BLOODRAVEN

Sarah Cawkwell

Another messenger came. This one made it to the stronghold alive, though he did not remain so for long. His wounds could not be dressed enough and the bleeding could not be stemmed. There was never any real hope of saving him. Far too much of his life had been spilled through the countless lacerations that criss-crossed his body. The messenger was almost a husk by the time he half-fell across the threshold.

The young dwarf was no fool. He knew that his life was forfeit but his dedication and devotion to his king gave him strength enough to bring his message. Fate, whether for good or evil, kept him alive long enough to bring word of the outposts to his sworn lord.

The messenger’s final five words were gasped with difficulty, every syllable tearing fresh agony from the gaping slashes in his body. And at the last, he knew no comfort in death. As the light left his eyes and the last breath dribbled from his broken lungs he saw the impact his words had upon his beloved thane.

‘The last outpost has fallen.’

The invaders had not struck at the stronghold for several days but this was no cause for celebration. Karak Ghulg had stood resolute under the onslaught of the marauders without giving quarter at all. Fading crimson stained the snow that piled high against the gates of the dwarf hold. In the face of the almost constant wave of attacks, there had been no time to clear the dead and for now, the corpses of the human madmen, kept fresh and held rigid by the ice and cold, lay where they had fallen. Their eyes stared sightlessly up at the tempestuous, stormy skies that hung leadenly over the northernmost tip of the Worlds Edge Mountains.

The cold served an additional purpose: that of keeping the stink of the dead at bay. But even stifled as it was the stench was there. Faint and unpleasant, the acrid smell of rotting flesh carried on the wind.

So far north, the near-constant snow was an inevitability that the dwarfs of Karak Ghulg had long accepted. It was the price they paid for inhabiting a place so remote. But the rewards of mining the mineral-rich seams far beneath its surface more than compensated for the hardships of the terrain.

Breath ghosting before him, a sentry raised his head to the deepening night air and inhaled a lungful of air so sharp that it caught in his chest. There would be fresh snowfall before morning. It told in the crispness of the air, in the ice wind that chilled the weathered cheeks beneath the dwarf’s whiskers. He let out a soft grunt of grim satisfaction as the first snowflake drifted down, catching in the dark hair of his beard. Without speaking, he waved a dismissive hand at the sky.

‘Nothing clever about predicting snow in the northern mountains,’ said his companion, shifting the weight of his axe to the other shoulder. ‘Don’t be expecting me to be impressed. Predict the next time those bloody maniacs try to attack and I’ll give you good money. Not before.’ The dwarf watched his breath crystallise. It was another clear night and with only the few paltry snow clouds that scudded overhead, temperatures had plummeted to painful levels.

‘Easier to predict the king’s moods these days than the pattern of those bastards.’ Those words earned a gruff, grim chuckle. The King of Karak Ghulg was renowned for his big heart, his big personality and his big temper. It was said by those old enough to remember that Skaldi Ironjaw had fought down a minotaur with his bare hands when he had been younger. He always laughed it off as an exaggeration, but there were still those who swore blind – while sober – that it was true.

Ironjaw lived his life to the absolute full, whether it was leading his men from the front line of a battle or drinking the whole stronghold under the table. His rule over the dwarfs of the north was greatly respected and entire families had moved to this most remote part of the world just to work and live under him.

‘Aye, right enough. The whole place has been on edge over the actions of these madmen from the wastes.’ The sentry waved a hand in a northerly direction. ‘Think everyone’s wondering just how this is going to end.’

‘In their deaths.’ The other guard pointed the tip of his axe down towards the piled corpses. ‘You doubt that?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’ In the distance, there was the sound of bestial howling. Eyes turned in its direction and feet shuffled uncomfortably. Since the arrival of the fur- and skin-wearing barbarians, there had been more horrors in the forest. Carrion birds, dire wolves and other things the dwarfs could not name. Creatures of the night and of the infinite dark swarmed the petrified forest beyond the stronghold’s gates.

‘Does no good to doubt our ultimate victory,’ chanced the guard as he shook himself free of the creeping discomfort that followed in the wake of the howling. ‘Sure way to lose, that is.’ This elicited a grunt of agreement and he continued, his own hopes buoyed by the words. ‘I tell you this. While Skaldi Ironjaw still believes there is hope, then we will triumph.’

‘Hope fades swiftly, my son.’

Eldgrim, the eldest Prince of Karak Ghulg, knelt at the foot of his father’s throne, his head lowered in deference to his father. He had looked up sharply at these words and his eyes narrowed in surprised concern. He had never once heard his father sound so utterly defeated as he did right now. The council had been dismissed and they had left the throne room, taking the body of the unfortunate messenger from the outpost with them.

Skaldi’s rage had been near incandescent at the discovery their last outpost had fallen into the hands of the invaders. The loss of life cut him to the core and as well as the anger that pervaded every fibre of his being came the terrible grief, the sense of responsibility for deaths that could perhaps have been prevented.

Sensing his father’s mood, Eldgrim sought to find the right words. His younger brother had always been far more diplomatic than he was. Not for the first time he wished that Felbjorn stood at his side. But it was not to be; the younger of the king’s two sons was engaged on a task of his own. As such, Eldgrim had to handle his father’s volcanic explosions of anger as best he could.

‘Do not give up hope just yet, my lord. Our warriors are still fierce and strong. Their hearts beat true. The stronghold will not fall.’ When he finally spoke the words came tinged with the faintest air of uncertainty. He rocked back onto his heels before getting slowly to his feet. The silver hoops that he wore in his right ear caught the flickering firelight of the Hall of Audience and as was his way, he reached up to toy with them as he spoke. ‘These wild creatures who attack us from the north continue to fall beneath our superior weaponry and skill. Eventually they will either concede defeat or pass us by. Either suits.’

Skaldi snorted. ‘You are yet young, Eldgrim. It is that which makes you foolish in this matter. Foolish and ignorant. Something drives these barbarians on beyond any tenacity I have ever witnessed.’

He leaned back. The Seat of Ironjaw was an ornate, hand-carved throne depicting scenes from the long and illustrious history of his family’s line. Many of Skaldi’s own victories were painstakingly carved into the stone. Eyes of Ironjaws past were picked out in minute gemstones of the darkest sapphire while ruby blood drops fell from the slain enemies of the dwarfs.

Skaldi had sat upon the throne of Karak Ghulg for a long time. His fortress was wealthy, prosperous and extremely productive. The foundries and mining operations were run with a firm but even hand that got the best out of his workers. His warriors were brave, strong and loyal. The stronghold flourished and had fought down attempted invasions many times. But these marauders seemed to be driven by something other than simple lust for wealth. They yearned to kill for killing’s sake.

Skirmishes between the dwarfs and the barbarians of the North had always been inevitable. They were too different; too detached from one another to find any sort of common ground or bargaining room. But now Skaldi could taste the bitter tang of corruption on the wind that blew these madmen to his gates. Never had he witnessed such ferocity from the humans who threw themselves willingly into death’s path. He had watched as one attacker after another had been rent asunder by a dwarf axe, or been struck down by black powder from a handgun. And still they came. Nothing seemed to stop them.

‘Something drives them from within,’ he finally said, not voicing what he truly felt. These marauders from the far North were as touched by Chaos as any he had ever seen. They were so far beyond insane that there was a cool, clinical detachment to their onslaught. He had put down several of them himself during the last skirmish and he still recalled the look of cold hatred in the dying eyes. ‘They fight like men possessed.’

‘You suspect the hand of daemons in this?’ Eldgrim spat on the stone floor of the hall and made a sign to ward off evil as Skaldi nodded his head slowly. The king ran a hand down the full length of his beard, his hand briefly clenching around the gold fetishes that were braided into it.

‘The whispers that carry to my ears,’ said Skaldi quietly. ‘There are things beyond the Northern Wastes that the likes of you and I should never even comprehend. Yet it encroaches upon Karak Ghulg like an approaching storm. We must do all we can to break this wave here so that it does not proceed further into the Empire.’ His sharp blue eyes fixed on those of his oldest son.

‘I give thanks that Felbjorn has taken so many south.’ The refugees had been led by the young prince and had departed several days ago. Skaldi had determined that there was little point in risking the lives of those who were not equipped to defend Karak Ghulg. Wives and children, and those whose age rendered them incapable of wielding a weapon in defence of their home, were sent southwards for refuge at the next stronghold. Felbjorn had eagerly offered to lead them, ensuring that he would guarantee their safety. Once they were delivered, he would return and fight at his father’s side.

It had been a much harder job than anticipated to get people to leave. Many of the womenfolk had wanted to stay and fight and there were a goodly number of females within his remaining battle force. Grim and stalwart, they fought with at least as much ferocity as their husbands, fathers or brothers. For a time it had seemed as though none of the others would depart, reluctant as they were to leave their home. But Felbjorn had courted them with his silver tongue and convinced them of the importance of survival.

The prince’s own wife, heavily pregnant with their first child, had been amongst the hardest to persuade. It had only been when Felbjorn had stepped forward and made the offer to lead the evacuation that she had capitulated. The thane had not wanted to dispatch his son off on the task but Felbjorn had reassured him. And Skaldi had never been able to deny his wily youngest anything.

Skaldi let out a great sigh and ran a hand over his eyes. Never had the weight of leadership burdened him as heavily as it did now. ‘I promise you one thing, my son,’ he said to Eldgrim, who was watching his father like a hawk. ‘Chaos will never consume our people. The humans may have fallen in its path, but we will not.’

The night passed without incident: slowly for those on watch, swiftly for those who slumbered uneasily deep in the heart of the great fortress. The light snowfall that had left a dusting of powdery white on the corpses of the last attackers had become something more insistent, until a great blizzard had rendered visibility almost to nothing. Periodically, swirls of snow were picked up by the howling wind and blown into tiny funnels of white fury that danced with effortless grace across the rocky terrain. Somewhere there was a soft thump as one of the trees in the nearby forest gave up its load of snow, made heavy and unwieldy by its weight.

Night ticked over into the cold light of the pre-dawn morning but the blizzard was so thick that it may as well not have bothered.

Starkad had taken his position amidst the dawn watch and it was he who had first spied the figures moving towards the stronghold, black silhouettes standing out amidst the grey and white backdrop.

