They had covered tens of miles on foot, and he wasn’t sure if his travelling companion had merely started the chanting song over again after these small breaks, or if it really was some torturous drone that truly had no end. He wouldn’t be at all surprised if that were the case.
This wasn’t the only thing that grated on Grunwald’s nerves. His companion seemed incapable of moving without alerting every living soul within a ten-mile radius of their position. Every heavy step of his nail-studded, metal encased boots was accompanied by the clanking of metal and the jangling of buckles and chainmail.
Grunwald turned around to look upon his companion, his deep baritone voice still booming out from beneath his helmet.
Thorrik stood just over four feet tall, a decent height for his kin, and he was almost as wide as he was tall. He probably weighed twice that of a full-grown man, and that was before you included the heavy armour that he wore. Gromril, Thorrik had called the metal it was forged of, and it was unlike any metal that the witch hunter had ever seen. Stronger than steel, the dwarf claimed, able to deflect all but the most powerful blows, it was sometimes known as silverstone or hammernought. Within the lands of the Empire, it was called meteoric iron, and that was a name familiar to Grunwald, though he had never seen the fabled metal before.
Only Thorrik’s glittering eyes could be seen beneath his fully enclosed helmet. Beneath this spilled his real beard, his pride and joy, a billowing mass of red hair that had been drawn into a dozen plaits with thin wire twisted through them and each decorated with a circular metal icon depicting a stylised dwarfen face. Ancestor deities, Grunwald had learnt.
He had no idea how the dwarf moved within such an immense amount of armour, let alone marched and fought. And it wasn’t as if the armour was the only load that the dwarf bore—he carried a heavy looking pack across his shoulders, along with the mysterious large chape wrapped in waterproofed leather. On one arm he carried his solid gromril shield, and he carried his axe. Such a load would have been a heavy burden for a mule, let alone a man, but the dwarf bore it without complaint and he seemed easily able to march all day despite the weight.
Seeing that Grunwald had halted, Thorrik ceased his baritone singing and planted his feet in the snow, glaring up at the taller figure.
“What’s the problem?” he growled, his voice deep and rumbling. “Why are you stopping?”
“What was that you were singing, anyway? You have been singing it non-stop for days now,” said Grunwald.
“It is a traditional marching chant of Clan Barad, from Karaz-a-Karak,” Thorrik replied. “It was the chant the armies of Clan Barad would march to war by in the time of my great-great-grandfather. It recounts the deeds of those slain during the siege of Karak Drazh, when Clan Barad came to the aid of our besieged kin. Rousing, is it not?”
“That’s not the word that I was going to use,” said Grunwald. “Can you not travel more… quietly?”
“I do not hide from my enemies. I have no need to travel silently.”
Grunwald turned away from the dwarf and began striding through the snow up the ridge. Thorrik wasn’t singing, but still each footstep was accompanied by the clank of metal. In the distance, the mountain range came into view.
The Black Mountains—sharp and inhospitable peaks with barren, sheer cliffs of iron-hard rock, they had a dangerous reputation. They towered up into the clouds, though Grunwald knew that even their dizzy heights were far surpassed by the immense Worlds Edge Mountains that butted up against them to the north-east. That range climbed higher than he could conceive.
The mountains surrounded the Empire on most sides, and Grunwald knew that his people had grown strong thanks to their defensive borders. Though the enemies of mankind were many and powerful, were it not for the towering mountains the Empire would have long ago become merely a footnote in the histories of the dwarfs.
A flutter of movement caught his eyes, and he halted, squinting into the morning sunlight that had finally managed to pierce the ever-present clouds.
“What now, manling?” blurted Thorrik. “You try my patience!”
Without speaking, Grunwald pointed into the distance. The vanguard of an Empire state force could be seen, rounding an area of coppiced woodland. Banners flying the black and yellow of Averland fluttered in the sharp breeze, and the sound of drumbeats could now be heard, carrying across the open ground. The soldiers marched in perfect unison to the beat of the drums. In a long, thin column they snaked from behind the coppice, following the road that led from Averheim. Tall halberds rested on the right shoulders of the front regiments, and many of the soldiers wore long black feathers in their helmets and cloth caps that bobbed in time to their disciplined march.
