Masters of Stone and Steel - Gav Thorpe & Nick Kyme

by Warhammer

  ‘Mutual interest, isn’t it?’ said Glorri. He tried to paw at her arm but she knocked his hand away with her shield. Snatching back his hand, blowing on rapped knuckles, Glorri glared at her. ‘You’re all going to die here, and it ain’t worth a pot or the pee in it. You’ll all die and nobody will remember or care.’

  He snatched up the lantern and disappeared down the tunnel, leaving Haldora alone in the dark, breathing quickly, anger making her tremble. The rat of a ranger thought he could scare her into leaving, with his talk of dying and being forgotten. Glorri made it sound as though there was nothing more at stake than pointless pride and empty grudges. It made her want to shout and scream in frustration.

  Mostly, because he was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ‘At about this time the mining clans banded together to form the first Dragonback guild. They did so to raise complaint to the king about the conditions where they were living. The mines were being worked all day and night, and they had to tramp to the surface to get food and kip each shift end. They wanted the king to put his money to the furnishing and improvement of their quarters underground.

  Grimbalki told them that they were a bunch of moaning grumbaki and if they wanted to live like soft elves they were welcome to take their own furnishing down the mines. The miners refused to work, but Grimbalki brought in non-guild clans from Ankor-Drakk to replace them at the royal mines. Blackboots they was called. This caused a great deal of a ruckus, as you might expect, and no few fistfights, though no blade was ever drawn in anger.

  Eventually the blackboots were sent back to Ankor-Drakk and the king agreed to pay an extra coin in a hundred for the ore and coal being taken out of the mines, which the miners gratefully accepted, though a year later the king raised his taxes by the same and dispute threatened again.’

  ‘There’s none I’d rather have by my side,’ said Thundred Norbrocker. There were affirmative grunts from the dwarfs around him. ‘As it always was, the king commands and we obey, right?’

  Again this was met with nods and muttered assurances. The ageing dwarfs had taken it upon themselves to re-form their old fighting company, eschewing their clans in favour of oaths and shared experiences far more binding. The hall around them buzzed with the chatter of the assembling dwarfs, as did the corridors and hallways above and below. The king had summoned them all for one final push, to drive the orcs back from the South Gate and into the unforgiving grip of winter. Erstukar had made it clear that this was a gamble, and many of them would not return, but if they were successful it could be a smarting defeat that would lead to the fracturing of the shaky alliance that bound the green horde beneath their warlord. The enemy were, the king had claimed, more desperate with cold and hunger than the dwarfs, and if it could be shown that great strength yet remained in the halls of Ekrund they would lose the last vestiges of their will to fight.

  It had been a good speech, Skraffi had thought, full of determination and thankfully short of pointless optimism. Erstukar had not tried to pretend that there would be an instant end to the woes of the hold, but he had promised them an opportunity not to surrender meekly to their doom.

  The idea for the old band to get back together had come from Thundred. It still surprised Skraffi to see one of the king’s most trusted captains at the head of a rag-tag bunch of ageing dwarfs. They were longbeards and greyhairs to the last dwarf, veterans of the elven war each and every one of them. Not one was less than five hundred years old and Bokri Harkenthrak was nearly seven hundred. He lifted a brass trumpet to his ear.

  ‘What?’

  ‘As the king commands, so we obey,’ Thundred said again, a little louder.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ shouted Bokri. ‘Champions, every one of us.’

  ‘There might be only thirty-one of us left,’ continued Thundred, looking sternly at each of his warriors, ‘but we’re still the Four Dozen Blades in our hearts.’

  ‘The Four Dozen!’ they all declared, raising their rune axes in unison, saluting each other. ‘The fell Four Dozen!’

  ‘It is the gift of our ancestors that we are here today, and that we are called upon to fight in this war, most likely our last. We were born to the bloodshed of battle and though we knew a scant few decades of peace, it was never our lot to know it for long. I stand before the shades of those of us who grew old and died in their beds, surrounded by family and friends, and I would not change places with them for a moment. We were the scourge of the elves, the Dour Axes of Ekrund, and our deeds have become legend. Yet we can build a greater legend upon its foundations, and be known as orc-bane and goblin-hewers also.’