Letting out a shout of warning that was swiftly carried the line of the stronghold’s perimeter, Starkad swung his great war axe around so that the weapon rested easily across his shoulder. His stocky body adopted a defensive stance and he squinted into the snow.

They had learned over time that the madmen spoke very little that was comprehensible in terms of language. The only times that the dwarfs had treated with the humans outside of battle had been early attempts at forging trade relationships and they had found the communication process difficult. The human barbarians spoke in a series of guttural grunts and hard syllables that the dwarfs could not fully understand. There was a smattering of words that they could mutually recognise, but beyond that the humans only understood the language of war.

‘Hold. Approach no further.’ Starkad knew that the chances were high that the fur-clad men walking towards him would not comprehend but he also knew his duty.

There were three of them, each as big and shaggy as the other. The one in the middle raised his head against the wind and gave a toothy grin. The gale caught his mane of light red hair and blew it in a cloud around his dirty face. Each man wore similar clothing: furs and leathers that gave them an even greater bulk. From the stench that Starkad could detect even at this distance, the furs had been taken from recently slaughtered animals. The barbarian smiled again; not a pleasant sight.

‘We come,’ he said in a deep voice that was thickly accented. ‘We speak.’

‘Hold there.’ Starkad brandished his axe warningly and was surprised when the three men did as he ordered. This was something new. In all the months the barbarians had laid siege to the stronghold, none had ever approached without murder in their eyes. And certainly none had ever approached at a walking pace. Now they obeyed Starkad, coming to a halt, snow blowing around them.

‘We speak,’ repeated the man, the words obviously coming with difficulty. ‘Your king. We talk…’ He turned to his companions and they conferred in low voices. He spun his head again and raised both hands above his head in a universally recognised gesture of surrender.

‘We talk terms. Bring… gift. We talk. Yes?’

Messages had already been swiftly run down to the Hall of Audience and even as Starkad maintained his position on the gate, the king’s word was being passed back up through the subterranean network back to him. The command was brief and succinct and its content startled the soldier on the gates.

‘It seems that the king will meet with you, barbarian,’ Starkad said between teeth that ground together at the thought of allowing these creatures inside the glory of Karak Ghulg. ‘On condition that you leave your weapons here.’ He gestured them to move closer and they did. The three of them towered over Starkad but he scowled up at them with determination.

‘Your weapons,’ he said in a loud voice, speaking slowly in case they were idiots. ‘Leave them here.’ He pointed at the vicious-looking two-handed sword strapped to the back of the leader. ‘Drop it here, laddie, or you go no further.’

The three men exchanged a communication in their own language. One of them laughed and unstrapped the axe he wore in a loop at his waist. With a contemptuous smirk, he made a point of dropping the axe just short of embedding itself in the dwarf’s feet.

Starkad did not so much as flinch, which drew an unexpected look of approval from the barbarian leader. The other barbarian did the same with his two smaller axes. Further gesturing turned up several daggers and throwing knives as well.

This close up, the overpowering stench of death that accompanied the furs was redolent of blood which still dripped from the freshly flensed furs. The humans stank of dankness and decay, excrement and urine, and Starkad was eager to get them out of his sight, or more specifically, out of his scent. He pointed to the leader and the sword he still wore at his back.

‘You too,’ he said. The leader shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I go, sword goes.’ He seemed to consider, digging deep into his limited vocabulary. ‘No deal. We leave.’ He gestured to the weapons on the floor and his companions knelt to reclaim them.

‘The king wants to speak with them, Starkad,’ hissed the runner in his ear. ‘You mustn’t let them leave.’

Starkad frowned, sensing that there was far more to this than he could comprehend. ‘Very well,’ he said and he tapped the barbarian leader on the arm. ‘If you take the sword, you let me bind the scabbard so you cannot draw it.’

It took a few more moments to communicate the idea, but in the end the barbarian permitted Starkad to loop cord around the scabbard, pulling it tightly so that the sword could not be drawn – or at least, it could not be drawn swiftly. Another difficult exchange of words meant that the others put their weapons down again and with this done, Starkad stood back with a grunt of satisfaction. He ran his fingers through his beard to clear it of the snow that had settled in it during the process and gestured to the doorway that led to the main tunnel thoroughfare through to the Hall of Audience.

‘Get these sons of dogs out of my sight,’ he said, confident that they could not possibly understand him. As they passed, following the runner and flanked by several armed militia, the look the barbarian leader shot Starkad suggested that his assumption may not have been entirely accurate.

When word had been brought down to the Hall that barbarians were here to treat with him, Skaldi Ironjaw had immediately demanded that they be brought before the throne. He had taken his warhammer up from where it rested against his seat of office and laid it across his lap. The weapon was a perfect example of exquisite dwarf craftsmanship, as ornate as it was functional, and had been handed down through the years from father to son.

As he had done for the duration of the siege laid upon Karak Ghulg by the invaders, he wore his full suit of steel battle plate. It was pitted and scarred from years of protecting him but in excellent condition nonetheless. The incumbent master runesmith had not long since finished embedding a number of warding runes into the breastplate and they glowed softly with latent power.

At his right side stood Eldgrim, leaning on the haft of his own axe, his sapphire eyes fixed on the entrance to the Hall of Audience. His father’s insistence on meeting the humans had irritated his sensibilities and he had not been backwards in coming forward with his opinion. He had been reminded, quite emphatically, that Karak Ghulg was his father’s to command, not his. He did not doubt that there would be words exchanged later and they were unlikely to be complimentary. As such, his blood was already up and fired by the time the three humans were led into the Hall of Audience.

Vast and cavernous as the hall was, there was no need for the barbarians to duck or stoop. They entered ahead of their suspicious, scowling escort and at the sight of them, Ironjaw sat upright. He may have been several centuries old, but it did not mean that his insight and military acumen had dulled any with the passage of the years.

‘Dwarf king.’ The flame-haired leader of the barbarians spoke with a grin that was almost a snarl. Skaldi stared at the man and it was like gazing into an abyss of madness. There was no sanity left in him. Everything this pitiful creature had ever been had been lost through years of bloodletting. The oozing animal skins around his shoulders and neck suggested that they had been stripped from their dead owners barely hours ago. Pools of sticky blood gathered on the floor at their feet as they stood there, an affront to the purity of his Hall of Audience.

‘Aye,’ Skaldi replied in time. His eyes darted briefly to his eldest son. The prince was rigid with self-control as he eyed the sword the barbarian wore at his back. Starkad’s quick thinking was noted. The scabbard was bound tightly enough that should the human wrench his sword free, he would be set upon before he drew another breath. ‘Speak your piece, warrior, and make it swift.’

‘Peace?’ The barbarian frowned, misunderstanding the connotations of the word. Skaldi shook his head. He suspected that the human was far cannier than he was appearing to be. Behind the mask of madness he could see the lingering glint of intelligence. They might be feral, bestial animals, but they could still communicate.

‘No peace. Not yet. Say what you will. Why have you come here, to the heart of your enemy’s force?’

The warrior watched the dwarf king intently and his lips moved as he worked out the gist of the thane’s question. He smiled and bobbed his head in a curious gesture of deference.

‘Our leader. He sends us to you. We bring demand.’

‘A demand? My thane, this insult cannot go without retribution. Let me…’

‘Peace, Eldgrim.’ Taking up his hammer, Ironjaw rose to his feet, stepping down cautiously from the dais upon which his throne rested. ‘Rein in your temper, boy. It could be that they are finally prepared to deal with us.’ Eldgrim’s eyebrows raised. The king had been swift to enter the barbarians in the hold’s Book of Grudges and it surprised him to hear his father speak so. After a moment’s thought, he realised that in preparing to deal with savages, his father was proving he was by far and away the better man. Or as it happened in this case, the better dwarf.

A stern stare on his face, Skaldi considered the barbarian. ‘What demand would you make of us?’

The redhead translated the king’s words to his companions and the three of them burst into wild laughter that reverberated around the acoustically perfect chamber. The laughs came back threefold, echoed by the dwarf hall, and Ironjaw knew at that moment precisely what their demand would be.

Eldgrim kept his eye very closely on the leader of the small band. The man had a twitch starting to tell beneath his right eye. It was barely noticeable, but Eldgrim noted the manner in which the man’s filthy hand clenched and unclenched, reaching for the place where the hilt of a dagger might otherwise have been. His eyes flicked to the guards behind the deputation and he gave the briefest nod of his head. The barbarian wiped a trail of spittle from his chin and turned to fully face the dwarf king. He was at least twice as tall again as Ironjaw and the breadth of his shoulders was impressive. Even without the furs which bulked him out substantially, it was easy to spot a solid slab of muscle.

‘Surrender, dwarf king. Only demand we ever make. Is very simple, no?’

‘You do not know the dwarfs so well, human.’

‘Dwarf king surrenders to Bothvar now, Bothvar will not destroy dwarf king’s…’ The barbarian waved his hand around the Hall of Audience. ‘Home.’

‘Bothvar… is that you? Or it it your master?’ The human shook his head suggesting that he did not understand. ‘Is Bothvar your king?’

‘My king. Yes.’

Skaldi’s lips drew into a tight line. ‘What is your name, human?’

The question threw the barbarian and for a fleeting moment, the madness left his eyes. He put a hand to his chest. ‘Von,’ he said. ‘I am Von.’

‘Well, Von, you take this message back to Bothvar. Listen, human, for I know that you can fully understand my words.’ The flash of intelligence in Von’s eyes had betrayed the truth. Ironjaw hefted his hammer in an obviously defiant manner. When he spoke, it was not just to the three humans, but to all those dwarfs gathered in the Hall of Audience.

‘The dwarfs of Karak Ghulg will not surrender to the likes of you. We will die defending our home and our way of life if it means preventing you and your so-called king from crossing further into the Empire. Leave now and you might yet live.’

‘And if we do not take message to Bothvar?’

‘I am sure he will understand the point when his messengers do not return. A simple choice, Von.’ Ironjaw’s stare was steel. ‘A simple choice that even you cannot fail to understand. Leave now and live or do not… and die.’

There was more raucous laughter at this and the three barbarians moved into a tight knot in the centre of the dwarf hall as the king’s personal guard moved in a little closer.

‘You kill us anyway,’ Von suggested, waving a hand at the encroaching armed dwarfs. ‘Treachery, no?’

