A WARHAMMER NOVEL

BATTLE FOR

SKULL PASS

Nathan Long

(An Undead Scan v1.0)

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This is a dark age, a bloody age, an age of daemons and of sorcery. It is an age of

battle and death, and of the world’s ending. Amidst all of the fire, flame and fury it

is a time, too, of mighty heroes, of bold deeds and great courage.

At the heart of the Old World sprawls the Empire, the largest and most powerful of

the human realms. Known for its engineers, sorcerers, traders and soldiers, it is a

land of great mountains, mighty rivers, dark forests and vast cities. And from his

throne in Altdorf reigns the Emperor Karl Franz, sacred descendant of the founder

of these lands, Sigmar, and wielder of his magical warhammer.

But these are far from civilised times. Across the length and breadth of the Old

World, from the knightly palaces of Bretonnia to ice-bound Kislev in the far north,

come rumblings of war. In the towering Worlds Edge Mountains, the orc tribes are

gathering for another assault. Bandits and renegades harry the wild southern

lands of the Border Princes. There are rumours of rat-things, the skaven, emerging

from the sewers and swamps across the land. And from the northern wildernesses

there is the ever-present threat of Chaos, of daemons and beastmen corrupted by

the foul powers of the Dark Gods. As the time of battle draws ever nearer, the

Empire needs heroes like never before.

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ONE

Dagskar Earscrapper surveyed the carnage in the cave. There were dead Crooked

Moon boys everywhere, bleeding on the cave floor, impaled on stalagmites, and bits

and pieces of chopped-up ones tossed about like squig droppings. But that was all

right, because there were twice as many dead Red Chin boys lying next to them. The

surviving Crooked Moon boys were running about, looting the corpses and cutting

the necks of any Red Chins who were still breathing, while cave squigs fed

indiscriminately on the dead of both sides.

Dagskar turned to his leader, Big Boss Budgoz Three-Teeth, and grinned. “Good

scrap, hey, boss? Showed dem Red Chins who da Crooked Moons are, didn’t we?

Calls for a drink, I think.” He pulled a skin from his belt and held it out to Budgoz.

“Swig a’ toadstool brew?”

Three-Teeth smiled, showing his three teeth, and shook his lumpy head. “Yer a

good boy, Earscrapper, smart in a fight and quick t’lash yer lads into shape, but I

trust ya as far as I can throw a big ’un.” He lifted his own skin and uncorked it. “I’ll

drink my own, thanks all the same.”

“Alright by me,” said Dagskar as the two goblins drank deep, then wiped their

mouths on the crusty sleeves of their black robes. “Coz I didn’t poison mine.”

Budgoz turned, frowning. “Whaddaya mean by—?” But before he could finish

the sentence he suddenly doubled up, groaning and retching. “You double crossin’

little—” A convulsion interrupted him, and he heaved up a thick stream of black

vomit.

“S what ya get for not trustin’ me, boss,” said Dagskar, stepping back from the

spreading pool.

Budgoz heaved again, his head turning an alarming shade of purple, and puked

out his own intestines. They sloshed across the floor like sausages in black stew. He

fell to his knees, then toppled face-first into the mess, dead as a rock.

Dagskar shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Such a shame. Terrible, terrible.”

He stepped up onto Budgoz’s armoured back and turned to the horde of goblins that

were gathering around him. “A great victory, boys!” he shouted. “But I has some sad

news. Our wise and powerful big boss Budgoz has accidentally drunk some bad brew

and ain’t expected t’recover.”

There was an ugly murmuring from some of the goblins.

“Accidentally?” said one, crossing his arms sceptically.

“Aye,” said Dagskar, lashing out with his whip and taking the goblin’s nose off at

the root with a deft twist. “Accidentally. Just like dat.”

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The goblin fell back, howling and clutching his gouting nose stump as the others

edged away, frightened.

Dagskar raised his whip and shook it at them. “I is yer boss now, d’y’hear? And

you is all my boys! Got that? Yer Dagskar Earscrapper’s boys, now!”

“All hail da new boss!” shouted a cowering goblin.

The rest took up the cry. “All hail da new boss!”

Dagskar nodded, pleased, then smiled to himself. “Now,” he said under his

breath. “Now Skarsnik has gotta make me a big boss.”

Another year, thought dwarf thane Godri Thunderbrand as he walked through the

unfinished great hall and looked up at the arching ceiling. No more than two.

Emotions welled up in his broad, beard-buried chest as he thought of it. Soon the

masons would smooth and polish the pillars. Soon the sculptors and goldsmiths

would carve and gild the ancestor faces that ringed the roof. Soon the painters and

weavers would cover the walls with the proud colours of Clan Byrnik and hang the

heavy tapestries that told their long proud history. Soon this dusty, echoing hole in

the side of Skull Pass would be a true dwarf hold.

“By Grungni’s hammer, Naragrim has done a magnificent job,” said Godri’s son

Aurik, a golden-bearded young dwarf warrior who walked beside him through the

clutter of scaffolds and piles of cut stone. “Truly, this is a hall fit for a king, a hall

like those of the holds of old.”

Rodrin, Godri’s bald, black-bearded younger brother and chief miner, chuckled

and shook his head. “It isn’t that, beardling. Not that it’s bad,” he said, with a quick

look at Godri. “It’s a triumph, all things considered, but Karak Eight Peaks in its

day—well, there was nothing like it in the world.”

“Say what you will, brother,” said Godri as he reached the centre of the hall and

turned in a slow circle to take it all in. “To me it is the grandest hall ever built, for it

is mine. There were times when I thought it would never come.” He sighed with a

mixture of sadness and pride as he thought back to the fall of Karak Eight Peaks,

when Clan Byrnik and all the other dwarf clans who had dwelled with King Lunn in

the greatest of the dwarf holds had been forced to abandon it to the verminous

invaders and seek shelter elsewhere.

King Lunn’s words to him then came back to him now as if he had heard them

only yesterday.

“And you, Godri Thunderbrand,” said King Lunn, looking down from atop his shield

as Godri knelt before him in the middle of the long train of refugee dwarfs who were

marching away from the fallen karak. “Where will you go? Have you kin in other

holds that will welcome you?”

“Lord king,” said Godri, looking up. “We have kin, but we will not burden them.

We will accept no charity and incur no debt.” He could barely see the king as he

spoke. He was still half blind from the corrosive vapours that the skaven had pumped

into the hold’s airshafts. His brother Rodrin lay on a cart along with many of the

others of Clan Byrnik, laid low by the poison the ratmen had dumped into the wells.

“We will make our own way, first above ground, later in a hold of our own. The

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earthquakes that shook our homes, and the vermin that took advantage of that ruin,

may have shattered the chain of holds that linked these mountains together, but we of

Clan Byrnik vow to forge a new link that will one day join with others, old and new,

to make us strong again.”

The old king stroked his long white beard and nodded. “Well said, Godri

Thunderbrand. You show the true strength of the dwarfs, which is not might of arm,

nor keenness of axe—though those be great—but determination and tenacity. I hail

you for it, and shall give you a token of my esteem.”

“Lord king,” said Godri, bowing over his knee. “We are honoured, but we will

accept no gift, not even from you.”

King Lunn laughed. “It is not a gift, proud thane. Indeed it is a burden—heavy,

and laden with terrible honour.” He waved behind him at his baggage train.

“Amongst my treasure I carry the King’s Wall, the iron chain that once surrounded

my throne, and beyond which none could pass without my invitation. Each of my

warriors vowed to die before letting one enemy step within it.” He sighed. “Sadly I

will have no need of it where I go, for I will be guest in another king’s hold, so I shall

give it to you.”

“It is a great honour, lord king,” said Godri, wondering if it was.

“Perhaps you think I am only lightening my load,” said the king, chuckling. “But

I vow to you that if you make a success of this new hold of yours, and build a throne

room from which to rule, then I will visit you, and wait outside the chain at your

bidding. Further, I will bow to you, and pay you the respect due a brave and defiant

king.”

Now Godri truly did feel honoured. He stood tall and struck his chest in a

dwarfen salute. “My king, I accept this burden, and by Grungni, Grimnir and Valaya,

I vow that Clan Byrnik will never let an enemy past the King’s Wall!”

And though it had been a long, hard century since then, and there had been many

setbacks and troubles, Godri and his clan had kept that vow, and wherever they had

set the heavy chain, with its squat stone posts in the shape of doughty dwarf warriors,

not one enemy had crossed it.

The clan had wandered for many years, searching for a rich, defensible mine, and

found it at last in a valley in the south of the World’s Edge Mountains known as

Skull Pass, which had a good vein of gold, a clean spring, and a strong position.