  ‘I’ve already killed about three hundred of the beggars,’ said Bokri, grinning. ‘Poor sport, all of them.’

  ‘He today who sheds the blood of our foes beside me shall be forever my brother in battle,’ Thundred intoned solemnly. The others repeated the words, renewing the oaths they had sworn to each other before the walls of Tor Alessi and Athel Toralien and Athel Maraya, at Griffa Ridge and Dorin’s Stand and The Vale of Four Waters, and on a dozen other battlefields whose names Skraffi had never learnt. ‘He who today sheds his blood beside me shall be forever counted amongst the honoured dead, and in whose stead I shall seek revenge and in whose absence I shall raise a pot of beer, as and when I get the chance.’

  They all had tankards in hand for this moment, though there was no beer.

  ‘Wait a moment, lads, we can’t swear oaths with silt water and spit,’ said Skraffi. He reached under his cloak and produced a large clay jar, as might once have held pickled eggs or perhaps a good portion of jam. He unstoppered the top and tipped a little of the contents of the jar into each of the tankards, a golden liquid that smelt of pastures and trees.

  ‘Stinks of elf wee, if you ask me,’ muttered Bokri, rather more loudly than he perhaps intended.

  ‘Is this your bees’ water, Skraffi?’ asked Thundred, lip curling in distaste.

  ‘The finest, and probably last, from the Angbok meadery. Drink deep and toast the bees that stung those greenskin thugs when they came for my hives.’

  They each drank from their cups, some less enthusiastically than others. However, there was much smacking of lips and surprised expressions all round.

  ‘I take it back, my old pal,’ said Thundred. ‘That’s not a bad drop at all.’

  ‘Worthy for a toast to our ancestors and the fallen dead,’ added Bokri with an apologetic look.

  This sentiment was echoed by the others, who slapped Skraffi on the back and declared Angbok’s Bee Water to be a triumph against adversity. It was one of the proudest moments of his life, up there with the time Gabbik had killed his first goblin and seeing Awdhelga’s blackbeer get second place in the Brewers’ Guild’s ‘King’s Champion’ Beer award.

  Stood with his fellow veterans, suddenly losing Ekrund didn’t seem so bad, or as inevitable.

  ‘Remember the old battle cry?’ asked Stondorin Haggerund.

  The rest of the throng in the hall turned a mix of confused, irritated and admiring gazes on the Four Dozen Blades when, as one, they raised their tankards and boomed out their battle-oath.

  ‘First to the battle, first to the bar!’

  The wind whipped snow down the mountainside, and within moments of marching out into the valley Gabbik had ice frosting his beard. He could see less than a hundred paces ahead; the darker shapes of King Erstukar’s longbeards and hammerers led the way. As for the companies advancing down the other side of the valley, including Skraffi and the surviving Four Dozen Blades, nothing could be seen. The keening of the blizzard and the thick snow underfoot masked all sound.

  The snow was knee deep, and a path had been forged by the dwarfs ahead. There were thicker drifts in places, some of them towering like white cliffs where they had been cut through by the rangers leading the attack.

  ‘No goblins in this, I’d wager,’ said Gabbik. His words came as clouds of vapour, swiftly whisked away by the wind. ‘We’ll be lucky to find
anything to kill.’

  ‘Let’s hope we can find the path back,’ said Durk, looking over his shoulder. Gabbik did likewise, and saw the shadows of the following column of dwarfs.

  ‘I reckon we should be all right. The snow will be packed solid by the time we’ve all trodden it down.’

  They passed the remnants of broken and abandoned war engines. Icicles hung from snapped ropes and split beams, while dark timbers jutted like skeletons from the blanket of white that covered the road and valley walls. There were real bones too, here and there, cracking underfoot as Gabbik trod on them. Where the way had been cleared, frozen green faces and the remains of dwarfs leered out of the ice walls like insects trapped in amber.

  Gabbik didn’t look at them too closely. He was worried he might recognise someone, and that would be too much.

  The sun was just a paler disc in the grey sky, somewhere overhead. They marched at noon for the best light possible, after the morning fog had cleared. They had covered a little over seven hundred paces when they came upon the companies in front, spreading out into a semblance of a battle line.