‘You still have the choice, Von.’

The big warrior sneered. ‘I think not, dwarf king. Bothvar expects this. So Bothvar sends you gift.’ He gestured to one of his companions who reached under the furs around his body, extracting an object so vile and hideous that even the steel-bellied Ironjaw had to turn his head away.

The barbarian threw the head to the ground and it rolled a short distance, rocking on tendons and dangling strings of sinew before it finally came to a rest, the unseeing eyes staring up at Eldgrim.

‘Felbjorn…’ Eldgrim gazed down at the severed head of his dead brother and bilious fury spat from his mouth in the form of a string of curses. Ironjaw tore his eyes from the head and without even giving the word to attack, took up his hammer and prepared to deliver immediate retribution.

With an answering bellow, Von and his companions bared their teeth and put up their fists. They were insane, that much was obvious. Whilst they had left their weapons, they would fight tooth and nail until they could fight no longer. There were but three of them, unarmed – although Von was tugging with extraordinary strength at his bound scabbard – and there were more than twice that number in dwarfs. They had the upper hand.

‘Dwarf begged for mercy,’ Von taunted as he wrenched at the sword. ‘King should be ashamed of his cowardice.’ By his side, one of his companions could no longer contain himself and, with a ululating cry, dived at three of the dwarf soldiers, his fists flying. Almost simultaneously, several axes bit through the padding of the furs around his body. It was enough to stop them from properly taking hold in his flesh, but the furs ripped, exposing a lean, well-muscled torso that was covered with a filigree of battle scars. Fresh blood dribbled from wounds made by the first slice of the axes.

‘My son was no coward,’ Ironjaw retorted. He heaved the mighty warhammer around in a crushing blow. Von moved deftly out of its path, but not quickly enough. The hammerhead caught him on the hip and he winced as he felt the crack of bone. He pitched forwards at the same time as his sword tore free from the scabbard’s bindings.

Von’s two companions were tearing into the dwarfs with the bloodied frenzy of the berserker. Weapons bit into their flesh and tore open great gaping wounds. Bright scarlet blood fountained, spraying from arteries and coating the stone floor of the Hall. One dwarf was picked up bodily and thrown across the room. He struck the wall and slid lifelessly to the floor, his neck broken and his head at an unnatural angle.

Yet still they fought, nothing breaking their stride. One of the soldiers had aimed a particularly vicious low blow that had hamstrung one of the barbarians and he was now barely able to walk. He screamed a death cry and with the last of his strength, launched himself at Eldgrim. The prince swung his own weapon around without flinching. The axe was lethal in his hand and he cut many times with deadly accuracy before the barbarian fell to the ground, viscera spilling from the rent across his abdomen.

Eldgrim stood over the barbarian and drove the axe deep into the dying man’s chest before tugging it free and turning to engage the other. He left Von to his father. He knew that Skaldi Ironjaw would not thank him for interrupting his fight.

The red-haired human was giggling maniacally as he swung the heavy broadsword about his head. Ironjaw had the measure of him though. He might have been in the throes of a berserker rage, but his hip was broken and his balance was off. That he was even still standing was testament to his tenacity. But he was unable to shift his weight to compromise for the lack of balance. It was an easy thing therefore to sweep Von’s legs from beneath him with the hammer. Von tumbled with a crash, his broadsword clattering to the floor.

Ironjaw waited no longer. With a powerful overhead blow, his hammer struck Von in the chest. The man’s sternum and ribcage shattered easily under the onslaught and the hammer pressed further into tissue and muscle, crushing Von’s internal organs with ease.

Even in his dying moments, the barbarian tried to reach for Ironjaw, his hands clenching into claws as though he would tear the dwarf king’s heart from his body. He tried to speak, but his mouth merely filled up with blood. As he died, his final words were exhaled with an ominous, precognitive sigh.

‘He will come for you.’

Ironjaw swung the hammer again, this time crushing Von’s head. Grey matter dribbled from the cracks in the man’s skull to mix with the red stain that had already begun to spread from the countless wounds on his body.

From over his shoulder, Ironjaw heard the final scream of the remaining human as he too was felled, but he took no pleasure in the sound. His eyes were fixed on the head of Felbjorn, his beloved youngest son. The boy who had been so like him. The boy he had perhaps treated with unfair preference over the older, more cautious Eldgrim.

Skaldi Ironjaw had always loved both his sons equally and had always made it clear that when the time came, his throne would pass to Eldgrim and it would pass gladly. But he was guilty, he knew now with the terrible clarity that came with such a heavy loss, of indulging Felbjorn’s rebellious streak. Throughout the boy’s childhood he had not enforced the same kind of restrictions upon his younger son’s activities as had been necessary with Eldgrim and, as a result, the young Felbjorn had run almost wild amongst the mines and latterly, in the petrified forests.

Such a free spirit should never be contained, Ironjaw had always said with great affection whenever his late wife or his oldest son came to detail Felbjorn’s latest misadventure.

And now his heart was stilled. Never again would he sit up until dawn with his youngest son, engaging in the ancient rite of drinking one another comatose. Felbjorn would never see his unborn child. So lost was he in his own moment of grief, tears running down his face unashamedly and soaking his beard, that when Eldgrim’s hand lay upon his shoulder he barely noticed.

‘We must hope,’ Eldgrim said, his voice shaking to conceal his own anguish, ‘that Felbjorn was returning to us when those bastards waylaid him. We must hope that the refugees made it safely south.’

The king did not look up at his son for a moment or two, grateful that the prince did not push him to pull himself together until he was ready. He reached up and wiped away the tears and spatters of Von’s blood from his face, closed his hand tightly over that of his son and straightened his shoulders.

‘Get these bodies out of my throne room,’ he said, without turning to his militia. ‘And ensure that the entire stronghold is awake and prepared for war.’

He turned to survey the devastation of his throne room and his face was grim with a set to his expression that had long since given his family line their name. The barbarians deserved the entry in the stronghold’s Book.

‘They will come now. And they will come soon.’

At the moment his messengers were dying bloodily and messily on the floor of Karak Ghulg, Bothvar, Chaos champion of his people, was engaged in a battle of his own. In his case he was battling as a means of both teaching and reprimanding. The young men who flocked to his call never seemed to learn that challenging him to a fight would end only one way.

In this instance it took him less than four minutes to dole out the required lesson to the young pup who had demanded to prove his worth in combat. It had only taken that long because Bothvar had been enjoying the chance to show off.

Nobody knew how old the champion was. Some whispered that he had served Kharneth, the bloody lord, for decades, maybe even longer. Others claimed that he was not born of woman at all but was a creature of the Chaos Wastes who had been wrought into human form to deliver the god’s will across the lands. Whatever he was, he attracted vast numbers into his flock. The barbarian horde tore their way through villages, looting and destroying wherever they went. There was no such thing as too much blood when you lived your life in service to the Blood God.

The champion, chosen by the Skull King many years before, stood six-and-a-half feet tall with dirty blond hair that grew far below his shoulders. It was matted with dirt and old, dried blood and clumped in unmanageable tangles that merely added to his ferocity. His skin was darkened by spending his life in the rays of the weak, northern sun and like the rest of his warriors, he chose to wear furs and leathers over his powerful torso. Tattoos, the marks of his god’s favour, were worn proudly on every visible inch of skin. He also decorated himself with a grotesque variety of fetishes made from various parts taken from the corpses of his victims. A necklace made of human teeth adorned his neck and was added to regularly.

He had been raised up as champion following a series of challenges which had marked him out as the stand-alone winner. He had fought his way through enemies and by the end of the trials had also turned upon the fellows with whom he had started the process. He had killed in the name of Kharneth and he had been rewarded beyond measure. The precious armour that made him a nigh-on unstoppable force in battle even now sat upon its simple wooden stand within the semi-permanent yurt that served as the champion’s lodging.

He stared down at the youth who had dared challenge him. The boy who could not have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old was unconscious, his jaw swelling from where Bothvar had struck him. There were a number of lacerations visible on his body and his breathing sounded ragged; probably a broken rib or two.

He might live, he might not. Bothvar did not particularly care one way or the other. He took little notice of those who followed him, seeing them only as a means to further his own status, not only in the eyes of the Blood God, but also those of she who brought the word of the god to them. Sometimes she brought the god’s pleasure. Other times, she brought Kharneth’s wrath. After those times, Bothvar’s numbers would be considerably less than they had been at the start.

Bothvar sheathed the pair of axes that he wore crossed over his broad, powerful back and turned to the already dispersing crowd. Leaving the boy face-down in the snow, he strode to the warmth of the fires that burned brightly in the centre of the encampment. They were hardy enough to weather the worst of the blizzard. Many of Bothvar’s followers – including the champion himself – were so far beyond normal level of sanity that they did not even feel the cold. More than one of them had died of hypothermia in the punishing temperatures. They were acknowledged and acceptable losses.

There were ways to counter the harsh weather. Furs were the obvious one; many of the wiser barbarians also smeared their bodies with a fat rendered down from the carcasses of the bears who roamed the forests of their homelands. It was foul stuff to handle and smelled even worse, but it added a layer of insulation that was second to none.

There was also the imbibing of alcohol. Where the ordered and organised armies of the Empire would have frowned upon such behaviour, Bothvar encouraged it. The men and women who plundered the lands at his side were plied regularly with a potent concoction made from fermented ewe’s milk mixed with the blood from other sacrificial animals. Anybody not born of the Northern Wastes could not stomach it and there were plenty of those who were born of the Northern Wastes who could barely consume it without retching.

Bothvar dropped down by the fire and almost immediately a cup was thrust into his hand along with a slab of meat. He ate the messy offering raw, blood running down his chin. At his feet, one of the many wolf hounds that went to war with his people gazed up, a low moan of longing coming from it. Bothvar threw a chunk of the meat to it and the animal loped off to tear at its prize.

Bothvar took a long drink and leaned back to watch the activity around his camp with affected disinterest. Everywhere he looked there were signs of the impatience that was inevitable the night before a big raid. Fights and scuffles were breaking out. A few warriors were actually ensuring that their blades and weapons were in as good a condition as they could manage. Some were even attempting sleep; difficult given the level of noise that permeated throughout.

