by Warhammer
The sound of hammers and picks cracking against the wall of the cliff echoed across the camp as Einarr jogged into the narrow opening of the fissure, the strange acoustics of the defile acting to imprison the noise as securely as the chains imprisoned the thralls. Einarr was pleased by the clamour, it would muffle the sound of his boots crunching across the snow. He swept his gaze across the compound.
He saw no sign of activity around the long structure he had judged to be the Aesling barracks, though a light shone beneath its heavy iron-bound door. A few scrawny slaves clustered around the other building, which Einarr now observed was some manner of kitchen. Under the watchful supervision of a huge pot-bellied Aesling, the slaves were butchering cuts of meat and tossing the flesh into a pair of massive cauldrons. Into one cauldron, Einarr saw the slaves depositing cuts of venison and rabbit, into the other they dropped scraps of pale, pink meat they butchered from the carcasses of thin, wasted things. He could guess that the first cauldron was intended for the supper of the Aeslings themselves, and the second was fodder for their thralls. Einarr felt disgust boil within his gut. To work slaves was no rare thing among the Norse, but to feed thralls flesh from their own dead was something even a Baersonling found abhorrent.
Einarr changed direction, stalking across the camp towards the kitchens. Even if the sight of the kitchens had not evoked his loathing, Einarr knew he would need to kill the Aesling cook. The kitchens afforded a clear view of the quarry and the smithy, and Einarr could not take the chance that the bloated Aesling would see him and sound the alarm. Vallac and Orgrim should have made their way to the barracks by now and were probably waiting for him to reach his own objective before springing into action. He hoped that Orgrim would be able to maintain his calm just a little longer.
The stink of roasting man-flesh overwhelmed the more succulent aroma of the venison. Einarr wrinkled his nose at the smell even as he pressed his body against the supporting wall of the long, lean-to structure that served the camp as its kitchen. The warrior took several deep breaths. Speed would be of the essence, he would need to strike down the Aesling before the scum could even think about reacting. Anything less would bring the entire camp down around their heads.
Craning his head around the corner of the wall, Einarr watched as the Aesling cook swaggered among his slaves, kicking those who were too slow to shuffle out of his way. The obese marauder paused beside the cauldron the slaves were preparing for their masters. He removed a long bronze spoon from where it dangled on his belt and dipped it into the bubbling broth. The cook noisily slurped the efforts of his thralls, greasy brown broth spilling down his face and staining his scarlet beard. The Aesling belched appreciatively, then bent down to fish a cut of venison from the cauldron.
While the marauder was occupied, Einarr lunged into the kitchen, bowling aside those slaves who were not fast enough to leap out of his way. The cook turned as the sound of the commotion reached him. Einarr’s axe licked out at the fat Aesling, whistling through the pungent air. The cook’s head splashed as it fell into the cauldron, a look of shock frozen on its stiffening features as it sank into the brown soup.
Einarr turned from the cook’s mangled body, facing the mob of scrawny thralls. There was no sign of cheer or gratitude among the men, they regarded both Einarr and the bleeding husk of their overlord with the same dull, witless gaze. So long had they been slaves that now, with freedom in their grasp, not one of them recognised it. Whatever they had once been, Norse, Kossar, Kurgan or southlander, now they were all the same – cattle. Einarr spat his contempt onto the floor of the kitchen and pushed his way through the gawking mob. Better to run laughing into the arms of death than to cling to such a sorry excuse for life.
Einarr continued across the camp. He could see Aesling warriors prowling along the scaffolding and at the base of the cliff, whipping and haranguing those slaves who tarried in their labours. These were giants of men, their powerful build apparent even from such distance, their bodies covered in bands of blackened iron, heads hidden within horned helms. Their belts were festooned with axes and swords and every man of them had a thick shield strapped across his back. He felt a spark of dread flicker through him. There were more Aeslings abroad than he had hoped for. At least five were moving along the scaffolding, and another four were monitoring the slaves at the base of the cliff. Even if he struck quickly and killed all of the Aeslings at the smithy, the guards at the quarry would soon be after him. Against such numbers the best Einarr could hope for was a death that would not shame his ancestors. Perhaps the old witch had been right, perhaps they should have searched for another way down.
The moment of doubt passed, burned away by the overwhelming conviction that he was right, that Tchar had indeed guided him here. This was where he needed to be. However mighty the Aeslings were, the might of Tchar was greater. And if the god’s power failed him, of what consequence was that to him? Had he not intended to simply slaughter his way through the Aesling nation until one of them at last struck him down? What would it change if he died here or in some forest village, so long as he died with the blood of Aeslings dripping from his axe?
Resolution filled Einarr as he crept closer to the bowl-shaped depression in the ground that contained the Aesling smithy. He would show his strength to Tchar, show the depth of his courage and his conviction. Show to Tchar that nothing would stand between him and what the god had promised.
As Einarr prepared to move around the smithy, to make his way to the forge and the immense shape that slumbered beside it, a sharp, beast-like howl shrieked across the camp. It was soon followed by the clash of steel and the cries of men. Orgrim had grown weary of waiting.