The smaller road that Grunwald and Thorrik travelled along, little more than a pair of deep furrows carved by the wheels of wagons loaded with goods, intercepted the larger road that the Empire troops marched along some three hundred yards from their position. “Looks like they are heading in the same direction as us,” said Grunwald.
He estimated that there were around eight hundred men already in view, and the State army continued to emerge from behind the woods. Alongside the column were several contingents of knights riding powerful warhorses bedecked in lacquered black and bronze barding. Elegant plumes topped the helms of the fully armoured knights, and pennants rippled from the tips of their lances.
Grunwald squinted to make out the details of their banners—a bronze sun device on a black background, surrounded by intricate scrollwork.
“Knights of the Blazing Sun,” he commented. “An entire temple’s worth by the looks of it.” He grunted and frowned. This was an army of considerable force, all heading towards Black Fire Pass. Surely they would be of more worth deployed in the north, he thought.
“Wonder if they would spare a horse?” he added.
“Hateful beasts,” grumbled Thorrik.
One of the contingents of knights broke into a canter and wheeled off the road, heading towards Grunwald and Thorrik. The witch hunter reached beneath his tunic and pulled out a bronze icon hung from a chain around his neck so that it hung outside his dark clothes. It was a weighty pendant shaped to mirror the holy weapon of Sigmar Heldenhammer, the great war hammer Ghal Maraz, and it was the symbol that denoted him as a servant of Sigmar’s temple. It had previously belonged to the witch hunter Stoebar, before Grunwald became one of the order.
He saw that Thorrik was tense as the powerful destriers of the knights closed the distance, pounding across the rough ground and kicking up great clods of earth as they went.
They were an impressive sight, and Grunwald was thankful that their lances were held aloft rather than lowered for the charge. A charge by these seasoned knights would be terrifying.
As they drew closer, he saw that a brazen icon topped the heavy fabric of the standard, depicting an eagle clutching a spear in its talons. This was a variation of the symbol of the foreign deity Myrmidia, patron goddess of the human realms to the south-west of the Empire. Though he was suspicious of this god, for it was not a deity traditionally honoured within the Empire, Grunwald respected the martial traditions of its followers and the strict code of honour it was said they abided by.
The ground shook with the thunder of hooves, and they pulled up in perfect unison before the pair of travellers, displaying remarkable horsemanship and control. Horses snorted and shook their heads, jangling their bridges. The armour of the knights was wonderfully crafted—immaculate burnished bronze edging rimmed their gleaming, black lacquered plate mail.
One of the knights, bearing a wreath of bronze-leafed ivy around the crown of his helmet, lifted his visor. The knight’s face was surprisingly young and clean-shaven. “Who are you, and what business have you in these parts?” the young knight said, looking down at the pair, his voice strong and authoritative.
“What business is that of yours?” snapped Thorrik, and Grunwald glared at him, holding a hand up to him. He shook his head slightly before lo
oking up at the young knight.
“My name is Udo Grunwald, and I am a holy templar of Sigmar,” he said. “I am travelling to the temple of my order near Black Fire Pass. This is my travelling companion, Thorrik Lokrison, of Everpeak. And you, knight of Myrmidia, what is your name and purpose here?”
“I am Karl Heiden, preceptor of the Knights of the Blazing Sun. We travel with an army of Averland to the defence of Black Fire Pass.”
“The defence of the pass? What is this you speak of? The war is in the north.”
“Some amongst us will travel from Black Fire Pass to the north. But the war is all around us,” countered the knight. “The pass is threatened.”
“The pass is guarded by the clans of my kinsmen,” growled Thorrik. “Do you doubt the strength of the dwarfs, beardling?”
The knight turned his gaze upon the bristling figure of the dwarf ironbreaker. “I intend no slur or disrespect with my words,” he said. “But if Black Fire Pass falls, it is Empire lands that will be ravaged, not those of dwarfen kind.”