The camp was temporary; Bothvar had ordered that they put down for now until they were fully massed and ready to strike at the dwarf stronghold. He may have been more than half-mad, but even the champion knew that his army would fare much better if they had an inkling of rest. They had a long march in the morning and if his scouts and his own reckoning were right, they would fall upon the dwarfs by the time the winter sun was at its zenith.

He watched through lidded eyes as one barbarian settled his disagreement with another in a most creative way. The two had been engaged in fisticuffs for a while, neither backing down and both well-matched. The odds turned in the one’s favour when he reached out and grabbed one of the wolf hounds by the haunches. The animal yelped in confused pain as it was suddenly ripped from the ground and swung with full force at one of the humans. It howled, then growled as it was dropped. Incited to rage, the hunting dog bared its teeth and flung itself at the unfortunate barbarian.

Bothvar laughed without humour as he watched the dog – more of a wolf, really – tear out the man’s throat. Within moments of the man’s death the rest of the pack had descended to tear at the fresh meat. The half-feral hounds were a useful addition to his warhost and so he tolerated their presence.

As the night stretched on, there was more fighting and Bothvar revelled in it. This was what he and his people lived for.

Within the halls of Karak Ghulg, things were far removed from the drunken levity of Bothvar’s camp. The thane’s grief at the passing of his beloved son was absolute and his misery permeated the stronghold with a seeping sorrow that was felt by all who lived within.

The dwarfs were also preparing themselves for war, although compared to the barbarians they were precise and military in nature. Weapons were being sharpened, the runesmith worked late into the night embedding sigils of warding and protection into axes and armour and through it all, the sense of despair lingered. They were fierce and they were superlative fighters but their scouts had returned – if only barely – with reports that Bothvar’s warhost was immense.

Had Ironjaw not been so caught up in his own misfortune, he would have been walking amongst his men, speaking words of courage and reassuring each and every one of them that they would succeed in this venture. Instead, the thane withdrew to his private quarters, ostensibly to ‘prepare himself’ for war, leaving his heir to pick up the pieces.

If Eldgrim knew any anger at his father’s selfishness he did not show it. Wearing his own armour, pitted and marked with the legacy of several battles of his own, the prince of Karak Ghulg prowled the sconce-lit halls of the stronghold. He murmured words of encouragement to all those he encountered and in every case, the stern dwarfish faces would light with renewed hope.

Without speaking to his father, Eldgrim made the decision to send out a further scout party; this one southwards. He needed to know, as much for his own piece of mind as any other reason, whether Felbjorn’s death was the only one or if the entire caravan had been ambushed. He was agonising every bit as much as his father at Felbjorn’s death, but unlike Skaldi, the prince could see the vital importance of ascertaining that their people still lived.

When the news came that there was no sign of the caravan and that the chances were good that Felbjorn had been travelling back alone, Eldgrim spread the word amongst his people. By the time the longest night had ended, their collective hope was replenished. Now the dwarfs of Karak Ghulg had something worth fighting for.

For the barbarians, the night did not pass as slowly. Drunken and belligerent, the majority of Bothvar’s warriors made no obvious preparation for war. Instead they engaged in fighting and games of chance. Dawn crept almost unnoticed, marking the beginning of the day, but so engrossed were they in their drunken and petty disputes that when the clouds above them darkened still more, they did not immediately notice it. Ultimately it was the champion who first became aware of her presence. Over the years, he had become so attuned to his mistress that he could sense her proximity without looking. A delicious thrill of anticipation shook through his bloodied body.

‘She is come!’ He roared the words at the top of his voice and almost instantly the entire throng stopped what they were doing, caught by the passion in their leader’s voice. All of them, every man and every woman, dropped immediately to the ground in obeisance. All except Bothvar who remained upright, although he swayed slightly. The champion looked over the kneeling masses with approval and then turned around to look into the eyes of his beloved mistress.

As tall as he was, she was a sight at one and the same time fearsome and beautiful. When she had walked amongst mortal man, legend had told that her cold beauty and lithe, athletic body were much coveted amongst the warrior tribes of the north. In her immortal life, she was a vision of rapture; her consort’s desire made flesh.

There were vast, leathery wings currently folded against her back and snow dusted them lightly as it fell. With a grace that seemed unusual given the ungainly nature of her hooved legs, she moved slowly towards Bothvar. She was as regal as she was deadly. Despite the sheer adoration he felt, the champion watched her every move like a hawk, sobriety tugging at him. She was beautiful and she was his queen, but she could turn in an instant. He had seen it many times.

Her eyes were like fire, burning and as red as the armour that continually dripped blood onto the snow. Each drop burst in a crimson flower where she walked. In her right hand, she carried a mighty, ornate spear. All of her warriors knew this weapon. Slaupnir. It had slain countless numbers, reaping many lives in her consort’s name.

But it was the shield that truly drew attention. The never-still head of Locephax, Prince of Slaanesh, turned as much as its bindings allowed, its eyes burning with hatred for both those who opposed it and she who carried it. Valkia had fought and defeated the daemon prince while still walking the realm of mortal man. It had been this act, so the tale went, that had brought the warrior queen to the attention of Kharneth. Her actions were legendary and the outcomes manifest before them. Elevated to walk the realms of the immortal, Kharneth had taken her to consort.

That she had come, that she was here to walk amongst her chosen was a great omen and Bothvar’s heart soared. All thoughts of treachery fled and an unholy ecstasy thrilled through him. With Valkia’s personal blessing, his army would fight with a ferocity that would not be equalled.

She considered him for a moment, her face unreadable and then her lips eventually twisted upwards in a cruel smile. Her tongue snaked out and ran across her lips slowly and suggestively. She took another step forward so that she was virtually nose-to-nose with him.

‘My champion,’ Valkia said, reaching out a hand to caress Bothvar’s cheek. Her taloned fingernails drew a line of red as they passed.

‘My queen,’ he replied, his voice hoarse and filled with adoration. Slowly he sank to his knees before her, gazing upwards with a delicious, devoted insanity that she approved of most wholeheartedly.

‘Rise up, Bothvar, and we will talk of my Lord’s plans for the dwarfs of Karak Ghulg.’

‘Is he not pleased?’

‘You misunderstand me, Bothvar,’ she said. Her voice was low and musical, still tinged with a hint of the accent of her long-ago life in the Northern Wastes. ‘My lord Khorne is more than pleased with your efforts so far, but he has merely suggested that you could be doing… more.’

The pause made him anxious. The dwarfs had held out against their incursion for some considerable time already and he was acutely aware that the blood spilled in the name of his god was substantially less than it could have been.

As Valkia led her champion through the camp, fights broke out in her wake. She heard the sound of scuffling behind her and her smile grew broader. Her presence radiated bloodlust and for an assembly such as Bothvar’s warhost, it was all they needed. She occasionally let her burning eyes pass over a young would-be champion. All those with a mind to be noticed by the consort of their god did their best to attract her attention: puffing out their chests and adopting their most ferocious stance.

If the daemon princess noticed them, she said nothing. Her eyes flicked occasionally in their direction and a glimmer of amusement showed in them. Several of the wolf hounds prowled behind the pair of them, driven into a frenzy by all the blood they could scent.

One of Valkia’s long, slender fingers came up and pointed in the direction of the unmoving young warrior who had challenged Bothvar. He still remained where he lay; whether he was alive or dead was a mystery that the champion was not overly concerned with solving.

‘Him,’ she said in her captivating voice. ‘He is expendable.’ It was not a question.

‘For your purposes, my queen, every one of us is expendable.’ Bothvar’s statement was rewarded with a curl of the lip that was somewhere between a smile and a sneer.

‘Well spoken, my champion.’

With a barked command, Bothvar ordered the motionless youth be brought to him. The boy lived, if only barely. The crimson stain on the ground combined with his pallor told of a great blood loss. He was unceremoniously dumped on the ground at Bothvar’s feet.

‘Young,’ Valkia observed as Bothvar turned the boy over with the toe of his boot. ‘But more than adequate for the demonstration.’ To Bothvar’s mixed delight and horror, she thrust her spear and shield at him with an imperious gesture. She knelt down, her legs straddling the unconscious warrior’s hips and tipped her head slightly to one side. There was complete silence within the camp as all eyes turned to see what their queen was doing.

She smiled and spoke without looking up. ‘My Lord and Master, your god Kharneth, has decreed that we make an example of these dwarfs. We leave a strong message for those who would fight against the forces of the Blood God.’ As she spoke, the wings at her back slowly unfurled until they were out to their full span. One hand reached to the belt at her waist and withdrew a wicked-looking dagger, its blade curved and glinting in the weak rays of the winter sun. Every pair of eyes was on it.

‘My lord bids that we perform the ancient rite of the Bloodraven.’ Her voice rose in volume enough to be heard throughout the camp. ‘Watch. Learn.’

She leaned forward, and with her other hand, stroked a nail down the boy’s cheek. He moaned softly and opened his eyes. As he looked into the face of the daemon princess, ecstasy and adoration filled his expression. He mouthed a question that nobody but Valkia could hear and she drew her nail back across his face. A thin line of scarlet welled in its wake and her smile broadened. She leaned in and her head nodded. Her lips brushed against the boy’s own in a strange sort of benediction.

Seconds later, he was dead. With the supernatural strength and daemonic power she possessed, she plunged the dagger directly into his heart, taking the last of his life with her. She turned her head to look at Bothvar.

‘What follows is the Rite of the Bloodraven. You will all perform this on the fallen of the dwarf stronghold. Alive or dead, it matters little.’

Having so spoken, she dragged the dagger’s blade downwards, cutting through the furs the youth wore with ease. The dagger stroke drew back upwards again, slicing through skin. Blood pooled on the snow beneath the boy’s body and Valkia threw back her head and laughed. She dropped the dagger to the ground and with her bare hands, peeled back the skin of the young man’s chest to reveal his ribcage, slick with blood and mucous.

‘It requires strength of purpose to do this,’ she said by way of commentary. ‘But keep your loyalty true and my lord’s hand will guide you correctly.’

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

The scream reverberated around the mountains and carried far, even to the ears of the sentries on the walls of Karak Ghulg.

Valkia’s blade flashed briefly as she brought it down in a true blow that cracked the sternum. Bone chips flew and the daemoness raised the dagger again. Three more blows and the hairline fracture had spread from top to bottom. She turned the dagger in her hand and struck downwards with the hilt. The breastbone splintered easily beneath her and she took hold of the two ends of the ribcage in either hand. With immeasurable strength, she wrenched the ribcage apart until it was splayed outwards. It eerily resembled the unfurled wings at her back and those on the ravens that circled above.