The smithy exploded into life. Two burly Aesling warriors rushed from their burrow-like shelter, wicked axes gripped in their hairy hands. From another hole emerged a squat, broad-shouldered figure, its body encased in blackened steel and scaly strips of leather. A massive double-handed weapon that was at once axe, maul and pick was gripped in the black-garbed imp’s hands and as it turned its skull-faced helmet in Einarr’s direction, a hateful hiss wheezed from its mouth.
From behind the forge, a great roar sounded and Einarr felt his determination shudder as he saw the immense slumbering shape rise on its trunk-like legs. Easily twice as tall as a man, with arms as thick around as Einarr’s entire body, the thing was the largest ogre he had ever seen. The breath of the gods had fallen heavily upon the ogre; upon its shoulders a pair of hideous heads glowered at the world, great tusks twisting their massive jaws. From the centre of the brute’s torso, a third arm jutted, its thick fingers clawing at the night as the ogre roared its wrath. Tattered furs and strips of rag clothed the creature’s malformed bulk, barely containing the hairy twisted body.
Einarr did not have time to consider the monster further – already the Aesling guards were charging towards him, their mouths open in savage war cries. Behind them marched the sinister forgemaster, its hybrid weapon clutched firmly in its armoured hands. The smith seemed content to allow its guards to close with Einarr first, waiting until they had reached Einarr before putting any great haste in its steps.
The first Aesling swung his axe at Einarr’s gut, seeking to disembowel the Baersonling. Einarr blocked the strike with the heft of his own axe, but before he could retaliate, he found himself dodging the sweep of the other guard’s weapon as it flashed towards his neck. The Aeslings laughed and came at him again, pressing Einarr back along the perimeter of the bowl, the coordinated attacks of the two marauders keeping him on the defensive, allowing him no respite in which to mount his own attack. Einarr could hear shouts coming from the quarry and knew that the other Aeslings would soon reach the smithy. The guards did not need to press their attack, they had only to keep Einarr busy until their kinsmen arrived.
Sharp, stabbing pain seared its way up Einarr’s side. The warrior gasped, flinching away from the attack and almost into the waiting axe of an Aesling. He saw the sinister armoured forgemaster pulling back hi
s strange hybrid weapon, the spike-like point set at the tip of its shaft glistening with blood. The smith laughed behind his mask of steel and Einarr could almost feel the man’s sadistic enjoyment of his work. The Aeslings joined the forgemaster in his laughter and came at Einarr again, their axes flashing through the night. Again, Einarr was hard-pressed to match the speed and coordination of his attackers. Once more, as he beat back the weapons of his foes, he felt the forgemaster’s spike stabbing into his flesh, digging into his thigh. Einarr forced himself to remain standing even as his leg throbbed with agony and blood began to fill his boot. He knew his foes would finish him in an instant if he showed them any hint of weakness.
The Aeslings made ready to come at him again. They were filled with an even greater confidence than before, and the sound of war cries coming from the quarry told Einarr that the other guards must be very near now. He could see the Aeslings smile behind their crimson beards as they prepared to chop him down with their axes. Then an immense shadow fell across the marauders and the smiles withered on their faces. The look of horror that filled the visage of one Aesling vanished as a huge hand closed over his head, crushing it into a dripping pulp. The ogre reached for the other Aesling with one of his other arms, causing the guard to jump back. The manoeuvre brought the man within easy reach of Einarr’s weapon and he chopped through the marauder’s back as though cutting down a sapling. The man screamed and collapsed into the sooty snow, only to have his screams silenced when the ogre’s enormous foot came crashing down.
In avoiding the attacks of the guards, Einarr had been slowly circling the bowl of the depression, drawing ever nearer the forge until at last the immense stone oven smouldered right beside him. The ogre had waited patiently for the fighting men to draw near, then when they were within reach, it had acted. Now the ogre stared intently at Einarr with his four leprous eyes, an expectant expression spread across the ogre’s hideous faces. Einarr could see now the chains that dripped from the ogre’s limbs, binding him to the forge. A savage smile spread across Einarr’s features and he nodded to the creature.
The forgemaster read Einarr’s intention, rushing at the warrior with his axe-maul, shouting at the top of his voice as he did so. Einarr spun as the smith attacked, his axe glancing off the skull-like helmet. The smith staggered back, blinking blood from his eyes, and shouted again. This time his roars were answered by thick Aesling voices and Einarr could see red-bearded faces appear at the lip of the depression. With no more time to lose, Einarr kicked the smith in his knee, spilling the forgemaster into the snow and lunged for the massive bronze ring that secured the ogre’s chains to the forge. His arms seemed filled with an inhuman strength as he drove the edge of Rafn’s axe against the ring. The blade shattered beneath the impact, shards of steel flying into the night. The sharp, angular runes gouged into the ring flared with unholy fire as he struck it, burning as bright as the heart of a furnace. Then the light died and the bronze ring became a thing of mortal metal once more.