  ‘Looks like the rangers have found some orcs,’ said Fleinn. He drew his remaining elven blade. ‘What are they waiting for?’

  Gabbik listened. Over the wind and the creak of shifting snow he could hear guttural voices and the crackle of flames. He could see nothing and the wind was coming from behind, carrying away any smoke or stench of the orc camps. There were no bright fires to give away their position and as far as Gabbik knew, the orcs could be a hundred paces ahead or a thousand.

  A lone shape emerged from the white haze. It was Prince Rodri. His face was almost a complete mask of snow, beard, hair and eyebrows crusted with ice, framing ruddy cheeks and dark eyes.

  ‘Move out that way,’ he said, waving his axe to the south-west. ‘The orcs are about five hundred paces further on. This is a raid, not a battle. Kill a few orcs, destroy their shelter and then follow us back up the valley. Understood? There’ll be a pursuit, and we can’t have the side gates open too long. Am I clear?’

  ‘As merewater,’ said Fleinn.

  ‘Aye, prince, we’ll be right on your heels,’ said Gabbik. ‘Don’t you worry about that.’

  The prince nodded and said nothing further. He moved on to the next company and directed them to the south-east. Gabbik clapped his gloved hands, shaking off the accumulated snow. He pulled free his axe and slung his shield from his back.

  He caught Haldora looking at him, her face pale, expression determined. She mustered the strength for a weak smile. She hadn’t been the same since she had been wounded fighting the night goblins, but there was nothing else to be done. None of them had survived this long without being harmed. Some had rested for a day, others for ten. Haldora had been back in the ranks after seven. Nakka was right next to her, as he had been every day following the fight with the night goblins. Haldora insisted that her arm was still good, but Nakka hadn’t taken his eye off her for any waking moment since they had traipsed back from the mines and found her slumped against a pillar.

  ‘If the orcs think they can just wait us out, they’re sorely mistaken,’ Gabbik said, trying to lift his spirits as much as anyone else’s. ‘Just you see. We’re not done yet, not by a long way.’

  Nobody felt like arguing and the Angbok company – inasmuch as Gabbik was in charge, though the company was dredged together from a dozen different clans – moved to their allotted position in the attack.

  Standing still was worse than anything and Gabbik stamped his feet to keep warm. The snowfall was thinning and the wind dying, and he took this as a good sign that the ancestors were watching over them that day.

  Quietly the word was passed along the line for the army to move on. There was nobody ahead to flatten the snow and so Gabbik trudged through the drifts, often up to his waist, using his axe and shield to clear the way. Either side of him, the others were doing the same, forced to spread out so that they were not throwing snow into each other’s path. After a distance they had a method resolved, moving the snow from the centre to the flanks of the company like a plough in the earth.

  The further they went, and the more tiring the advance became, the more Gabbik’s earlier optimism faded. This was no way to launch a daring attack. He could barely stand up straight or turn, and swinging his axe was a constant labour, his shoulders already aching from the effort.

  Eventually he could see something looming ahead. It was a sloping canvas sheet, like the sail of a ship, tied over a wooden frame. He recognised it as coming from one of the windmills on the high dales, and guy ropes tied it down to spears driven into the frozen earth.

  He could smell smoke now, and orc dung, and could hear guttural voices and savage laughter.

  A horn blast rang out, signalling the charge. Gabbik felt like laughing – there was no possible way to move any faster. Waving the others on with his axe he tried his best to press forward more speedily, where the snow was trampled in places by the movements of the orcs.

  When they reached the orc camp, the greenskins were emerging from their shelters and holes, grunting and shouting. The snow was flattened a lot more and Gabbik was able to break into a jog, huffing and puffing as he closed with the nearest foes, trusting to the others to keep up.

  The orcs were disorganised, staying close to the fires. Gabbik recognised the stench of burning flesh and realised the greenskins were eating the dwarf dead. This fired his anger, soothing away the aches of the march and the ennui of long confinement.

  An orc lunged out of the swirling snow, gabbling in its harsh language. Gabbik’s axe took off its left leg and the return swing cut up into its chest, slicing ribs and organs. He wrenched his weapon free and dashed after another, burying his axe into its lower back before cleaving its skull in half.