But finding the valley had only been the beginning. They had been forced to live

above ground these past eight decades while they slowly dug into the mountain, both

to mine for gold and iron, and to dig out living quarters. More than once along the

way the surface settlement they had established was almost wiped out. The winters

had been hard, the orcs and goblins legion, and their clan very small and poor. But

despite these many setbacks—what his grim-browed brother Rodrin referred to as

“the curse”—they had held on tenaciously, and now they were almost ready to move

completely underground.

The living quarters were built, the wells dug, the air shafts bored, the grain vaults

complete, the treasure vaults and workshops ready. All that remained was to put the

finishing touches on the public areas, move the grain, forge works, mill and brewery

to the spaces waiting for them inside, widen the entry passage and set the great gates

into the front door. In less than a year all would be complete and Godri would invite

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King Lunn to call upon him. Then the High King would stand outside the King’s

Wall and bow to him on his throne. It would be the proudest moment of his life.

Godri shook himself from his reminiscences and returned his attention to the half-

finished great hall. He turned to Aurik, who, in preparation for the day when he

would rule the hold, was learning to oversee much of the trading and communication

with other holds. “How soon will the gate lock and hinges be delivered from Karak

Azul?”

“Hokkir the gem merchant brought word from there when he arrived with his

wares yesterday,” Aurik replied. “It should only be a matter of weeks. The hold will

be secure before winter.”

“We should have made the lock ourselves,” Rodrin muttered. “It would be done

by now.”

Godri sighed. It had been a bone of contention between him and his brother for a

long time. “I will have only the best,” he said, as he had said many times before.

“Our foundries are not yet large enough or sophisticated enough to build the locks we

must have.”

“And Karak Azul has agreed to take our gold, cowhides and beer in return,”

added Aurik. “The establishment of regular trade with them will ensure our

prosperity for years to come.”

“But what of our security now?” said Rodrin. “We haven’t even placed the doors.

What if the curse rears its ugly head again?”

Godri turned on him, lowering his shaggy white eyebrows. “If trouble comes,” he

said, “we will deal with it as we have always dealt with it, with axe, hammer and

cannon.”

“Aye,” said Aurik, jutting out his golden beard. “Our vow to defend the King’s

Wall is stronger than any gate. We have no need to fear. Has my father not named the

hold Karak Grom?”

“Aye, aye,” grumbled Rodrin. “Enduring Defiance—I know. I would just feel a

little better if we did our enduring and defying behind nice, thick stone doors.”

“We will, brother,” said Godri, softening. “I promise you.”

The three dwarfs turned as steps approached them. Hurrying across the great hall

came a balding dwarf in a leather apron and gloves, his grey beard neatly braided into

a single club. He wiped his worried face with a red kerchief as he stepped before

Godri and bowed.

“My thane,” he said. “I must speak to you.”

“What is it this time, Naragrim Torinsson?” Godri asked, crossing his arms over

his beard. Naragrim was his chief mason, and brought him news of doom and gloom

on a regular basis.

“Something truly serious this time, my thane,” said Naragrim.

Aurik chuckled. “You say that every time.”

“This time I mean it,” said Naragrim.

“You say that too,” grinned Rodrin.

Godri motioned his brother and son to be quiet, then nodded to Naragrim. “Tell

us, engineer.”

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Faced with their combined attention, Naragrim hesitated, mopping the back of his

neck with his kerchief. “Well, ah, you see, my thane, some of the stone cutters were

roughing out the ceiling for the main entry passage while the sappers were placing

the charges to widen it, and they found…” He paused and coughed. “They found a

crack.”

“A crack?” said Godri. His heart thudded. This might indeed be serious.

“Grimnir! How big is it? Show me.”

Naragrim nodded and led Godri, Rodrin and Aurik back across the hall. “It’s

big,” he said. “Deep. It runs at a rough diagonal the whole length of the ceiling of the

entry passage. And there are secondary cracks.”

He stopped at the mouth of the passage, still narrow, but with holes drilled in the

side walls and charges set to blow it wider.

He pointed up through the drifting dust. “You see?”

Godri’s chest clenched as he looked up at the rough, arched ceiling of the passage

where Naragrim was pointing. Even from the floor he could see the hairline fissure

that snaked through the rock. This truly was bad news. The question was, how bad?

“Can the passage be saved?” he asked.

“It can, my thane,” said Naragrim. “But without support pillars and a network of

rafters, we cannot make it any wider. The roof will collapse.”

“But it must be wider!” said Aurik, stepping forward. “How will we receive the

embassies of other holds in so puny an entryway? It must be wide enough for ten

dwarfs to walk abreast. It must be as great as the great hall it leads to.”

“Not without pillars, it won’t be,” said Naragrim.

Rodrin groaned. “The curse,” he muttered.

Godri ground his teeth. “You told me you tested the stone in this mountain from

tip to root and found no fault.”

“There was no fault, my thane,” said Naragrim, his hands clasped together. “I

swear it by Grungni. The stone was as sound as a king’s vault.”

“Then what happened?” asked Godri.

“The earth tremor last winter,” said the builder. “It is the only thing I can think

of. It must have caused the crack, and our blasting this summer worsened it.” He

looked up at Godri. “I’m sorry, my thane. Erecting the pillars and reinforcing the

ceiling will add years to the construction.”

“As long as it isn’t years before we can set the doors and the lock,” said Rodrin.

Naragrim shook his head. “That won’t be affected.”

“Thank Grungni for that,” said Godri. He put a hand on the chief mason’s sturdy

shoulder. “Very well, Naragrim. Build your pillars. Strengthen the ceiling. Do what

you must. We have waited this long. We can wait a few years more.”

Naragrim bowed low. “I will draw up new plans at once, my thane.” He turned

and hurried away, calling new orders to his crew.

“It’s been like this from the beginning,” said Rodrin, tugging his black beard and

turning away. “Famine, flood, goblins, skaven, cave-ins in the mine, and now this. I

tell you, the place is cursed.”

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“Nonsense, uncle,” said Aurik sharply as he followed Rodrin back into the great

hall. “There have been setbacks, true, but we have our health. We have our families.

We have our lives. We will persevere. We are Karak Grom.”

Godri’s chest swelled with pride at his son’s admirable dwarf staunchness. He

wished his brother had more of it. Had it been up to Rodrin, Clan Byrnik would have

packed up and gone begging at some other clan’s door long ago.

A young dwarf trotted down the entry passage as Godri fell in step with his

brother and his son. “Your pardon, thane,” he said, stopping and bowing before him.

“The dragonslayer, Borri Graniteskin, has just broken Argi Argisson’s nose in the

Wyvern’s Demise.”

Godri stopped and sighed. On the other hand, maybe his brother was right after

all.

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TWO

In a stolen dwarf hall deep under Karak Eight Peaks, Dagskar Earscrapper stood in

the centre of a huge crowd of goblins, facing a towering, lopsided throne made of

split dwarf shields and crushed dwarf helms, many with crushed dwarf skulls still

inside them. Hunched on the throne sat Skarsnik, Warboss of the Crooked Moon

goblins, undisputed ruler of the World’s Edge Mountains.

Dagskar was having a hard time keeping Skarsnik’s attention. His boys had just

captured a pack of human hunters, and Skarsnik was watching as they were fed one

at a time to Gobbla, his enormous pet squig.

“Budgoz’s boys is my boys now,” said Dagskar. “Five hundred goblins. He was

big boss, so I should be big boss.”

Skarsnik chuckled as a human was kicked into the range of Gobbla’s chain and

the big squig pounced on him, gulping him down in two bites. Finally he turned to

Dagskar. “Takes more’n lotsa goblins t’be a boss, boy. What else y’got?”

Dagskar slapped his chest. “Ain’t I tough? Lookit the notches on my stuntie

sticker.”

“Yrr,” said Skarsnik, his eyes drifting back to the squig as another human was

goaded forward. “Tough enough, I guess.”

“And ain’t I a good leader?” added Dagskar, raising his voice over the roaring

and screaming and crunching of bones. “Didn’t I squash dem Red Chins and still

have half my boys left?”

“Yrr,” said Skarsnik again, nodding distractedly.

“And ain’t I smart? Wasn’t long ago I was shovellin’ Gobbla’s scat. Now look at

me!”

Skarsnik did just that, turning away from the carnage and staring at Dagskar with

sudden beady intensity. “Yrr,” he said at last. “Yer smart all right.” He waved back

the goblins that were prodding the next human forward. “Hoy. Leave off a minute!”

Dagskar edged back as Skarsnik pushed himself up off his throne and waddled

down the uneven steps to the floor to circle him, his spindly arms behind his back

and his pot belly swaying. “Right,” he said. “You wanna be big boss, dat’s okay by

me.”