Her task complete, Valkia sprang upwards and backwards from the boy, her wings fluttering to stabilise her and she stepped back to admire her grisly handiwork.

‘Glorious, don’t you think, champion?’

Bothvar stared at the boy. He had not been a part of the warhost for long and now he was nothing but meat, his internal organs displayed for all to see.

The shocking sight of one of his own men rendered down to such an ending in this way both delighted him and fired his insane lust to kill and maim.

‘Quite glorious, my queen,’ he replied, shifting his gaze from the dead boy to Valkia. ‘And this is what you wish us to do to the dwarfs?’

She nodded, absently flicking gore from the end of her fingers as she took back her spear and shield. ‘All those you slay,’ she affirmed. ‘Apart from their king. Save him for me.’ Her smile broadened. ‘Yes, my beloved champion, I will walk with you this day.’

She turned and walked into the heart of the camp, speaking softly to Bothvar. There was such cheering from his men that nobody noticed, heard or even cared when the wolf hounds buried their muzzles in the feast that had been provided.

The snow had finally stopped falling by the time the dwarfs were ready to take their places. Skaldi Ironjaw had emerged from his room, his face and eyes ravaged with the terrible ache of his loss. He did not acknowledge Eldgrim’s tireless efforts but his son was not expecting it anyway. He loved his father and he knew that his father loved him in kind. Such affection had always belonged to Felbjorn. He did not expect an instant transference of love just because the heart of his younger brother had been stilled.

It had been Eldgrim who had readied the dwarfs of Karak Ghulg for battle. It had been Eldgrim who had spent all night speaking with the runesmiths and the Master at Arms. Yet it would be Skaldi who led them into battle with the human barbarians.

If the prince knew any irritation or anger at this, he did not let it show. His father was the thane. It was right and proper for him to maintain a stern demeanour in the face of the enemy. Usually there would be time for the thane to deliver a rousing speech, but the sound of howling on the wind suggested that there would be no such luxury afforded them on this day. The enemy approached and they approached rapidly.

It was the thane’s place to defend the interior of the stronghold and he gave over command of the exterior troops to his son. His command constituted the first words he gave to his son since he had emerged and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Skaldi reached out a hand and closed it around Eldgrim’s forearm.

‘Karak Ghulg must not fall to these invaders, my son.’

‘I will do everything within my power to prevent it, my thane.’

‘Later, when this is over… we will sit. Talk.’ A semblance of a smile flickered across the dwarf-king’s lips. ‘We will drink together and will enter these bastards into the Book.’ His hand squeezed tighter and Eldgrim returned the smile warmly. To sit and drink with his father would be the ultimate recognition and he would do everything in his power to make it happen. For his part, Skaldi’s strength seemed to return and he spoke increasingly loudly with more power in his voice. It gladdened the hearts of the dwarfs on the ramparts of the stronghold to hear it.

‘Fight well, my son. Honour and glory will be ours this day.’ With those words, he shouldered his hammer and strode into the depths of Karak Ghulg.

Eldgrim raised his head and sniffed the air. He could scent filth and blood, and the faint smell of rot that came from the dead barbarians who had already tried their hand at taking Karak Ghulg. They had fought against everything that had been thrown at them and they had survived. They would survive here today.

He turned his back on the approach down to the stronghold and raised one of his swords high in a salute to it. All those with him followed suit and one by one, they faced forwards, prepared for anything that came their way.

What came their way was a blood tide. The barbarians broke over the crest of the hill in a wave of berserker fury, falling on the stronghold in an incredibly short space of time. It was only due to the hard work and efforts of Eldgrim and the army’s commanders that they were more than prepared for the initial onslaught.

The moment Bothvar’s men were sighted, the dwarfs armed with black powder handguns fired rounds that had been stoked for hours. It had been the tactic they had employed ever since the barbarians had begun plaguing the stronghold and had proved enough to put down most of the skirmishes. But this was no skirmish. This was a full attack by a disturbingly well organised force.

The first volley of fire roared out, echoing around the amphitheatre provided by the mountains that encircled Karak Ghulg. Its noise was drowned out by the dying screams of the barbarians who found themselves in the path of the deadly projectiles. But the dwarf marksmen, despite their prodigious skill, could not reload as quickly as the human warriors could swarm upon their walls with tenacious determination.

‘Loose the cannons on them!’ The voice was Eldgrim’s and it carried above the cacophony of encroaching battle. The enemy were already at the base of the curtain wall that wrapped the outer bailey of the stronghold. The wall was solid enough, but the heavy wooden gate that barred their entrance would not withstand their barrage for long. The wall was too high by far for them to easily scale, although several of them, deranged in their battle madness, were trying.

There was a resonant boom as the first of the four cannons mounted on the walls spat its load towards the approaching warriors. There were so many of them. Eldgrim felt the pinprick of doubt pierce his armour of self-assurance but shook himself back to attention. The cannonball, fired at a deadly speed, struck true, scattering a pocket of the invaders as it hit. The other two cannons roared as well but the last one misfired. It was a risk that all the dwarfs who handled the machines took, and took willingly. But hearing their agonised screams of pain as they were burned in the backdraft of flame that was disgorged from the cannon was not something Eldgrim had ever wanted to hear.

The stench of singed hair and burning flesh filled the morning air and as much as he wanted to race to the aid of those who were dying, Eldgrim knew he could not. He had fought many wars in his time and had long been hardened to the sights and sounds of warfare. He had defended Karak Ghulg from many invaders without even thinking twice about spearing them through the eye with his sword. But he had never felt so uncertain about his victory as he did right now.

The hand-gunners were training their weapons on the enemy again and more were being blown apart, joining the other dead and dying. With a sinking heart, Eldgrim realised that effective though the black powder was against the more primitive humans, it was still little more than a delaying tactic and not one that was going to buy them a lot of time. Already several of them had brought a crude battering ram to bear; a bulky chunk of tree trunk that was being hefted between several of the larger men. With guttural cries in a language that Eldgrim never wanted to understand, they threw themselves at the gate in their first onslaught.

The ram struck the wood of the gate with a thud that could be felt as much as heard. It was a good door, solid and well made, as was everything that the dwarfs turned their hands to. But it would not last long in the face of such adversity.

With another barked command, Eldgrim withdrew from the walls, taking with him the dwarfs whose job it was to hold the courtyard within the walls. When they were defeated, the invaders would face further difficulties once they hit the tunnels of Karak Ghulg. Flame cannons waited for them there and in the narrow confines of tunnels that dwarfs could traverse easily, this would present a major obstacle.

If they were defeated. Eldgrim had to keep focused on the word. If. Not when.

The air was filled with trails of black smoke from the guns and the hounds who travelled with the barbaric horde were howling their pleasure at the stink of blood and offal that pervaded. They had no loyalty to the humans with whom they travelled and they fell upon the dead, tearing through skin and internal organs to bury their snouts hungrily.

The ram struck the gate again. And again. The wood was beginning to show the strain as chips flew in all directions. Then, with three more powerful blows of their battering ram, the barbarians achieved their goal. The door groaned briefly in a last display of solidity and then it was nothing more than a memory. The ancient wood buckled and tore as easily as parchment and the men who had rammed it open tumbled through into the open courtyard. They had no chance to celebrate however as they were immediately trampled under the onslaught of the rest of the warhost. They would not live to partake in the bloodbath that would ensue but they were so insane, they died laughing.

Without any hesitation, Eldgrim and the heavily armoured, stocky forms of the bulwark defence met the challenge of the barbarians head on. They fought with precision and as a unit while the men and women of the north flailed in a bloodied frenzy. There was no grace and no élan to their method of fighting and many were cut down without ever so much as grazing a weapon from armour. Those who did manage to get a blow in did so more by luck than chance.

But their sheer numbers were inconceivable. The word of the scouts had suggested that the barbarian horde was massive but seeing it like this, a never-ending flow of fur-clad bodies covered in blood and tattoos… a blur of faces that never resolved into anything solid for long enough to get a truly good look… Eldgrim could not devote any time to thinking about such things as more of the warriors flooded in through the splintered gates. In the rush to get through the gate, two or three of them had impaled themselves on the vast splinters that jagged outwards from the remains of the wood. They half stood, half lay; the timbers of the gate piercing their bodies. Their eyes were open and there were delighted, mad smiles on their faces. Blood oozed down the wood, reddening it and indelibly staining it.

A flaxen-haired northwoman with a double-headed axe let loose with a banshee screech of death and ran at full pelt towards Eldgrim’s unit. She was cut down in such a pitifully short time that it was almost shameful. Eldgrim took a moment to consider the woman’s face. She looked young. Now she was dead, the axe of one of his brethren having split her skull down the centre until the two halves had practically peeled away from one another.

She had toppled and fallen into the snow and yet, in her very last moments, she had managed somehow to flip herself onto her back and lay on the ground, her arms flung outwards from her chest and a look of bestial ecstasy on her face. It was a disconcerting sight.

‘Eldgrim!’

The cry came from atop the wall and the prince tore his attention away from the dead enemy. There was something in the tone of the shout that chilled him to the very marrow and he raced as fast as his stubby legs would allow him, half jumping and half clambering across fallen bodies of his enemy and his own people towards the sound.

He scrambled back up the wall, only a little out of breath, and followed the trembling finger that Starkad was pointing in the direction of the approach to Karak Ghulg.

A man Eldgrim deduced must be Bothvar, the nominal leader of the forces that had been hitting them so hard and for so long, was heading towards them at an idle, almost leisurely pace. Even more of a giant than his brethren, the marauder’s bulky shoulders were draped in furs. Even from this distance, he radiated menace. He paused and seemed to be looking down at something on the ground before him.

‘Fire on him, damn you!’ Eldgrim grabbed a hand gun from the closest dwarf and aimed it with inexpert skill at Bothvar. His finger squeezed the trigger and the projectile flew towards the warrior. Eldgrim was unprepared for the recoil and staggered backwards. It was only through Starkad’s swift reactions that he did not plunge off the curtain wall to the broiling mass of bodies fighting in the courtyard below.