“To guard what manlings call Black Fire Pass was an oath sworn by the forebears of all dwarfs,” growled Thorrik, his gravelly voice thick with outrage. “It was an oath sworn of blood, and as long as a single dwarf lives, no enemy shall attack the Empire through the pass.” Grunwald sighed.
“I commend your vigilance and pride, master dwarf,” said the knight carefully, “and I believe you would speak the truth, if times were different. But war threatens the dwarfen holds as well as the Empire—come to bolster Black Fire Pass at the behest of your High King himself.” Thorrik’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you speak of when you say war threatens dwarfen holds?”
“The greenskin tribes are massing beyond the mountains. It is said they threaten the Everpeak itself.”
“Bah!” snorted Thorrik. “Impossible!” The knight shrugged his shoulders, a movement all but hidden by his thick, black lacquered armour.
“Is the temple of Sigmar intact and secure?” asked Grunwald sharply.
“I regret that I do not know,” replied the knight. He raised his hand, and the knights snapped to attention. The first regiments of foot troops were passing along the road now, the thump of their footsteps echoing loudly.
“You say that some amongst your force will travel to the north from Black Fire—why travel here if your destination is in the northern states? That’s a long way out of your way, templar,” said Grunwald. The knight merely grinned. “You haven’t heard of the steam engine of the dwarfs, then?”
Grunwald frowned, but the preceptor continued, not giving him time to query his words.
“We march to Black Fire Pass. Travel with us if you wish,” said the knight. “Speak to supplies officer Siegfried at the rear of the column. You may request a steed from him, tell him that I have authorised it. He may even be able to find a small pony for your friend to ride,” he said, his eyes shining with humour though his face was serious. “Or a large dog,” with that, the knights turned and wheeled away, leaving Grunwald smiling and Thorrik apoplectic with rage.
“I should stick my axe so far up his arse that it severs his tongue for that insult,” he raged, his face turning a deep crimson that matched the colour of his bristling beard.
“I’m sure he was just trying to be helpful,” commented Grunwald.
“Helpful? The stripling, beardless whoreson bastard.” Without pausing for breath the dwarf switched to his native language and cut loose with a torrent of bile-fuelled phrases. Grunwald didn’t know what he was saying, but he winced at the acidic, barbed and vengeful tone of voice. It slowly descended into insensible muttering.
“So, what do you think of dogs?” asked Grunwald, trying to hide his smirk. Thorrik glared up at him suspiciously, trying to see any mockery in his face. Satisfied, he grunted loudly before making his answer.
“Good eating,” he said, finally.
Annaliese was exhausted when they finally reached the brow of a hill and saw the temple of Shallya in the distance. She walked hand in hand with the boy. After two days he had finally spoken, though he said nothing more than his name.
“Look Tomas,” she said, pointing towards the crooked spire that topped the temple of Shallya. “The sisters are kind. If you are lucky, you might even get a hot bath this evening!” She leant down and sniffed at him, then reeled, her face a mask of exaggerated disgust. The boy giggled, his facing lighting up. He copied her, sniffing her and then gasping.
Annaliese laughed. “I guess I could do with a bath too, young Tomas.” It had been too long since she’d had anything to laugh at.
It took an hour to walk down to the temple. She carried Tomas part of the way, until he felt like a leaden weight in her arms. The sky was dark overhead, clouds hanging too close to the ground, making the air claustrophobic and heavy. Still, it was a little warmer here, either because she was further south than her village—or perhaps the winter was finally breaking.
There was still snow piled in drifts up against rough stone walls and hedges, but the fields were relatively clear. The grass was muddy and dead, but it would grow back.
Tomas made her laugh as he spotted a mouse and sprang after it as it ducked into a hedgerow to escape from him. The boy emerged a moment later, sticks in his hair, grinning, crunching happily through the snow back to her side.