Dagskar’s green lips split in a snaggle-toothed grin. Finally!

Skarsnik wasn’t finished. “But! Y’gotta pass a test first. A big boss test.”

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Dagskar’s stomach turned upside down. He’d seen some of Skarsnik’s tests

before. Usually they involved fighting Gobbla, armed with a stick. He wasn’t going

to let on he was afraid, though. That would be suicide. He kept smiling. “Fair

enough. I’ll take any test y’got. You name it.”

Skarsnik’s smile matched his own, a full complement of razor-sharp teeth.

“Right, den. Here it is. Get rid of dem stunties in Skull Pass. Dey’s like fleas on my

backside. Itchy, but too hard to reach. You scratch ’em, you get t’be big boss. You

blow it, yer back to squig scat, got it?”

Dagskar glared as the assembled goblins giggled. He knew what the warboss was

up to. Skarsnik had sent goblins after the Skull Pass stunties loads of times, and it

always ended in the goblins getting it in the neck. He obviously thought Dagskar was

getting too big for his boots, and wanted to get rid of him. And it might work. Those

stunties were tough, and no mistake. But what if Dagskar won? Skarsnik wouldn’t

look so smart then, would he? And Dagskar would be a big boss among big bosses.

Everybody would want to walk behind his banner.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “Dem stunties’ll be dead before it snows, or I’m squig meat.”

“Good either way,” said Skarsnik, laughing.

The rest of the goblins snickered derisively. They didn’t think he had a chance.

Dagskar turned and walked out of the hall, growling under his breath. He’d show

them. That stunties was as good as dead.

But to do it, he was going to need some help.

Godri ducked a hurled beer mug as he stepped into the Wyvem’s Demise, the taproom

of Clan Byrnik’s brewery, the second largest structure in the above-ground settlement

that spread out in front of the future hold. Rodrin and Aurik filed in behind him. In

the centre of the drinking hall was a whirling scrum of dwarfs, all throwing punches

and furniture. In the centre of the scrum was a tattooed, bare-chested slayer, laying

about him with fists the size of tankards, his red crest bent flat and a lump growing

on his head from some previous impact.

“You farmers don’t know the meaning of courage,” he was roaring. “I’ve killed a

dragon, I have!”

“Who saw you?” sneered a dwarf in a smith’s apron.

The slayer knocked him down with a right hook. “You doubt my word, you kruti

hill trash?”

Godri had seen enough. He snatched up an iron mug and pounded it on the bar.

“Leave off, you lot! Leave off!”

There was no response. The fighters were too busy.

Aurik stepped forward and bellowed. “Stand down for the thane! Stand down for

Godri Thunderbrand!”

This worked. The dwarfs looked over their shoulders and saw who was among

them and eventually stepped away from the slayer, who finally looked up when he

realised he had no one left to swing at.

“Thank you, my son,” said Godri, nodding to Aurik, then he turned to the

combatants. “Now then,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

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“Your lads called me a coward,” snarled the slayer, a stranger to the World’s

Edge Mountains named Borri Graniteskin, who had come to rid them of the troll that

had been terrorising the settlement for the last year. “They dared to claim that I have

no intention of going after your troll.”

A young dwarf named Skaari Otgunsson stood up from the wreckage of a table.

Godri knew him. He was a cowherd, the orphan son of a dwarf who had been one of

Godri’s most loyal followers. The lad usually tended the clan’s herd, up in the high

pastures.

“It’s true,” said Skaari, combing splinters out of his short brown beard with his

fingers. “All he’s done is drink twice his share and take advantage of our hospitality.

It’s been two weeks, and what has he done? Nothing! I lost another calf last week.

We want to see some results!”

Borri pounded his chest with his heavy fist. “I’m building up my strength! It’s no

small thing to fight a troll. I know. I’ve fought one, unlike you lot. I’ll fight that troll,

but not until I’m good and ready.”

Skaari made a rude noise, which was echoed by the rest of the battered dwarfs.

Borri’s face turned as red as his crest and he started towards Skaari, his fists

balled. “And I’ll not be called a coward by a cowherd!”

Godri pounded on the bar with the iron mug again, bending it out of shape.

“That’s enough!” he shouted. “That’s enough. Any more fighting and I’ll keep the

troll and slay you!”

Borri turned and fixed him with cold eyes. “Will you, now?”

Godri held his gaze, not backing down an inch. “I’m not one to question a

slayer’s courage or his methods—slayers are a strange, brave breed and their ways

are their own. But like all dwarfs, I do believe in value for money. Therefore, if you

don’t start after that troll in three days, you will no longer be welcome in Skull Pass.

Do I make myself clear?”

Borri continued to stare at him, his fists clenched, then snorted. “Three days. You

think I’ll need that long? I’ll bring his head back in two.”

“I’m pleased to hear it,” said Godri. He turned to Hirri, the bar-keep, and flipped

him a gold coin stamped with the seal of Karak Eight Peaks. “Next round’s on me,

but they’ll all chip in for the cost of the broken furnishings, won’t they?” He swung

his head back towards the combatants. They nodded their heads sheepishly.

Godri grinned and stepped back out into the early winter sunshine with Rodrin

and Aurik at his back. A minor problem in the life of a thane, but he was pleased to

have solved it so smoothly No feuds started, no grudges to be written in the book.

He looked around at his settlement as he strolled down its main street. On the one

hand, it pained him that all was not yet underground as it should be, but on the other,

it was more prosperous and populated than he could have imagined in the bad years.

Dispossessed dwarfs from far and wide had come to join his clan and share his

dream, and the place bustled with commerce and industry.

The brewery was hissing and booming as the ale-makers stoked the fires under

the great vats. By the stream, the mill was grinding flour for their bread. The forges

were clanging out staccato rhythms as the smiths shaped ploughs, scythes, hammers

and axes. Tanners and leather crafters and jewellers and stone carvers all worked in

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front of their shops in the cool mountain air. Dwarf-wives sat in circles, carding wool

and spinning yarn for clothes and cloaks.

Godri beamed with pride. Despite all the tragedies and setbacks, his people were

happy. And in another year, or at the most two, they would be happy underground

and all would be well. King Lunn would come and Godri would show him what his

determination had wrought.

“One more winter,” he said.

Rodrin and Aurik nodded. They’d had this conversation often enough that Godri

didn’t have to explain further.

“Aye,” they said in unison. “One more winter.”

Dagskar Earscrapper pushed through the dense undergrowth of the forest the

Crooked Moon goblins called the Niffy Woods, holding his nose. The place smelled

like bad eggs and sour milk and the trees grew funny. The mushrooms that sprouted

from them didn’t do anything except kill any goblin foolish enough to have a taste—

not that that didn’t have its uses. He had already tucked some in his pack, just in case.

Dagskar’s handpicked boys looked around them nervously as they followed.

Night goblins didn’t like the woods much as a rule, and these woods were creepier

than most. The trees loomed over them like many-limbed giants, and huge spider

webs stretched from branch to branch like tent-roofs; fat, goblin-sized cocoons

dangling from them at the ends of sticky strands. Some of them struggled weakly.

“We almost dere, boss?” whispered Kizaz, Dagskar’s diminutive banner carrier

and general whipping boy, who, in addition to holding aloft a long pole with a

Crooked Moon totem on the top, was lugging Dagskar’s pack, spear and tent on his

back.

“We’re here,” said Dagskar, stepping up to a big tree with a leering face carved

into its bark. He rapped on the tree with the iron knob at the end of his whip handle.

“Hoy! Nazbad!” he shouted. “Nazbad Wartfinger! Come out, y’ugly snotling-

fondler! I wants a word with ya!”

There was no response except for a strange skittering and chittering from high in

the trees. Dagskar’s followers gripped their spears and craned their necks, looking for

the source of the sound.

“Who wants me?” came a voice from ground level.

Dagskar and his boys whipped around. Stepping out of the undergrowth was a

wizened old goblin shaman in a dirty wolfskin. Weird fetishes hung from his wrists

and dangled from the gnarled staff he carried. His face was painted in strange yellow

designs. A handful of forest goblins on giant spiders guarded his back. The big beasts

picked their way through the scrub as delicately as elves, and almost as creepy.

“Nazbad! Brother!” cried Dagskar. “How’s yer wart? Still full’a power?”

“Less of it, Earscrapper,” snarled the shaman. “Just coz we fought humans

together one time don’t make us bruddas.” He folded his arms across his sunken

chest. “Whaddaya want?”

Dagskar grinned. “Dat’s Nazbad for you,” he said. “Right to the point, as always.