A bellow of monstrous rage sounded in Einarr’s ears and he crumpled to the ground as he felt a powerful force crack against his back. He rolled as he struck the snow, sparing himself the savage axe-blade that gouged deep into the ground where he had fallen. The forgemaster turned hate-ridden eyes on Einarr as he struggled to free his weapon. Einarr could see tiny skulls woven into the braids of the smith’s long black beard, each marked with one of the same dark runes that had briefly flared into life upon the bronze ring. Einarr pulled the shattered length of Fangwyrm from its sheath. He risked a glance away from the forgemaster to see where the Aeslings were. Five guards were rushing down the lip of the depression, axes and swords gleaming in the fitful light of the forge. As Einarr watched, one of the men fell, an arrow sticking from his neck. The others continued to rush towards him.
With an ear-splitting shriek, the bronze ring snapped apart under the renewed efforts of the mutant ogre. Whatever spells had been forged into its substance had been broken by Einarr’s axe and the power to restrain the monster had been lost. The charging Aeslings faltered in their steps as they saw the ogre rear upward, his twin heads bellowing with furious jubilation. Then the monster turned his eyes on his former captors and a deep, rumbling hate snarled past his twisted lips. The stunned Aeslings took a nervous step back, none of the marauders eager to confront the vengeful ogre.
The forgemaster, intent upon freeing his axe, did not pay notice to what was unfolding all around him. With a howl of triumph, he succeeded in ripping his weapon free from the icy ground. The sound degenerated into a squeal of shock and horror as the smith found the ogre looming above him. Before the forgemaster could act, the ogre’s enormous hand smashed into him, swatting him like an insect and flinging him across the depression to land in a clattering mess of steel and flesh against the far side of the bowl.
Einarr glared at the stunned Aeslings and tightened his hold upon the sword. If they thought the ogre was the only thing that could visit death upon them, then he would show the scum the error of their ways. With a howl, Einarr charged towards the cowed marauders. He heard his cry taken up by the twin voices of the ogre and felt the ground shudder as the huge creature followed after him.
The pale, greasy grey that passed for the arctic dawn stained the eastern sky as Einarr tended his wounds. The blows the forgemaster had visited upon his body were painful, but it seemed the smith had been more interested in agony than injury when he had inflicted them. The villain’s overconfidence had cost him dearly. The only enemy it was safe to play games with was a dead one.
The battle against the Aeslings had raged for the better part of an hour, the timely support of the ogre deciding the tide. Even faced with the enraged brute, however, the Aeslings had persisted, fighting to the last against their foes. As much as he despised them, Einarr had to admit they had died deaths worthy of their ancestors.
‘You should stay off the leg for a few days,’ Urda advised him, her tone petulant. The witch was still sulking from Einarr’s decision to have her bound before the attack on the Aesling camp. It had not been an easy decision for Einarr to make, the witch’s magic would have been a great boon overcoming the Aeslings. But Einarr had been unable to trust Urda to use her powers against her kinsmen. Every step of the way she had guided them away from confrontation with the Aeslings. In a battle with them, Einarr had simply been unable to trust on which side she would fight.
‘You know as well as I that won’t be happening,’ Einarr grunted as he rose from the ground. ‘Now that the way is clear for us to descend to the Frozen Sea, we need to do so before any Aeslings show up to see what has become of their quarry.’ They had made camp in the Aesling smithy, a position Einarr trusted more than the confines of the timber structures scattered about the camp.
‘At its worst, you could always have your new friend just carry you,’ Urda added, a caustic quality still in her voice. Einarr shifted his gaze to the towering ogre. The brute was busy pulling legs from the corpses of the Aeslings and picking them clean of meat. Einarr shook his head at the gruesome sight.
‘I think I’ll stand on my own feet,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how much faith I can put in Thognathog’s ability to remember that I’m not for eating.’
‘Then why not leave that monstrosity behind?’ Urda asked. Einarr admitted that it was a valid question. The ogre was certainly a formidable asset in battle, but he was an equally terrible menace if he were to turn on them. The wisest course was indeed to leave Thognathog to his own devices, but Einarr could not shake the feeling that somehow the ogre was a part of his quest, that he had been meant to free him and thereby earn the monster’s service.
‘I think the ogre was a part of your vision, that he is the flesh behind the picture of the twin giants you scrawled upon the snow,’ Einarr told her. Urda pondered his words, but retained her scowl.
‘Remember, Einarr Steelfist,’ she cautioned, ‘what was shown to you was warning as well as guidance…’
‘And wisdom lies
in knowing one from the other.’ The cryptic games of the gods were a thing Einarr had little patience for. If they would speak to mortals, if they would have them perform services for them, then why could they not speak in ways a simple warrior could understand? ‘I confess I do not know. Until I do, the ogre will come with us.’
Einarr looked across the smithy. With its high profile, the smithy had presented the best place to shelter from the chill wind that blew across the cliffs from the Frozen Sea. After the charnel house Orgrim and Vallac had made of the barracks, it was the only shelter that would allow them to keep an eye on the immense Thognathog. Besides, Einarr wanted to have a ready view of the slopes leading down into the fissure. He had no desire to be surprised by more Aeslings. Suddenly he noticed movement near the pile of corpses the ogre had gathered beside him. A black shape gradually wormed its way from beneath the heap of bodies, creeping like a great beetle away from the feasting Thognathog.