Eldanair appeared silently, the hood pulled down low over his face. Tomas instantly hid behind Annaliese, and she put her hand comfortingly upon his shoulder. The elf pulled off his hood. His face was grim, and Annaliese looked at him in growing concern. She heard the ugly cawing of crows. The temple of Shallya had been ransacked, and gutted by fire. Worse, it had been defiled, and crude symbols had been daubed on its walls in what looked like blood. There was no sign of the sisters.
There was an animal stink that assailed their nostrils as they approached the temple, as if a herd of wild dogs had used the place as a refuse pit, and despite the cold the buzzing of flies filled the air. Annaliese lifted Tomas, hugging him against her chest and keeping his head turned away from the desecrated place. He began to cry, and she rocked him in her arms, making soothing noises.
Eldanair held his hand up for her to remain outside, and with an arrow nocked to his bow, he stepped lightly through the shattered doors of the temple.
Annaliese surveyed the carnage with sad eyes. The windows had been smashed in, and the smell of faeces and urine was strong. Her eyes were drawn to the crude symbols painted on the pale stone walls of the small chapel, and she felt revulsion pull at her.
She walked around the outside of the chapel grounds. There was a small vegetable garden around the rear of the structure, but it was trampled and kicked apart. There were small icon shrines positioned on low poles in front of small wooden benches, places for silent, isolated communion. They had all been smashed down. She stopped before one of these shattered icons, seeing a small woodcarving of Shallya kneeling. Carefully so as not to drop Tomas, she bent over and lifted the carving out of the snow. It looked as though an axe had removed the head of the carving. She dropped it back into the snow with a sigh.
Rounding the shrine, she lifted her eyes and gasped. She had found one of the gentle sisters of the goddess of healing.
She was spreadeagled across a wagon wheel and nailed to its wooden rim. The wheel had been lifted into the air and its broken axle driven into the ground, so that she lay looking up into the sky.
Carrion birds hopped over the body, flapping their wings and cawing loudly as they fought over the tastiest morsels. Annaliese felt bile rise in her throat, and she began to shake uncontrollably. Tomas wailed, and tried to squirm out of her grip, but she covered his eyes with her hand and kept him clasped to her tightly. She ran blindly away from the nightmarish scene, round the corner of the shrine and straight into the arms of Eldanair.
She cried into his chest as his arms closed around her awkwardly, as if he were uneasy with such contact. At last she pulled away, hugging Tomas to her with one
hand as she wiped the tears away from her face.
Eldanair indicated for her to follow him, and he led her around to the front of the shrine and through its shattered door. She almost gagged at the stench inside, and Tomas began to cry loudly once more.
The elf led them to the back of the temple, past smashed pews. Glass crunched underfoot, and Eldanair finally pointed down a stone staircase that led beneath the temple floor, down into the crypt.
She looked at him in concern, but he nodded encouragement, and led the way down the narrow, worn steps. It was icy cold as she descended, but it was not as dark as she had imagined, as light illuminated the crypt through carved recesses, shafts that led up to windows in the shrine.
There were carved statues of reclining women, and each had a plaque before it. She looked at one, but she could not read, and it meant nothing to her. The stubs of candles protruded from candelabras that may have been lit in honour of the temple’s deceased priestesses, but thankfully it seemed that the marauders had not discovered this area, and the stench was not as strong down here.
The hair on the back of Annaliese’s neck rose as she heard a scrape against the cold stone flooring, and she froze. A shadowy shape dashed away from them, and Eldanair motioned for her to approach.
Peering into the gloom, she saw that there was a person crouched behind one of the tombs. She saw a glimpse of long hair and pale robes, and understanding dawned on her. She placed Tomas onto the ground and knelt before him, looking into his tearful eyes.
“I want you to be a brave boy, and to stay with Eldanair for a moment. I won’t be long.” The boy whimpered and clung to her. “I promise I will be back in a moment, I am just going to talk to the lady over there.”
She began to move towards the woman, but Tomas continued to cling to her desperately. She sighed, and picked him up again. Eldanair shrugged. “All right Tomas, you can come with me. Come on.”
She moved slowly towards the woman. “Hello?” she said. “My name is Annaliese, and we are not going to harm you. You are safe now.”
[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos Page 9