Fair enough. Here it is. I aim t’take out da Skull Pass stunties once and fer all, but I

needs yer help t’do it. Y’want in?”

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Nazbad’s eyes bugged out, then he looked around at his spider boys. They all

laughed.

“Somebody drop you on yer head?” he asked. “Not a chance! Dem stunties is

tough. And dey’s hard to reach with a big mob too. Only way is over da bridge at No

Bottom Gorge, and dey got that bottled up tighter den a fish’s backside.”

“Dat’s why I needs you and yer spider boys,” said Dagskar. “To do da tippy-

toein’ while my boys does the heavy hittin’.” He tapped his skull with a long finger.

“I has a plan.”

Nazbad scratched his chin, thinking hard. “An’ why should we help da likes’a

you take a stuntie hole? What’s in it for us? Plunder?”

Dagskar waved a big-knuckled hand. “More’n dat. If we take it, Skull Pass is

yers. I don’t want it. I only wanna win da fight t’show Skarsnik I can be big boss.

You can nab da hole, and everythin’ in it. I don’t care.”

Nazbad’s eyes glittered with greed. “Da hole and everythin’ in it? For true?”

“I swears by Gork and Mork,” said Dagskar, holding up his hand.

Nazbad gave him a suspicious look. “We’ll see about that. I remembers how we

split shares after raidin’ dat human village.”

“It wasn’t me who cheated yer!” said Dagskar. “It was Budgoz, and Budgoz is

dead. I killed him!”

Nazbad still looked uncertain. “Dat’s as may be,” he said. “But yer no better than

he was.” After a moment, though, he shrugged. “All right, why not. I’ll take a

chance. Dem stunties got a lotta good swag. You can have some of my spider boys,

but I’m comin’ along t’keep an eye on things. And if you double-cross me…” He

held up his middle finger. A huge hairy wart grew from the knuckle. The bulbous

thing seemed to glow green in the shadows of the forest. “It’s da wartfinger for you.”

Dagskar held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “No need for dat, Nazbad.

We’s all friends here, right? Now listen. Meet me in da woods near da bridge over

No Bottom Gorge at midnight tomorrow night, and be ready for da Waaagh! I’ll be

dere. But first I gotta see a troll.”

“Has the slayer still not moved?” asked Faril Hammersong as he slapped the reins

against the ponies’ backs. He and five other rangers were taking the timber wagon up

through the sturdy oaks of Copperwood Forest to cut fire logs for the winter. This

would be the last run of the year. The woodsheds were almost full and there was a

scent of snow in the air.

“Nah,” said Argi Argisson, who walked alongside the cart, his axe over his

shoulder. “Two days after Thane Thunderbrand told him to put up or get out, and

Graniteskin’s still sitting at Byrnik’s, drinking our ale like there was no tomorrow.”

Faril laughed and ducked a branch that grew down from the trees that arched over

the narrow forest track. “For him there isn’t. If he doesn’t go after that troll tomorrow

he’ll be out on his tattooed arse.”

Argi prodded his bandaged nose, which the slayer had broken in the brawl at the

brewery. “I hope he doesn’t go. I want another crack at him. He put my nose out of—

what was that?”

15

Faril looked up. He had heard it too—a clicking and shifting in the leaf-shrouded

tops of the oaks. He held up a hand. “On your guard, lads. Something’s in the trees—

”

A javelin shot out of the branches and struck his helm, knocking him backwards

onto the bed of the empty cart as both spear and cap bounced away.

“Ware!” cried Argi, swinging his axe off his shoulder. “Ambush! Watch your—

!”

Before he could finish, giant barb-legged spiders with goblins on their backs leapt

down from the trees, slamming him and the rest of the rangers to the ground. The

ponies screamed in fear and tried to bolt, but more goblins swarmed out of the woods

and grabbed their reins.

Faril sat up and drew his hatchet as all around him came the sounds of fighting,

but then another goblin-mounted spider jumped down on top of him, pinning him

down, its bony mouth-pieces clicking inches from his face. Faril got his arm free and

lashed wildly at the monster, sending a mandible spinning away in a spatter of black

fluids, but the thing crushed him to the wagon with its fat abdomen and tried to tear

him apart with its razor-sharp claws. The goblin on its back giggled and stabbed at

him with a javelin.

Faril squirmed out of the way of the thrusting point and swung up underhanded

with his hatchet, biting deep into the spider’s yellow and black thorax. The thing

flinched and skittered back, tearing the hand axe from Faril’s grip and nearly

throwing its rider.

Faril scrambled up and grabbed a big tree-felling axe from under the driver’s

bench, and then leapt at the spider and the goblin, who were gathering themselves for

another spring. But as he swung for the spider’s eight eyes, the wooden haft of the

axe burst into green flame, burning his hands.

With a cry of pain and surprise, Faril let go of the flaming axe, and the spider

pounced on him, bearing him down again, and this time the goblin’s javelin stabbed

him through the chest. He clasped at the shaft with his blistering hands, trying to pull

it out. The goblin did it for him, jerking it out as the spider clattered over him and

hopped onto Argi, who was fighting another spider rider beside the wagon.

Blood poured out of the hole in Faril’s chest and pooled around him as he

struggled to sit up. His arms and legs were growing weak. He looked past the wagon,

searching for someone to help him, but they were all dead or dying, pierced by the

goblins’ spears and torn apart by the spiders’ claws.

As his vision began to fade and his head to sink back, Faril saw a scrawny goblin

in a wolfskin striding down the track toward the wagon, his arms raised. Green

energy radiated from him like a halo, and with each step, green flames burst from the

trees and bushes around him.

They’re burning the forest, he thought. I must warn the thane. He tried to move,

to stand, but he was too weak. Too much of his blood was spreading across the

planks of the wagon. His head fell back. The world went black around him—black

and hot and smelling of smoke.

16

THREE

Godri, Rodrin and Aurik ran out of the hold and looked up over the roofs of the

settlement to where the others were pointing. A towering column of smoke was rising

up from beyond Boar Back Ridge and drifting south and east.

“That way lies Copperwood Forest!” said Aurik.

“It’s on fire,” said Rodrin.

“Aye,” said Godri, his heart sinking. The Copperwood Forest was vital to Karak

Gram’s survival. The timber gathered there fuelled the hearths and forges of the

settlement. They had fortunately brought in most of the firewood they needed for this

winter, but what of the next, and the next after that? It took decades for a forest to

grow back from a fire. There were other woods in the vicinity, but they were much

harder to reach, and more dangerous to enter. This could set foundry production back

for years.

“It’s the curse,” said Rodrin, pulling at his beard. “It strikes again.”

“No more of that!” snapped Godri. “There is no curse. There will be a reason for

this.” He turned to his son. “Weren’t Faril Hammersong and the others on their way

there for a last wagon of timber?”

“Aye, father,” said Aurik. “They left just this morning.” He bowed to Godri.

“Father—thane—I will take my scouts and see if I can learn the cause of this fire,

and what has become of Faril’s rangers.”

Godri nodded, pleased that his son was taking the initiative and stepping into the

role of leader. He would make a fine thane when Godri passed on. “Very good,” he

said. “But take no chances with the fire. Only find Faril and his dwarfs and return

them safe to us.”

“I will do my best, father,” said Aurik. He bowed again, then hurried off, calling

for his chosen dwarf scouts.

Behind Godri, Rodrin sighed. “As you say, brother, there will be a reason for the

fire. But behind the reason is the curse.”

“Keep away from dem stunties!” shouted Nazbad from the bench of the timber

wagon. “If I can’t have none, you can’t have none!”

The spider riders shot him sulky looks, but they pulled their mounts away from

the dead dwarfs in the back of the wagon and started them scuttling forward again.

Nazbad sat back down, grumbling, and flicked the reins to make the spider-skittish

ponies go faster. The forest fire was spreading quickly, and had almost caught up to

17

him and his boys, who were hurrying down the path away from it. The smell of half

cooked dwarf was almost irresistible, and he wanted to sink his teeth into stuntie

steak as much as the others did, but Dagskar had made him promise to bring the

corpses back to the camp. He had plans for them.

“Him and his plans,” Nazbad muttered, licking his lips and looking over his

shoulder at the dwarf corpses piled in the back of the wagon. “I’m hungry.”

But the thought of having a nice stuntie-built hole to call home for him and his

boys held him in check. Stunties always dug the best holes, easily defended and with

plenty of room for lots of goblins, spiders and squigs. With a hole like that, Nazbad

could really grow his tribe. And if Dagskar wanted to do all the hard work of getting

it for him, he wasn’t going to say no. So as tempted as he was to have a bit of stuntie

leg, he restrained himself. Plenty of stunties to eat after they slaughtered them all in

Skull Pass.