He caught his balance and watched in dismay as the bullet was deflected by the armour the champion wore.

‘Eldgrim. Look at what he just did.’ Starkad’s voice was actually fearful and it was this that made the prince pause and realise just how desperate things must be. His eyes tracked downwards with dreadful certainty that what he was going to see would be horrific.

Two of his kinsmen lay dead, their ribcages spread and the seeping scarlet flowers blossoming beneath them standing out in stark contrast to the all-pervading white. From here, he could see that Bothvar’s hands were sticky and wet, stained as much as the ground on which he stood. Eldgrim felt bile rise in his throat and turned his head away. It was the inalienable right of every dwarf warrior to die a noble death and what Bothvar had done here was anything but. There was nothing more ignoble than the desecration before him. And in five more words, his companion changed that knowledge.

‘They weren’t dead, my lord,’ Starkad managed to get out in a whisper. No more words left his lips as he pointed from the dead dwarf to others who had suffered that same terrible, grisly fate.

Something irrevocably tragic happened to Eldgrim Ironjaw in the wake of that terrible pronouncement. In a heartbeat, he became blinded by his own fury. For a warrior whose past glories and much-lauded triumphs had largely been born from his impeccable self-control and intrinsically brilliant strategic mind, this proved to be the first step on the path to his ultimate downfall.

Far below them, deep in the heart of the stronghold itself, Thane Skaldi Ironjaw was standing his ground. Despite the solidity of the heavy doors that barred entrance from the world beyond, the dwarfs within Karak Ghulg could hear the sounds of battle outside. It stirred the thane’s blood and with the practice of a lifetime, he quashed the urge to demand the doors be open so that he might better be able to join battle.

He had known that there was every possibility that his remaining son would die in defence of their ancestral home and the knowledge pained him to the very core. But it was the way things must be. The very thought of the barbarian marauders running rampant through the vaulting, high ceilinged chambers and taking the wealth of the Karak Ghulg dwarfs for themselves made his blood run cold.

The desperate, burning need to avenge his younger son’s untimely death had not lessened at all and he kept that fire raging within his heart. Were he to lose both sons then his wrath would be immeasurable. And despite the love he bore for the noble warriors he had sired, if their death was the conduit to giving him the strength to defeat the marauders then he would accept it with blind faith.

He bowed his head in a moment of silent prayer, listening to the sounds of battle above him. Between him and the warriors who threatened were a series of corridors lined with flame cannons. Should Eldgrim fall, should the men holding the gates be defeated, then there would be a wall of flame that would claim the lives of many.

Skaldi raised his head, staring determinedly ahead at the tunnel mouth that led up to the main entrance of his beloved home. Let them come.

Bothvar could taste the blood of the dwarfs in his mouth and he revelled in it. He had split the ribs of a dozen already and they lay, splayed to the elements behind him, as he moved ever closer to the objective.

His queen had reassured him that she would be with him and even now, despite the fact that he could not see her, her very presence travelled with him. He could feel her delicious joy every time he lunged upon another fallen dwarf and he could hear her laughter of approval as he tore them apart. Blood stained his hands, his furs, his hair and the scent of it was inciting him to a bloodlust unlike anything he had ever known. It was driving him to further acts of unnatural strength. The time it was taking him to rip the dwarfs apart lessened with each victim.

‘Your tenacity is admirable, my champion,’ came a honeyed voice from above him and the ecstasy of Valkia’s nearness filled his heart to bursting. He raised his head to the sullen, snow-cloud laden skies of the north and roared a greeting, words no longer able to find their way to his lips through the fug of his battle rage.

Descending from the winter sky, her wings at full span, Valkia the Bloody touched her cloven-hooved feet to the snow. She raised her spear above her head, letting out a ululating scream of war that incited those around her into a frenzy. They renewed their efforts, continuing to pour through the comparatively narrow gates to the courtyard where they met with fierce resistance.

Valkia looked up at the walls where the dwarfs were firing their blackpowder weapons. Her burning eyes narrowed and a smile spread slowly across her daemonic face. ‘My champion,’ she purred, moving next to him and wrapping an arm around his bloodied furs. ‘The prey up there moves against us. I believe it is time for them to cease impeding our progress.’

It took an enormous focus of will to get the words past the animal instinct that had taken him, but in a barking voice, Bothvar sounded words of agreement. ‘Yes, my queen,’ he said, his voice thick with drool. Valkia leaned in closer and pressed her lips to those of the human in a lascivious kiss. Bothvar’s body shook as she granted him a blessing of the Blood God. He closed his eyes briefly as he knew with absolute certainty that he was invincible for as long as his god willed it.

Then she stepped behind him and wrapped her long arms around his bulk and screamed in a voice that shook snow from the trees.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

The cry sounded in echo as she unfurled her wings again, rising into the sky with the champion in her grasp. The leader of the barbarians was lifted from the ground and reached down to unhook his axes. He was wielding them with sure confidence from the moment she delivered him to the battlements. Valkia touched down as well, shaking back her long dark hair. Her arrival caused a ripple of panic to radiate outwards and, riding the wave of that terror, she held up the shield she wore strapped to her left arm.

It was a simple shield, a wood and metal construct that served the same function as any other, but the horror mounted upon it caused several of the dwarfs to scream in abject dismay. One after the other, they flung themselves bodily from the walls.

The sight of a head mounted upon a shield was not an unusual one for the dwarfs, who had fought against many marauders who elected to display their trophies in this way. But none of the disembodied heads they had ever faced was as terrible as the animated head of Locephax. Whatever foul magic had kept the head of the daemon prince alive continued to animate it still and its cruel features constantly twisted and writhed, wracked by eternal agony. Unleashed in this way, thrust forwards by its bearer, the shield’s innate magic activated. The head of Locephax twisted as though it could somehow wrench itself free and as always, upon realising it could not, emitted a scream of fury and rage that was the most terrifying sound the dwarfs had ever heard.

Valkia laughed in the face of the cowardice of the dwarfs and raised the shield above her head. The mouth of the shield opened and spoke words in a long-dead language that only she could understand.

Release me.

‘It will never come to pass, Prince of Slaanesh,’ she replied. ‘You are mine and together, we are invincible.’

Release me.

Valkia’s laughter grew. Every time she used the magic of the shield, the daemon prince who had once coveted her to be his slave begged for his release in the way that only a true weakling could. She spoke a single word and the eyes closed.

‘No,’ she said. Then she slung the shield across her back and raised her spear above her head. Her very presence was commanding. ‘Dwarfs of Karak Ghulg, hear me!’ Her voice carried easily above the sounds of battle in the courtyard below. ‘My lord and master gives you a choice. Heed well these words, because this is not something he does often. He is…’ The daemoness tipped her head on one side almost coyly. ‘He is impressed with you. Impressed with the manner in which your warriors conduct themselves in the face of adversity.’

Eldgrim had half-climbed, half-fallen down the ladder that led to the battlements when he had first seen the desecration of his brethren and his twin blades were a whirl of activity. When he heard the voice of the creature above however, he backed off his attack and listened to the words that slid like poison from its lips.

‘I will not treat you like fools for I know you are not. You know the choice. Make it.’

The creature sounded female and from what he could see from where he stood in the courtyard, it certainly had a female outline. But the voice was horrible to the dwarf. Where Bothvar heard honey, Eldgrim heard blades. It was a voice tainted by evil and a creature that did not deserve the right to live. He gripped the hilt of his sword more tightly and his own voice rose in grim defiance.

‘There is no choice. Now fight us.’

Many of the dwarfs who still stood roared their approval at Eldgrim’s words.

Valkia laughed her throaty chuckle and spread her wings once again. She dropped lightly from the battlements, her wings flickering slightly so that her descent was regal and dramatic. She touched down on the snow-covered courtyard and Eldgrim beheld Valkia the Bloody in her full horrific glory.

‘As you wish for death, hero, you shall receive it and it will not be noble or merciful.’ Her tone taunted him outrageously.

He was already caught in the grip of battle but even through the blood haze Eldgrim was startled when the female creature dropped a low, almost knightly bow. Incensed by what he took to be a mockery, he launched himself at Valkia. She roared her own defiance and levelled her spear, ready to do battle with the diminutive prince of Karak Ghulg.

The marauders resumed their battle, the thronging mass of bodies pressing through the gates and murdering wherever they went. Several warriors dropped to their knees and began the messy business of splitting open the bodies. Some were felled by surviving dwarfs, but all around the dead dwarfs of the stronghold were being opened up like grisly blossoms.

Bothvar made his way across the stronghold walls with consummate ease. Any humanity he might have retained had long since fled in the grip of rage and the creature that battled with the unnatural strength of a dozen warriors was more beast than man. His great-axe flashed and bit into the flesh of the unfortunates in his way and for a brief moment, the walls wept dwarfs into the courtyard.

Eldgrim’s warriors were diminishing rapidly. The guns had long since stopped barking out their futile resistance and the hand-gunners themselves were dead or dying amidst a mass of bodies. But the prince did not notice. His own battle was not going well. Valkia was bigger, stronger, faster and by far the superior warrior. Her ability with the spear was outstanding. They remained locked together in battle for long minutes and the look of sheer ecstatic pleasure on Valkia’s terrible, beautiful face as she opened cut after cut on her opponent was written for all to see.

She spun and fought with the grace of a dancer, her lithe body a near-impossible target and as his blood began to drain from his body through the many injuries he had sustained, Eldgrim’s efforts lessened and lessened until a well placed crack with the shaft of the spear caught him in the back of the legs, dropping him to his knees.

She had the tip of Slaupnir at his throat and looked down at him through daemonic eyes that showed nothing but respect for a valiant foe. The expression confused Eldgrim even as he waited for his death.

‘You have shed much blood here today,’ she said to him. ‘For that, I thank you. But you have made your choice quite clear to me. A shame.’

The eyes of the daemon princess and those of the dwarf prince locked for a fleeting second. Hers was the last face that Eldgrim saw as she plunged her spear down through his throat. It exited the back of his neck and blood geysered from the gaping wound.

Putting a foot on the dwarf’s chest, Valkia withdrew her spear and kicked his body over backwards. With a bloodthirsty snarl, she dropped to her knees and broke his corpse open as if she was exposing the kernel of a nut.