  Disorientated and surprised, the orcs were easy pickings for the initial rush of the dwarfs. Gabbik had hewn down four before he even came across a foe with weapon raised and ready. He deflected its swing with his shield and kicked it square in the kneecap, snapping bone with his iron-toed boot. As the orc fell, Haldora slammed her axe into the side of its head, taking off the orc’s ear and half of its jaw.

  ‘Cut the ropes, put the canvas on the fire!’ Gabbik yelled.

  They surrounded the lean-to, those with axes hacking at the thick rope cables while those with hammers drew knives and slashed at the shelter. The floor beneath was covered with untanned hides and stinking furs, and Gabbik grimaced as he saw cushions made of dwarf packs unmistakeably stuffed with beards and hair from their previous owners.

  ‘Watch your heads!’ The cry warned Gabbik just in time. He took a few steps back as the broken lean-to crashed down, sending up a cloud of snow and ice that obscured everything. Sputtering, Gabbik wiped the snow from his eyes with his thumb, squinting against the ice freezing his eyeballs. As his vision returned, something large loomed out of the snowstorm.

  It was an ogre. Three times as tall as Gabbik and almost as broad as it was wide, the monstrous warrior was clothed in thick furs, its prodigious gut covered by an immense plate of metal and bone. It carried a serrated blade in one hand, its other fastened within a mail-and-leather glove with a protruding spike an arm’s span in length. The ogre’s flabby face was turned away, cheeks and ears protected by a helm with flaps tied down under the chin, an aventail of bronze scales concealing the neck and throat.

  It sniffed the air heavily, turning its head this way and that. As it shifted its weight, Gabbik saw armoured breasts sticking out like the shot of a rock chucker, the only indication that the monster was female.

  Not so long ago Gabbik would have retreated into the concealing snows, happy not to be seen. Not so, anymore. He charged the ogre from behind, slashing his axe into the back of its knee. The creature bellowed and spun, but Gabbik was still moving, bringing his axe blade across the other leg, hamstringing the ogre completely.

  It toppled back, twisting as it fell. Gabbik did not hesitate. He slammed the
rim of his shield down into the creature’s face, smashing its nose to a pulp, stunning it for a few more moments. Placing a booted foot on its shoulder, Gabbik heaved with all of his strength. The axe blade sliced through the aventail, scattering fragments of bronze, and bit into the flesh of the ogre’s neck. Blackish blood sprayed through the severed armour and bubbled from the creature’s bulbous lips.

  A flailing arm struck him in the chest, hurling him into the snow. Incredibly, the ogre rolled, trying to get up, hand searching for the sword it had dropped. Gabbik heaved in another breath, trying to get winded lungs to work, and the two of them gained their feet at the same time.

  More shapes appeared out of the snow, some orc-sized, others much larger.

  A horn sounded the order to retreat.

  ‘Thank Grungni for that,’ Gabbik muttered, turning and running. He glanced back to see the ogre stumbling after him, trailing bloody splashes on the snow, issuing wheezing croaks from its ruined windpipe.

  He was dimly aware of the others retreating around him – shadows in the whiteness, the thump of boots and jingle of mail.

  ‘Haldora?’ he called out. He hadn’t seen her since the initial charge. ‘Skraffi?’

  ‘Hoi! This way!’ a voice called to his right. He veered towards it and lost his footing on a patch of ice. His knee crashed into a rock buried by the snow, sending jags of pain up his leg. The voice – Haldora’s – shouted again, fainter than before.

  ‘Me knee,’ he called back, pulling himself up with the aid of the rock. He tried to stand on his leg but agony flared again and he almost fell. ‘I busted me knee!’

  ‘Where are you, pa?’ Haldora’s voice was even more distant, moving the wrong way.

  Looking over his shoulder, Gabbik saw the orcs coming closer, darkness in the snow moving past him to the left and right. He put his back to the rock and readied his axe.

  ‘Come on, you daft beggar,’ laughed Fleinn, appearing like a ghost, face almost white with snow. A gloved hand snatched hold of Gabbik’s collar. ‘No time to be hanging about like a fart in a drop shaft.’