Skaari Otgunsson flicked his switch at the withers of the last cow of the herd. “Watch

out, Hilda. It’s a long way down.”

Hilda lumbered away from the edge of the ravine, lowing unhappily, and bunched

up with the others. Skaari and the other cowherds were bringing the shaggy, stubborn

beasts down from the summer pasture high in the hills above Skull Pass to the winter

grazing just outside of the settlement. They had reached a narrow point where dense

woods on the left pushed the path up against the edge of a rocky ravine on the other

side. The ravine wasn’t very deep, but the bottom was filled with jagged boulders,

and any cow that fell down into it was sure to break a leg at the very least, and more

than likely dash its brains out.

Jarl Rokisson grinned back at Skaari from where he walked, a few paces ahead.

“Going to take another poke at that slayer if he hasn’t left by tomorrow, Skaari?”

Skaari shrugged and scratched his chin through his short brown beard. “Maybe.

Maybe not. He may have a big mouth, but his fists are bigger. Don’t know if I want a

nose like Argi Argisson.”

A little further down the line, Korik Shieldbearer looked back. “Looks as if he

can take care of himself, all right. You notice he doesn’t have a scar on him? Must be

why he’s called Graniteskin.”

Jarl smirked. “Or it could be because he’s never slain anything. Maybe he does

all his slaying in the tavern.”

Skaari chuckled. “You mean he’s a flagonslayer, not a dragonslayer?”

Jarl laughed. “That’s it! A flagonslayer! I’ll wager you three rounds of Byrnik’s

Best he never goes after that troll!”

“You’ll get no takers on that,” said Skaari, laughing. “He—”

With a splintering crash, a huge hulking shape burst from the woods on the left,

bellowing and swinging a club the size of a young tree. The massive weapon

smashed into Jarl, knocking his head clean off his neck and sending it flying into the

middle of the herd.

“Jarl!” Korik shouted.

Skaari stared, horrified, as the sinewy monster kicked Jarl’s headless body aside

and slammed into the cows, its big ears flapping, its roaring mouth a jagged black

18

chasm in its gravel-skinned face. The splintered haft of a dwarf axe sprouted from its

lumpy shoulder like a severed wing.

“The troll!” he cried, hoping the dwarfs at the front of the herd would hear. “It’s

the troll!”

He pulled his hand axe from his belt and shoved forward through the terrified

cattle as the troll laid about it with its club. Three cows pitched into the ravine, their

spines snapped and their skulls caved in. Beyond the monster, Korik fell flat as a

heifer shouldered into him, then picked himself up and drew his two hand axes.

Skaari squeezed between two last cows and ran towards the troll as Korik did the

same from the other side. The troll roared and slammed its club down at Korik, but

the dwarf dove past it and rolled to his feet beside Skaari.

“Together,” he said, as they faced the towering brute. “At least one of us will

strike it.”

“Aye,” said Skaari. “Ready.”

They launched themselves at the troll, but before they took two steps, a shrieking

horde of night goblins poured from the woods, whooping and charging them with

spears. The cows bellowed anew, and fought even harder to get away. Four more

were pushed into the ravine by the jostling.

Skaari groaned as he and Korik faced the goblins side by side. “This is no random

troll attack!” he shouted as he blocked a spear thrust and slashed the face of the

grinning goblin that wielded it.

“No,” agreed Korik, kicking another goblin back. The skinny green horror tripped

and was trampled by a frightened cow. His skull popped like a melon. “These grobi

have put him up to it.”

Skaari hacked down another goblin, but staggered back as two more thrust at

him. They were getting dangerously close to the edge of the ravine. “We have to get

back to the settlement and warn—Look out!”

Skaari shoved Korik to the side as the troll lifted a cow over its ugly, rock-

skinned head and hurled it in their direction. Korik staggered out of the way just in

time, but Skaari was dead centre. There was nowhere to go. He threw himself

backwards blindly and tumbled down into the ravine, bouncing through rocks and

brush before landing hard on a flat boulder at the bottom.

A bulky shape blotted out the sun above him. Skaari yelped and rolled off the

boulder just as the cow slammed down on it with a sick thud. The back half of the

beast slid off onto Skaari and pressed him to the ground. Sharp rocks stabbed him in

the side, but he was too stunned to move. He just lay there panting and staring up

towards the top of the ravine as the troll continued to rampage and the goblins tried to

climb onto the cows’ backs.

Korik’s eyes stared lifelessly back at him, his head, beard and arms hanging over

the edge of the cliff as cows trampled him repeatedly. A goblin spear stuck up from

between his shoulder blades.

“Korik, I’m sorry,” murmured Skaari.

A few seconds later a slightly larger goblin came out of the woods and lashed the

troll with a whip. Skaari was certain the massive monster would turn and rip the

goblin to shreds, but instead, the troll left off smashing and hurling cows and meekly

19

allowed the goblin to climb up onto his shoulder and hold onto one of his flag-like

ears.

From this ugly perch, the whip-wielding goblin shouted at the others, who began

to calm the cows and ride them down the path. Skaari groaned. That must mean that

the lads at the front of the herd had been killed too—nine dwarfs dead and a hundred

head of cattle slaughtered or stolen. This was a catastrophe for the hold.

As the goblin-ridden herd thundered away in a cloud of dust, Skaari began to try

to squirm out from under the crushing weight of the dead cow. He was fortunate the

goblins hadn’t noticed that he was still alive. If he could get free, he might be able to

reach the settlement and warn them of the attack.

Dagskar’s boys yipped and hooted as they rode the careening cows down the rocky

path.

“Ws got cow flesh for weeks!” said one. “Cows is much tastier den dwarf flesh!”

“Gonna have a feast every night!” said another.

“Might even cook it!” said a third.

From where he sat next to the jogging troll’s tent-flap ear, Dagskar grinned.

“Y’see, boys. Spoils is good when I’m da boss.” He cracked his whip in the air.

“Now, go faster! The rest of the mob is comin’ tonight. We’s got work t’do!”

“We found no sign of the rangers in Copperwood Forest, father,” said Aurik as he

and his scouts stood before Godri and Rodrin in Godri’s long house. “Nor the lumber

wagon. But we did find these.” He laid half a charred javelin and a large blackened

spider mandible on the dais at Godri’s feet. Godri’s hammerers, who stood guard to

his right and left, turned, unable to resist a look.

“Forest goblins,” said Godri, stroking his white beard. “And there was a fight.

The javelin is chopped in half, and the mandible is severed.”

“Aye,” said Aurik. “These were found near where the blaze began. The goblins

must have set the fire. I fear they also killed Faril, Argi and the rest, and took the

wagon and the bodies. Why, I do not know.”

“Grimnir take them, we ran the grobi out of Copperwood only a decade ago,”

said Godri. “They must have short memories if they think we’ll let them come back.”

“But, father, why would they burn down the forest if they meant to take it back?”

asked Aurik.

“An accident?” asked Rodrin. “Goblins can’t do anything without mucking it

up.”

Before Godri could answer, Burin, his steward, entered and bowed.

Godri looked up. “Aye, Burin?”

“The cowherd, Skaari Otgunsson, my thane,” said the old dwarf. “He is sorely

hurt, but said that he has terrible news which he must impart to you immediately.”

“Bring him in,” said Godri.

“More terrible news?” groaned Rodrin as Burin withdrew. “I’ve had my fill

lately.”

The door opened wider and the young cowherd Skaari Otgunsson limped in,

followed by Burin. Young Skaari’s arms and hands were covered in scrapes and

20

bruises, and there was a nasty looking lump on his forehead. He hissed as he went

down on one knee before Godri.

“Skaari Otgunsson,” said Godri. “Be welcome in my home. What has happened

to you?”

“My thane,” said Skaari. “The herd was attacked, and stolen. Night goblins,

leading a troll— our troll. It still had Bodin Bodisson’s axe sticking out of its back.”

“Night goblins?” asked Aurik, surprised. “Not forest goblins?”

Skaari shook his head. “No, Thanesson. They wore the black robes. They

attacked myself and the other cowherds, then drove off the cattle. During the fighting

I was knocked into a ravine and was overlooked while the villains killed the others.

Jarl Rokisson, Korik Shieldbearer, all the rest.” He swallowed. “All dead.”

“You didn’t get up and fight again?” asked Rodrin, indignant. “You do not look

as if the fall crippled you.”

“Forgive me, Thanesbrother,” said Skaari, lowering his head. “I was…” he

paused, seemingly embarrassed, then continued. “I was trapped under a fallen cow,

and could not get free.”