The pitiful handful of dwarfs who still lived cried out at the terrible desecration of their beloved prince and renewed their efforts. But they were hopelessly outnumbered and Eldgrim’s violent death destroyed what little morale they had remaining. They struck out with their weapons, one valiant warrior even resorting to using his teeth, but the marauders soon dispensed with them.

Bothvar had made his way down from the walls of the courtyard. He had shed the furs across his back some time ago and now fought bare-chested, despite the biting cold. His sun-tanned, heavily muscled torso was dripping with the blood of all those he had killed. Without waiting any further, he hurled himself at the ornately and elaborately carved doors that barred their way deeper into the heart of the stronghold.

He threw himself against it several more times without them moving. Two or three others joined him and they recovered the battering ram from the outside of the compound. The ram barged against the door again and again, but the dwarfs well knew how to batten down their hatches when it became necessary.

Valkia pointed the tip of her spear at the ornately decorated gates that barred passage into the heart of the stronghold.

‘You would let a door stop your victory? Where is your passion, champion?’ Her voice took on a faintly mocking tone and she leaned on the haft of the spear, pointing a long, slender finger at him. Her voice raised in a penetrating laugh that cut Bothvar to the quick. The laughter rose in pitch and carried through the door of the stronghold to the dwarfs who stood within. With every pulse of her cruel laughter, the battering ram struck that bit harder until Bothvar was screaming so loudly as he led the assault that blood vessels burst in his face, adding to the plastering of scarlet that already coated his body.

Slam. Slam. Slam.

And still the doors of Karak Ghulg would not open for him.

Eldgrim was dead.

The way the sounds of battle had so suddenly ceased meant that Skaldi was only able to reach the one conclusion. His eldest son, the heir to Karak Ghulg lay dead, just like his brother. Both his sons lost within a day. The old dwarf’s heart was swollen with grief and misery and it was as much as he could do to remain upright. He could hear the sound of the marauders as they tried to break through and every time the doors shook they heralded an encroaching horror.

The tunnel defenders were already primed and ready to unleash the bitter fury of their flame cannons and there was a good chance that the ferocious bellow of their fires would reduce the numbers of the invaders significantly. Whether it would be enough remained to be seen.

Clutching his warhammer tightly, the king of the dwarfs held his head high. Bright tears shone in his eyes, but his aura was one of ferocity. His warriors moved in closer to him, ready to defend both their home and their king.

‘Brothers and sisters,’ the king roared in a voice that belied his stature. ‘Today we stand for all that we are, everything that we have worked over the centuries to achieve. Today, we repel an attack that threatens to wipe Karak Ghulg from the face of this mountain and I for one say that it will not happen.’

He raised the warhammer above his head. ‘What say you?’

The dwarfs were never hesitant about cheering their support for their king and today was no exception. Their voices rose in a crescendo of fervent defiance, loud enough to carry up through the tunnels in a battle song.

In the courtyard, Bothvar led his warriors in another attack on the door and in a rain of wood and iron, the main gate of the dwarfish stronghold shattered apart.

Almost instantly the first of the flame cannons was loosed and a long tongue of flame snaked up the corridor. Concentrated and intense, sticky and tar-like, it took hold of the furs of the first dozen or so barbarians through the entrance. They flung themselves backwards into the snow, rolling desperately in an attempt to put out the flames licking at them but the fuel was as tenacious as the dwarfs themselves. Their furs, although damp from sweat and snow, burned rapidly and soon at least eight of the marauders were screaming in terrible agony as their skin began to catch and burn as well.

Tanned flesh became blackened blisters and the screams stopped as one after the other, the unfortunates died.

Their fellows did nothing to stop them, stepping over the charred corpses and taking advantage of the pause in the spew of the flame cannon’s deadly load to hurtle as far down the corridor as they could. They reached a two-way junction, where straight ahead was a single cannon, already belching raging fire. The other corridor was clear. At the new belt of heat, the warriors staggered back. The moment they did so, the second part of the king’s plan came into effect.

Skaldi Ironjaw had long maintained a system of defence against the taking of his stronghold. It had been designed and implemented years before the king had even been born but he had added to it in his own way. For long hours he had looked over the blueprints of the stronghold along with the clan’s engineers and as the barbarians screamed relentlessly through the tunnels, the ingenious ideas finally came to fruition.

Barrels of black powder were placed at strategic points along the tunnels and bold souls – some may have said foolish – were charging towards them with lit tapers. There was the tiniest of windows in which they could get themselves clear of the resulting explosion and of the five barrels which were lit, two of the runners did not move fast enough. With a heart-stopping explosion, the barrels detonated and the ancient tunnels began to crumble and collapse.

Exclaiming in their incomprehensible language, the barbarians all backed up instantly to the small aperture where they had entered the stronghold. The dwarfs were forcing them down the flame-lit tunnel. From somewhere at the back, a bellow came. They were not words that the dwarfs manning the flame cannons could understand, but they could understand the tone. The barbarians pressed forward despite everything.

It was not surprising, therefore, that many more of them died in terrible, horrible pain before the first warrior managed to reach the cannon and bring his club to bear on the cannon crew. He knocked them back from the weapon and they scrambled as swiftly as they possibly could to their feet. The brief lull was enough to allow for another pouring of warriors down the corridor, but they continued to be hemmed in. Now, not only was the tunnel narrow, but the roof was gradually sloping downwards to dwarf height and many of the barbarians had to hunch their backs into unnatural positions. The dwarf halls may have been vast, cavernous chambers, but their inhabitants were nothing if not intelligent.

At the next splitting of the tunnel mouths, they were forced once again down towards another flame cannon when the second tunnel was similarly collapsed. There was another huge billow of flame and more barbarians were destroyed. The sacking of Karak Ghulg was not proving to be the easy task that they had anticipated.

A huge ball of fire raged down the tunnel and the dwarfs manning the flame cannon let out cries of defiance that echoed and rebounded off the walls. The roar of the attacking marauders lessened, almost dropping to silence. The three dwarfs manning the cannon exchanged looks. Had they driven the barbarians to retreat already?

Their question was answered seconds later when two figures stepped forwards through the blossoming plume of smoke of fire. Both were stooped as the tunnel sloped, but they still held themselves with the kind of arrogance that dwarfs had come to expect of the Northmen. The one standing to the right was huge, even beneath the shifting plates of armour that he wore. As he strode through the flames, the metal of his breastplate grew from steel-grey to white-hot and the dwarfs could hear the sound of it as it cooled. His hands were curled around a pair of axes that rivalled any they had ever forged and the dwarfs would normally have admired them. But they were not even looking. Their eyes were drawn inexorably to the female figure.

It was a horror, an abomination that represented the very worst of everything they had faced over the years and they were frozen, rooted to the spot and incapable of doing anything but standing with looks of horrified incredulity on their faces.

Valkia moved through the fire without so much as a singe, although the stench of burning blood from her oozing armour was strong. The shield was still strapped across her back and Slaupnir was held easily at her side. Moving together in an almost idle stroll, the two warriors of Chaos approached the flame cannon.

Two of the dwarfs died on the twin blades of Bothvar’s axes, frozen to the spot and rendered insensible by the aura of fear engendered by Valkia’s presence, but the third turned and fled as fast as his short legs would carry him. He would bring news of these terrifying intruders to his king.

With another swing of his arms, the flame cannon was destroyed. Roaring in his mad rage, Bothvar held his right-hand axe above his head as high as the ceiling would allow him. Valkia smiled cruelly at the resounding cheers and took a few steps forwards, over the bodies of the dead dwarfs. Her glowing eyes narrowed as she took in the sight ahead of her.

The tunnel broadened out into a larger chamber and within that chamber stood the next challenge.

Karak Ghulg had not fallen yet.

‘My king! The invaders have breached the tunnels!’

Breathless and determined, the young dwarf who had fled to the throne room skidded to a halt in front of Skaldi. He looked up at his king in trepidation, not keen to impart the next bit of knowledge.

‘They have a daemon with them, my king. She is driving them to feats of strength and fortitude the like of which I have never seen before.’

‘She?’

The young warrior nodded urgently and Skaldi’s weathered face paled beneath his beard. It was impossible to live this far north and not become aware of local legends and tales. To Skaldi’s knowledge, there was only one possible candidate who could fit that bill. It fit perfectly with the profile of the berserkers who had entered his throne room the previous day. Those who pledged themselves to the so-named ‘Blood God’.

Followers of Valkia the Bloody.

An involuntary shudder ran through him as murmurs began to run around the throne room. Skaldi raised a hand for silence. Still some way away, the sounds of battle had temporarily ceased, but he knew that would not last. They still had some time and he had to think swiftly.

‘Varin, I need you to do something for me,’ he said. The king’s voice was clear and strong, without a hint of the grief that had plagued him since the death of his sons. It was almost certain that Eldgrim too was now stilled forever. ‘You must take the Book of Grudges south. If this is to be our last stand, it is the one thing that must be taken clear.’

‘But, my lord…’ Varin’s face was a twisted knot of emotion. ‘I want to stay and fight.’

‘Of course you do, lad, and that’s right and proper.’ Skaldi reached out a gauntleted hand and squeezed Varin’s shoulder. ‘But this is a direct order. Take the Book, take the rear tunnel and go. Now. Travel south and pray that Felbjorn brought our people to safety. If the gods are with us, then my grandchild will be born within a few short months. Be sure he – or she – knows what happened here.’

Skaldi’s face took on a stern expression. ‘If Karak Ghulg is to fall, it will become your burden to ensure that we are not forgotten.’

Varin stared at his king miserably, tweaking his beard. Then finally he nodded. Skaldi flashed him a brief smile and took a chain from around his neck. On the end was a key.

‘I charge the Book to your keeping, Varin. Now go.’

Varin hesitated briefly, then took the king’s key and slid the chain around his own neck. The Book of Grudges sat on a pedestal at the far end of the throne room and he raced over to take it up in his arms. Skaldi moved to the rear of his throne and pressed the haft of his hammer against a stone that protruded slightly. With a rumble, a hidden door lifted high enough to admit a dwarf. The book in his arms, Varin gave his king a last pleading look, but Skaldi’s expression did not change.

Then he was gone, through the tunnel mouth, and the king activated the door once again. The line of the wall smoothed as though it had never been parted. He stood for a few seconds, the palm of his hand against the wall.

