. You could house a dozen men there in comfort. The air is pure, and the earth solid. It can’t be more than five hundred Imperial yards from there to the foundations of the citadel.”
Magnus looked around him, suddenly seeing the possibilities.
“This rock is like iron,” he said, doubtfully. “We don’t have a team of miners with us. As for me, it’s been years since I oversaw anything like this.”
Thorgad snorted derisively.
“What do you need umgi miners for?” he scoffed. “You have me. And if you have blackpowder for blasting, and axes and hammers for gouging, then you’d be able to delve this stuff. It’s not as hard as the bedrock under a Karak, not even close. We would set our young ones on such stone to test their arms.”
For the first time that evening, Magnus’ mood had improved sufficiently to appreciate the dwarf’s boast. A team of men, working in shifts, could carve a tunnel under the foundations of the citadel. It would be hard work, but he’d seen such things done in sieges before. The fact that the cleft existed made it possible. They could work in secret, and far underground. If done right, the defenders would know nothing of it.
“I take back my earlier words, dwarf,” said Magnus. “Once a tunnel runs beneath the foundations, everything changes. We have ch
arges for detonation. Or perhaps a way could be made for a raid. In either case, we’ll be safe from those guns.”
Thorgad frowned.
“Don’t get carried away,” he said. “This is difficult and dangerous work, particularly for you. You won’t seize the citadel this way.”
Magnus nodded, his spirits undiminished.
“I know,” he said. “But it’s a start.”
He turned to face the dwarf, the first genuine smile on his face since the discovery of the stricken army in the vale below. At last, there was something for him to begin proper work on. Messina would be kept away from this. He would need a few dozen men, no more. And Scharnhorst would have to hold it secret from the others. It could be done. It just needed planning.
“That’s all I need,” said Magnus, his voice quickening with excitement, considering the possibilities. “A start. My friend, I believe our luck has changed at last.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
You fear the monsters of Chaos, mortal? Well you should. They will shrive your soul before the altar of their infinite lust. They are powerful, and terrible. But, and here is the root of all forbidden knowledge, even such creatures as these are nothing but the creations of the minds of men. Without our dreams, they are mere phantasms. It is our thought that conjures them into the world of flesh. And so this is the most dangerous lesson of all. There is nothing so perilous in all the world as the unlocked mind of a man. There is no escape from the consequences of our nature. In our unfettered imagination, the very thing that makes us great, lies the seeds of our ruin and damnation. Fear the learned man!
—The Proscribed Scrolls, Folio XIV Mavolion,
The Heretic of Framburg
The earth was riven by torment. Deep under the mountain, mighty machines toiled. The rock chamber was lit by dozens of braziers, and blood-red light swam across the stone. The space was vast, supported by massive columns. Flames burned in sunken channels scored across the floor. Booming, repetitive drum-rolls echoed through the cavernous emptiness. The voices of men rose in labour. There were hundreds of them, black shapes against the firelight, hammering at anvils, or tending the huge mechanical devices around them.
[Empire Army 02] - Iron Company Page 16