One of Godri’s hammerers stifled a chuckle at that, and Skaari’s face turned red.

Godri shot a reproving look at the guard.

“Rise, Skaari Otgunssen,” he said. “You have earned no shame. You fought to

defend the herd and returned here to report the loss while wounded. I thank you for

your fortitude.”

“As do I,” said Aurik.

“Thank you, my thane,” said Skaari, getting stiffly to his feet. “Thank you, Aurik

Godrisson.”

“But this is indeed terrible news you have brought us,” said Godri, stroking his

beard again. “Meat, cheese, milk and leather will be in short supply this winter, and

perhaps much longer. It will be expensive to found a new herd.” He sighed. “But I

fear that isn’t the worst of it.”

“Isn’t that bad enough?” grunted Rodrin.

For a moment, Godri didn’t answer, just stared into the middle distance, deep in

thought. Finally he raised his head and looked around at them. “I do not believe these

two attacks are unrelated. There is a very clever goblin behind this. Very thorough. I

think these are preludes to a greater attack—an attempt to weaken us before they

move in for the kill.” He turned to Aurik. “My son, you will take thirty dwarfs and

reinforce the guard at Skarrenruf Bridge, but send your scouts ahead to search for

these goblins. I would suggest looking beyond the bridge, as it is the only way to

bring a large force into Skull Pass. I want detailed reports on their strength and

position.”

“Aye, father,” said Aurik. “I will send the scouts right away, then follow with the

reinforcements as soon as they are ready to march.”

Skaari Otgunsson went down on one knee again. “My thane, if they will have me,

I would go with the scouts on this mission.”

Godri frowned. “But you are wounded. Are you certain?”

Skaari grimaced. “These goblins have killed my friends and taken my livelihood.

I would help in their destruction.” He hesitated, shooting a look at the hammerer who

21

had laughed at him. “And… and I do not want to be known as Skaari Undercow for

the rest of my life. I must do something to win a better name.”

Godri hid a smile in his beard. “Your request is granted, Skaari son of Otgun. Go

with the scouts, and may your ancestors smile upon your ventures.”

“Thank you, my thane,” said Skaari, and went to stand by Aurik and the scouts.

Aurik bowed. “I will go and gather warriors for the bridge.”

“Just a minute,” said Rodrin, frowning thoughtfully.

Aurik paused. Godri looked around.

“Are you certain there will be a battle?” Rodrin asked. “Perhaps they intend to

just sit back and starve us out.”

“I don’t think so,” said Godri. “A goblin wouldn’t bring a troll along for just a

cattle raid. Trolls are too much trouble. They’re up to something, I’m sure of it.”

Skaari Otgunsson set off with the scouts not an hour later, trekking quickly up the

rocky pass to the high, peak-hemmed span of Skarrenruf Bridge. Badurin Sigrinsson,

the leader of the scouts, spoke briefly with the bridge guards, telling them of the

situation, and that Aurik would arrive there shortly to reinforce them. Then he led the

others across the bridge over the great ravine and into the wilds beyond.

Though Skaari had crossed Skarrenruf many times—taking the herd across it on

the way to the high pasture in the spring and back across in the autumn—he had

never walked it at night before. It was a very different experience. As they reached

the middle, far from the squat towers that guarded the end, the long narrow span felt

to him like it was floating unmoored above the black chasm of Skarrenruf Gorge. He

could feel it shift under his feet like a stone ship as the mountain winds moaned

around it like the ghosts of unburied ancestors, drowning out the rushing roar of the

rocky rapids hundreds of yards below. Skaari shivered, and not from the cold. He

hurried after the others.

The Copperwood Forest was still smouldering on their left as the scouts stepped

off the far end of the bridge, the smoky haze that rose from the trees turning the two

moons blood-red, so that they looked like savage goblin eyes glaring down at them

from the sky. Badurin passed the charred forest by, saying that not even goblins cared

to live in a fireplace. There was another wood on the far side of a barren valley, and it

was here that Badurin suggested they search.

Hugin Shatterhand, the most senior scout, found the goblins’ trail a short while

later and they followed it deeper into the woods, guided only by the infrequent

moonlight that filtered down through the heavy screen of trees. Skaari struggled to

keep up. He had made a brave front when he had knelt before Thane Thunderbrand,

but the bruises and sprains and scrapes he had received falling into the ravine

throbbed painfully, and slowed him considerably. The crossbow the scouts had

armed him with bumped his spine with every step, hitting him right where he had

landed on the rocks when he fell. He was beginning to have second thoughts about

volunteering for the mission, but he still felt it was something he must do.

The story of him being trapped under a cow would get around, he was sure of it.

The laughing hammerer would tell his fellow guards, and they would talk of it in the

Wyvern’s Demise. Skaari knew there was no real shame in an accident, but it was

hard enough already being a cowherd in a community of miners and stone workers

22

and warriors. He had to defend his honour and his name against all sorts of jocular

insinuations, and this latest incident would not help matters. He needed to find an

opportunity for some brave deed that would eclipse the story of the cow. He needed a

chance for glory.

Ahead of him, Hugin hooted like a wood owl, the sign that he had spotted

something. Skaari crept forward with the other scouts to where Hugin crouched

behind the bole of a huge oak. They gathered around him.

“Forest goblins,” he whispered. “Three together, making a circuit. And there’s

firelight further on.”

Skaari raised his head and peered over the sprawling roots of the old oak. Sure

enough, a faint orange glow was reflected off the trunks of distant trees.

“Just one patrol?” asked Badurin.

“Not sure,” said Hugin. “I—”

He broke off suddenly and ducked down. Skaari and the rest followed his

example. The swish of bodies pushing through the undergrowth grew louder in their

ears. Skaari’s hand fell to the haft of his axe. The others silently drew their crossbows

off their backs.

The steps grew louder, then after a moment fainter. Hugin rose up and looked

over the roots of the oak again. He grinned as he sank back down. “Two patrols

then.”

The goblins tramped off into the distance again and everyone let out a breath.

“Now,” said Badurin, motioning them all forward. “Between the patrols. We

don’t want them to know we were here.”

Skaari followed as the scouts padded across the patrol’s path and headed toward

the glow of the distant fire. A hundred silent paces on, as the yellow light grew

brighter ahead of them, Hugin held up his hand again and they all stopped. He waved

them back, then pointed up.

Skaari followed the line of Hugin’s finger as he backed away. At first he saw

nothing, but then he noticed something wafting in the wind, just under the tree

branches. It was nearly invisible, like a banshee’s robes, but it was there, faintly

illuminated by the nearby fires. A spider web, but thicker than any Skaari had ever

seen before.

A heavy body shifted somewhere above them, shaking down a rain of pine

needles. They all froze, but the movement stopped and no alarm was called.

Hugin led the scouts silently away in an arc to the right, and then advanced

towards the fire glow again. After another fifty paces, they found its source—a broad

clearing where the goblins had made their camp. Skaari stared as the dwarfs peered

forward from the edge. He had never seen goblins at rest before, only in the heat of

battle, stabbing their spears in his face. They looked so unprepared and exposed it

was almost pathetic.

There were hundreds of them, sleeping scattered all over the clearing as if they

had been thrown there. There was only one tent, a big, patched structure with an ugly

totem raised high on a pole by the entrance—the boss’ tent, no doubt. The rest slept

open to the sky, bundled in their black robes and huddled around smouldering fires,

their weapons at their sides.

23

On the near side of the camp, just a few yards from where the dwarfs were

crouched, a crude corral had been erected, and Skaari could see the bulky shapes of

cave squigs crowded together inside it, apparently asleep on their feet. On the far side

of the clearing was another corral, filled with cows.

A sudden rage boiled up within Skaari as he recognized the cows as Clan

Byrnik’s herd—his herd! He looked around for the troll, and saw it sitting under a

tree at the edge of the camp, gnawing absently on a cow carcass. His fists clenched.

These were the goblins that had stolen the herd! These were the goblins that had

killed Jarl and Korik! These were the goblins that had brought him shame!

“Stay down, lad,” growled Badurin, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What are

you playing at?”

Skaari sank down again. He hadn’t even realized that he had stood. “I’m sorry,”

he whispered. “I forgot myself.”

He edged back as the scouts began conferring about how many goblins there

were and how they were armed.

“Five hundred at least,” said Hugin.

“Six hundred,” countered another scout named Orn. “Most of them spears, a few

bows, a few squig riders,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers. “And Grimnir

knows how many spider riders in the trees.”

“Plus the troll,” added Hugin.

Skaari grinned. “I guess if Borri Graniteskin won’t go to the troll, the troll will

come to him.”

Badurin turned and gave him a hard look. “It’s no laughing matter, beardling.