‘The gods go with you,’ he murmured. ‘Carry our memory for as long as you live.’ Then he took up his position with the rest of his soldiers and prepared for whatever would come.

There were six of them, all armed with axes. Hair, dyed an unnatural shade of virulent orange, was greased into the most peculiar shapes. The moment that Bothvar and Valkia stepped clear of the tunnel into the chamber where they had been waiting, the Slayers launched themselves with near-insanity at their enemy. At first it looked as though it would be a clear and immediate victory for the Chaos champion and his queen, but with the arrogance of their kind, they had not bargained for the fact that the dwarfs were now prepared to throw everything they had in order to defend their birthright.

Each of the axes glowed with a glaring intensity the closer they came to the daemon princess. The runesmiths of Karak Ghulg had worked long into the night to enhance the weapons and they flashed with lethal finesse in the hands of the bloodiest that the stronghold had at their command.

The Slayers gave no quarter. Each one of them had cut their own personal deal with death and as a direct result, every one of them was fearless and bold in their attack. They wanted a noble death, an atonement for deeds committed in the past, and they would give all they had to attain it. Two of the enraged dwarfish warriors made a beeline for Valkia whose spear came up instantly in response. She took her shield from across her back and thrust it forwards at them. The action woke Locephax again and the daemon prince of Slaanesh unleashed his terrible scream.

Not one of the dwarfs attacking reacted; indeed, one of them cut short his axe swing and began to hammer away at the disembodied head on the shield. With each blow he struck, the daemon screamed again and again. As part of the curse that had seen Locephax forever bound to Valkia’s shield, release could not possibly have come so swiftly.

The consort of Khorne leaped backwards on her cloven hooves and threw her spear lightly into the air. With a graceful motion, she snatched it from above her, its tip pointed directly at one of the Slayers. With a powerful thrust, she embedded it in his chest. Its ornately worked tip pierced through the Slayer’s war-painted skin and passed through flesh, sinew, muscle and bone to eventually emerge from his back. Gurgling his last, the Slayer died at the end of Valkia’s spear, his last moments haunted by the fact that his prey was within his grasp. So close and yet so far.

She withdrew her weapon with an audible shlick. The second Slayer was already hacking at her, the runic-enhanced blade making little impact on the oozing armour that protected her. Its continually weeping plates merely shifted slightly under the striking of his axe.

With a resounding bellow, the Slayer swung the axe again, this time chanting the words that would activate the magical rune that had been forged at its heart. Valkia saw the flare of magical light in the metal of the axe blade as it connected with her armour.

The red plates splashed blood at the moment the axe struck. It chewed through the daemon’s armour and bit into the flesh beneath. For long years, Valkia had not been struck by such a mortal weapon and it told in the screech of pain and surprise that was torn from her throat.

The rune spent, the Slayer spun lightly on his feet, ready to bring another attack. The rune that had allowed him to cleave through armour may only have been good for the one shot, but it had created a chink in Valkia’s defences. She twisted the spear, ready to strike back but the Slayer’s eyes suddenly opened wide. Blood poured from his mouth and he pitched forwards, one of Bothvar’s axes embedded in the back of his skull. The champion was drooling as he fought, spittle flying, and together he and Valkia took on the four remaining Slayers. Individually, the two of them were forces to be reckoned with. Fighting together, they were almost invincible.

The sounds of battle were coming closer and still the dwarfs holding ground in the throne room did not move to meet it. They were here as the stronghold’s key defence and they would not be drawn from their position. The hold was massive, although many of its occupants had left with the refugees. But each and every one of the warriors here knew that should this hall fall, then all was lost.

The battle would come to them; they knew that. Skaldi’s jaw was set in determination and already he had adopted a battle stance.

The not-so-distant screams of the dying Slayers had raised hackles on the back of every dwarf’s neck. Skaldi’s peripheral vision showed him the discomfort of his Longbeards, his most valiant and veteran warriors. They detested standing here, but would never leave the side of their king until he ordered them to do so.

Skaldi quietly offered up a prayer that Varin had made it safely out of the stronghold. He was young and fleet of foot and the secret tunnels would lead him clear of the mountains. It had been the route that Felbjorn had taken with the refugees. Varin would live. Skaldi had to believe in that. He had to believe that their deeds would live on and their grudges would remain.

His eyes cast one more time around the room. All those here now were his brethren and although none of them would have even thought of voicing the thought aloud, this would likely be their final battle. It would be a truly glorious end, Skaldi knew. An exit worthy of Grimnir himself. The simple act of anticipating his god’s pleasure when he arrived in the halls of the hereafter buoyed Skaldi’s spirits and his voice rose – a deep, tuneful baritone that carried a song of death and glory.

One by one, the other warriors in the throne room joined him, their voices soaring to the vaulting roof far above them. Skaldi raised his eyes to the ceiling and tightened his hold on the warhammer as the doors to the throne room smashed open and barbarians poured through. With nothing now to stop them, the entire remaining horde was now free to cause death and wanton destruction.

At their rear walked Valkia the Bloody, her champion ahead of her, and on the end of her spear was the corpse of the final Slayer. She swung the spear downwards and the dwarf slid free to land at the feet of his king. The challenge was laid down and Skaldi met it in kind. The singing increased in volume, each of the dwarfs of Karak Ghulg giving voice to his own personal funeral dirge and the melodies intertwined in an impossibly complex way as they engaged in a final, bloody battle to the death with the savage barbarians of the north.

The dwarfs lasted far longer than any of the northerners could have anticipated and more than one of them was felled by an accurate strike to the knees and groin that split skin and bone, leaving the humans with mortal or serious wounds. Others they butchered with ease. The humans were half-mad and foolish, making them easy prey. Many simply died where they fell and Bothvar and Valkia were rapidly having to step over growing piles of their own dead.

Skaldi fought with tenacity, drawing strength from the battle cries of those around him. The ancient relic that he wielded granted him power beyond the norm and he imparted his own iron will to battle. Many of the humans were felled in the path of his mighty hammer.

Bothvar and Valkia were cutting swathes of their own through the dwarfs, who fought valiantly but ultimately fell beneath the oppressive and relentless tide of enemies.

Skaldi was lost in his own rage, his hammer swinging, and was too caught up in the battle to realise that he was the last dwarf standing. He only became dimly aware of it when the barbarians began to break off their attack one at a time, backing away from him and opening up a channel to allow the passage of the daemon princess of Khorne to move towards him, her eyes glowing with insatiable hunger.

The dwarf king swung his warhammer and it struck against the shield. The face of Locephax leered horribly up at him, laughing and taunting. Enraged, Skaldi attacked again and again, hammering against the daemonic shield for what felt like an eternity. Other than causing Locephax a few bruises that faded and disappeared even as more appeared, he achieved nothing.

Eventually, a more violent upwards swing made the hammer connect with Valkia’s breastplate with a resonant clang. It was ineffective, but the resulting jolt shook up the dwarf king’s arm and he let go of the warhammer. Valkia raised one long, slender leg and kicked Skaldi in the sternum. He staggered backwards but did not fall. She repeated the act and with her strength and her cloven hooves, it was like being kicked by an angry warhorse. The comparison was ludicrous and even as Skaldi finally fell at the foot of his throne dais, he could not understand why he was even thinking it.

His head resounded off the stone and his vision blurred as the daemon woman came closer. She leaned down until her face was level with his. Her breath was warm and carried with it countless memories of old battles. The coppery tang of fresh and old blood was all around her and in his final moments, Skaldi was almost drawn to her. One hand came up as though he would gently touch the daemon princess on the face. To be that close to pure battle glory… One touch and he could ride the wave of triumph for ever more.

Valkia brought the unspoken offer of a never-ending life of bloodshed and glory and it was tempting. So very tempting…

The faces of his dead sons flashed before his eyes and the dwarf king’s hand slowly closed in a fist of defiance. Something like disappointment shone in the Blood Queen’s eyes and she drew her head back from the dwarf. Her eyes held his and he stared into their unfathomable depths.

He did not notice the pain as she tore him apart. It was only when he became acutely aware of a sudden warmth running around his torso that he even realised that she had sliced through the meat of his chest and was even now snapping into his breastbone. Death was coming now. He would not close his eyes, though. He would die staring his last defiance into the face of his hated enemy.

‘Good,’ she whispered. ‘I do so hate cowardice.’

With a superhuman wrench, she broke apart Skaldi’s ribcage, then plunged her hand into his chest and tore out his heart. Raising the slimy, still-pulsing organ above her head, she let out a cry of triumph. Then she tore a chunk out of the heart and chewed it before tossing the rest of it to Bothvar who similarly buried his face in it.

‘This stronghold is now yours, my champion.’ She considered him, her head cocked on one side. He had fought well and much blood had been spilled for her beloved consort. The choice of Bothvar as a champion was proving well-founded and despite her earlier taunting of his weakness, there was no denying that he would continue to spill blood and gather skulls in her name and that of their shared deity. ‘Do with it as you please. But keep your promise to me. Every dwarf corpse in this place will be opened out. We will leave the Bloodraven as the mark of our passing and it will serve as a warning to those who would dare venture any further north.’

Bothvar, still in the grip of his battle fury did not answer, but nodded his head, great gobbets of Skaldi’s heart hanging from his mouth. He raised his arm above his head and roared in triumph.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’

‘Skulls for His throne!’ The reply came in kind and the barbarians set about the task of ransacking the stronghold and fulfilling their promise to their queen. There were other areas of the hold that would need to be cleansed, but they had removed the king. The lynch pin was dead and in the wake of that triumph, the taking of the hold was merely a question of time.

And in the chaos, the delicious, wonderful chaos, nobody noticed when Valkia nodded in satisfaction. Her duty here was served and she spun on her heel and walked away, leaving in her wake the final desecration of the noble dwarfs of Karak Ghulg.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Sarah Cawkwell is a north-east England based freelance writer. Married, with a son (who is the grown up in the house) and two intellectually challenged cats, she’s been a determined and prolific writer for many years. Her first novel, The Gildar Rift, was published in 2011. When not slaving away over a hot keyboard, Sarah’s hobbies include reading everything and anything, running around in fields with swords screaming incomprehensibly and having her soul slowly sucked dry by online games.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Published in 2011 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd., Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK

Cover illustration by Clint Langley

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o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 You attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.