With our defences as they are at the moment, these goblins have more than enough

strength to kill every dwarf in Skull Pass. The deaths of the logging party and your

fellow cowherds have brought us below two hundred able warriors. It will take more

than a boasting slayer to save our hides. We’ll need every advantage we can find.”

Skaari hung his head. “You’re right, Badurin. I’ll keep my jokes to myself from

now on.”

The old ranger patted him on the shoulder, and then nodded to the rest. “Right,”

he said. “We’ve seen it. Let’s get back.”

The scouts followed him as he slipped silently back into the woods. Skaari made

to follow, but then paused to glare once more over the backs of the sleeping squigs at

the vile green creatures who had killed his friends and stolen Clan Byrnik’s herd.

Soon he would have his vengeance. Soon he would hurt them as they had hurt him.

He turned back toward the woods, but then stopped dead as an idea blossomed in his

head.

Badurin had said that the clan would need every advantage if they were to defeat

the goblins. Why not take the opportunity to weaken them here and now? He ran the

idea over in his head to make sure there were no flaws. No. It was perfect. Even if the

goblins ever figured out what had happened, Skaari and the scouts would be miles

away.

He knelt and drew his crossbow off his back, levered the string back and set a

bolt in the groove. He raised the crossbow to his eye and sighted toward the squig

24

pen. He picked a big one and aimed at its rump. Killing it would only defeat the

purpose.

He fired. The bolt hit home. The squig leapt in the air and roared, enraged, then

turned and attacked the squigs nearest it, clawing and snapping at them. They

screamed as well and fought back. The chaos spread rapidly through the pen,

increasing as it went. The stupid beasts were tearing each other to pieces.

Skaari grinned. Perfect! He slipped into the woods, padding swiftly after the

scouts as the screams and roars grew louder behind him. At the very least, the goblins

would be short a score of squigs, and with luck, the mad monsters might wreck the

whole camp. He jogged around a tree and ran straight into Badurin, who had turned

back at the noise.

“What has happened?” Badurin asked.

Skaari laughed and held up his crossbow. “I shot a squig. They’ve gone mad.

Hopefully they’ll kill a few goblins for us.”

Badurin slapped him across the face with a hard hand as the other scouts cursed.

“You young fool,” he rasped. “They’ll know we were here! They’ll be marching as

soon as they’re able now, trying to reach the bridge before we’re prepared.”

“They won’t know,” Skaari protested. “They’ll think it was just the squigs

fighting.”

Badurin sneered. “And when they find your bolt?”

“They won’t find it,” Skaari said, then paused. “At least… at least I doubt they

will. You can’t be sure they will.”

“We can’t be sure they won’t either,” said Badurin, cold. “Therefore we must

assume they will.” He shook his head and turned away to lead the others further into

the woods. “I hope you haven’t doomed us, lad.”

25

FOUR

Dagskar ran through the camp as goblins scurried in every direction, shrieking and

waving weapons. A squig leapt over his head, a green arm dangling from its mouth.

More were bouncing through the camp, attacking each other and any goblin that tried

to get near them. Across the camp he could see that the squig corral fence had been

smashed down. Bits of it were on fire.

Kizaz ran up to him, arms flapping and mouth agape. “Boss! Boss! Da squigs

have escaped!”

“Is dat right?” snapped Dagskar, then clipped the little goblin over the ear.

“How’d it happen?”

Kizaz shrugged. “I dunno, boss. Dey’s squigs.”

Dagskar shoved him aside and ran on. This was a disaster. His army could

disintegrate right here if he didn’t stop this rampage.

Near the ruined corral a squig had a giant spider in its jaws and was shaking it

until its legs rattled. Another spider was on the squig’s back, biting it repeatedly, to

seemingly little effect, while squig herders and spider riders danced around them,

screaming at each other to call off their beasts. Gork and Mork! thought Dagskar, if

me and Nazbad’s boys start fighting, it’s all over.

He sprinted forward, drawing his whip and his stuntie sticker. “Leave off, you

lot!” he shouted. “Leave—”

He skidded to a stop as another squig bounded past him, dragging two squig

herders clutching leashes, then ran on again.

He saw one of his boys raise a chopper to one of Nazbad’s riders. Dagskar lashed

out with his whip, curling it around the squig herder’s hand and jerking it back. The

goblin slammed to the ground.

“No!” Dagskar roared. “No killin’!” He pushed the riders and herders apart.

“Save it for da stunties!”

“But boss,” said another squig herder. “Dey say we started it! Dey say we sicced

da squigs on dem.”

“It was da other way around,” said the one Dagskar had yanked to the ground.

“Dem spiders tried t’eat our squigs!”

“Yer off yer heads!” shouted one of the spider riders. “Our spiders wasn’t out of

da trees ’til yer squigs dragged ’em out!”

“Oh yeah?” shouted a squig herder, as his mates pressed toward the riders.

26

The riders shouted insults and started forward too.

“Leave off!” bellowed Dagskar, cracking his whip back and forth over his head.

“Leave off or I’ll stripe the whole lot of ya! If y’want to kill somethin’, kill da

squigs!”

“Kill the squigs?” said one of the herders. “But—”

“Do it!” roared Dagskar and, putting actions to his words, ran forward and sank

his stuntie-sticker into the spider-chewing squig’s side, right where its leg met its

body. The squig yelped and tried to bite him, but it had a mouth full of spider leg and

couldn’t. Dagskar ducked and stabbed again, and this time the squig staggered and

fell on its side, grunting quizzically.

The spider on its back, still maddened, leapt at Dagskar, its dripping mandibles

extended. Dagskar lashed out with his whip and coiled it around its forelegs, then

flung it down and jumped on it. He stabbed it through the head with his sticker,

cracking its carapace and popping several eyes.

It sagged, lifeless, as the spider riders roared in protest, but he jumped up and

threatened them with his whip and they backed away.

A figure behind them, however, pushed forward, pointing a green, warty middle

finger at Dagskar. It was Nazbad, and he didn’t look happy. “What is you killin’

spiders for? Is you double-crossin’ me? Bringin’ me out ta nowhere t’kill me and my

boys?”

“I ain’t double crossin’ nobody,” said Dagskar. “I’m restorin’ order. Gotta kill da

squigs. It’s da only way ta calm ’em down.”

“And da spiders?”

“If dey attacks me, yeah,” said Dagskar. “Now come on, help me kill da rest

before we lose any more boys. Then we’ll sort out how dis happened.”

Nazbad scratched his glowing wart with his other hand, frowning, then nodded.

“Right. Let’s get to it.”

Aurik and his force of thirty dwarfs were busy bolstering the defences of the

Skarrenruf Bridge when Skaari and the scouts returned a few hours before dawn.

Cannon crews were winching loads of powder and shot up to the gun platforms at the

top of the two squat towers that guarded the near end. Engineers were constructing

wooden barricades across the width of the bridge for the thunderers to crouch behind

as they fired. Dwarf warriors were donning their heavy armour and sharpening their

axes.

Badurin found Aurik in the centre of the bustle, directing the leaders of the

cannon crews. “You must use nothing larger than grape shot,” he was saying. “We

cannot risk damaging the bridge.” He saw Badurin approaching and turned to him

eagerly. “Badurin! Good. Have you found them? Do you know their strength?”

“Aye, Thanesson,” said Badurin, bowing. “Six hundred night goblins with spears

and bows, the troll, some squigs, and an unknown number of spider riders, an hour’s

march from here. But I have graver news.”

Skaari’s shoulders tensed. He knew what was coming.

“Speak it,” said Aurik.

27

“They may know we have found their position.” He turned hard eyes on Skaari.

“Young Otgunsson fired his crossbow into their squig pen to sow disorder in their

camp. We were not seen, but…”

“But if they find the bolt,” finished Aurik.

Badurin nodded. “They will realize we know they are there and make their move

immediately so that we will have less time to prepare our defence.”

Aurik shot a quick glance at Skaari, and then turned back to Badurin. “Hurry on

to Skull Pass and inform my father of this. Also ask him to send me another thirty

dwarfs. If we can stop them here, there will be no need of a further battle at the

settlement.”

“Aye, Thanesson,” said Badurin, bowing and withdrawing.

“As for you, cowherd—” said Aurik, his face hard as he turned on Skaari.

“Thanesson!” cried Skaari, throwing himself on his knees before Aurik. “I know I

have made a foolish error, and I will accept any punishment you deem appropriate,

but I would beg you, in the name of Grimnir, to allow me to stand at the front here at

the bridge, and pay for my mistakes with a useful death, by killing as many goblins

as I may before I die.”

“After such thoughtlessness, do you think you deserve glory?” asked Aurik. “No.

You will be just as useful bringing the wounded to the surgeons and assisting them in

their work. If you survive the night, you will return to Skull Pass and face my father’s

judgment.”

Skaari hung his head, knowing Aurik was right. He deserved no better. He had

betrayed the trust Thane Thunderbrand had put in him when he allowed him to go

with the scouts. “Thank you, Thanesson,” he said. “The punishment is fitting. I swear

by my ancestors that I will do this with all my will.”

Dagskar watched his boys and Nazbad’s boys surround the last maddened squig and

stick it with about twenty spears. It gurgled like mud going down a hole, then

slumped to the ground, bleeding and dead. Dagskar breathed a sigh of relief, then

looked around at the carnage that the rampage had caused.

Almost two score dead and wounded goblins, both his and Nazbad’s, sprawled all

around the camp. A handful of giant spiders, their carapaces crushed by the squigs’

huge teeth, lay on their backs, chitinous legs sticking up in the air, and nearly a dozen

of the captured cows had been torn apart and half eaten, and the squig pen was on

fire.

Not too bad, all things considered. At least the troll hadn’t got involved, and his

boys and Nazbad’s boys weren’t at each other’s throats, and none of them had fled or

deserted. Of course, he’d had a plan for the squigs, which he couldn’t follow through

on now they were dead—or could he? He turned to the troll and gave it an appraising

look.

He was just beginning to formulate a new scheme when Nazbad waddled up,

glaring at him. “Fifteen spider-boys I lost, thanks t’you,” he snarled. “And seven

spiders. If y’can’t control yer squigs, y’shouldn’ta oughta brung ’em. You owes me,

either blood or spoils.”

28

“Don’t come moanin’ t’me,” said Dagskar. “I lost more’n twenty boys, and…”

He paused, reminded by Nazbad’s words of his earlier suspicions. “And I still ain’t

sure what stirred up dem squigs.” He turned away from the angry shaman and waved

him to follow. “Come on. I wanna see somethin’.”

“An’ I wanna see da colour oyer insides,” said Nazbad.

“You’ll see ’em once I eat yer head,” snapped Dagskar. “But we’ll settle dat later.

Come on.”

He waved to some of his boys as he led the shaman towards the smouldering

squig pen. “Hoy!” he shouted. “Pull all dem dead squigs out here. I wanna see da

bodies!”

“What’cher lookin’ for?” asked Nazbad, curious in spite of himself.

“Dem squigs was well fed. We gave ’em some of da cows. No reason for ’em

t’go crazy like dat. I wanna see if somethin’ got in the pen with ’em.”

“You ain’t gonna blame dis on my spiders?” asked Nazbad.

“Not unless dey’s t’blame,” said Dagskar.

Nazbad opened his mouth to complain, but before he could say anything, one of

Dagskar’s boys stood up from dragging a squig out of the pen and ran over to them.

“Look, boss,” he said, holding up a short thin shaft. “It was stuck in a squig.”

Dagskar took it and looked at it. It was a stuntie crossbow bolt. The dirty, beardy

bastards had found them, and half-wrecked his camp, and worse, they had gotten

away.

He turned to Nazbad, grinning nastily. “It weren’t my squigs to blame. It was

your pickets! Dey let stunties in here, and let ’em out again. I thought y’said yer

forest boys was da best at scoutin’.”

“Dey is!” said Nazbad, defensively. “Dey just—”

“Dey just nearly ruined us is what dey did!” shouted Dagskar, backing the

shaman up with his anger and shaking the bolt at him. “Now da stunties knows where

we is, and what we’s up to! I bet dey’s blockin’ da bridge as we speak.” He took out

his whip and lashed a goblin at random. It howled and scurried away. Dagskar turned

back to Nazbad. “We’s gotta get all da boys up and go now, or it’ll be too late, and

it’ll be your fault!”

“Y’can’t blame me!” shouted the shaman. “I ain’t responsible for my boys’

mistakes.”

Dagskar sneered at him. “Exactly. Dat’s yer problem. Now go get dem riders

ready, if y’can. We’s leavin’ for da bridge.”

Nazbad glowered at him, but couldn’t seem to think of anything to say. Finally he

snorted, then turned and strode towards the spider riders.

Dagskar watched him go, scratching his chin. “You ain’t gonna survive da big

waaagh, shaman. So sad. So sad.” He shouted at his boys. “Come on, you lot. Pack it

up. We’s gotta go! Now!”

Two hours before dawn, Godri and Rodrin watched as Godri’s hammerers carried the

King’s Wall from the hold. They marched together in a line, each carrying one of the

heavy stone posts, the thick iron chain that linked them swinging ponderously

between them. The posts were each carved with an ancestor face and were terrifically

29

heavy, as were the chains, and the hammerers were puffing and red in the face by the

time they had the wall stretched out in a straight line ten paces in front of the

entrance. “And down,” said Godri.

The hammerers grunted as they lowered the posts in unison. The bases thudded

into the dirt and the hammerers sighed with relief.

Godri nodded approvingly. “Beyond this wall we shall not retreat,” he said. “I

swear this by my ancestors and the gods.”

The captain of the hammerers put his hand over his heart. “We will defend it with

our lives, my thane.”

“That’s all very well,” said Rodrin as he and Godri turned and walked through

the settlement. “But I’d still feel safer with the doors on.”

“Without the hinges and locks there’s little point,” said Godri. “If the goblins

reach them they’ll just pull them down.” He turned and looked around at the dwarfs

preparing for the coming battle. “With luck and dwarfen grit we’ll stop them before

they get this far and doors and locks won’t be an issue.”

All over the settlement, dwarf-wives and children were carrying sacks of grain

from the silos into the hold. Smiths were loading their anvils and tools onto carts and

doing the same. They would not leave anything of value behind for the goblins to

plunder or destroy. Thunderers were reinforcing the upper storeys of the buildings

they would be firing their guns from. Sweating miners were digging trenches and

pounding stakes into them before the front lines and piling the dirt into ramparts

around the buildings. Engineers were setting charges in outlying structure, ready to

blow them up if the goblins occupied them. Cannon crews were laying in balls and

powder on the gun platform above the entrance to the hold. Godri smiled. The

greenskins would know they’d been in a fight, whatever happened.

As they walked through the outbuildings, examining the fortifications, Godri saw

Badurin and his scouts hurrying towards him.

“Badurin!” he cried. “What news?”

The dour scout stopped before him and bowed. “Grave news, my thane.”

“Speak,” said Godri.

“We have found the goblins’ position, and learned their strength. There are close

to six hundred of them, including spider riders and a troll.”

“No worse than we expected,” said Rodrin. “Is there graver news than this?”

“Aye,” said Badurin, hanging his head. “To my shame, we believe we were

discovered while scouting. If so, they may be moving already, trying to hit us before

we can finish our preparations.”

Godri’s chest tightened. “How far are they from the bridge?”

“Not far,” said Badurin. “If they were quick to break camp, they could be there at

any moment. Prince Aurik says he will hold it, but requests thirty more dwarfs as

reinforcements.”

“He shall have them,” said Godri. “They will leave immediately. Come.” He

turned and started back towards the hold, Rodrin and Badurin and his scouts

following in his wake.

“But how were you discovered?” Rodrin asked Badurin. “Your lads have slipped

past wood elves before.”

30

Badurin looked like he’d swallowed mushroom brew. “The cowherd. He shot a

bolt at their squigs, to stir them up.”

“The young fool,” growled Godri.

“It is my fault, my thane,” said Badurin. “I should have schooled him better, or

not allowed him to come in the first place.”

“Even so,” said Rodrin. “He is not blameless.” He looked around at the scouts.

“Where is he?”

“He remained behind at the bridge,” said Badurin. “Determined to make amends

in battle.”

Godri nodded approvingly. “At least he is not a coward as well as a fool.”

“Aye, thane,” said Badurin.

As they hurried past the brewery towards the hold, they saw Borri the

dragonslayer watching the miners dig the trenches. He leaned on the haft of his axe

with a pint in one hand. “Fear not, lads,” he said, stifling a belch. “You’ve no need of

trenches and stakes while I’m here. That troll will die by my axe before he lays a

single finger on this brewery!”

“And what if it attacks the mill instead?” called Rodrin.

Borri swung around unsteadily, slopping his ale. “Why then, I’ll fight him at the

mill, of course.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” muttered Godri.

He and Rodrin and the scouts continued towards the hold to assemble the

reinforcements for the bridge as the miners chuckled.

31

FIVE

In the barrack house of the guards who watched Skarrenruf Bridge, Skaari set down

the two heavy buckets beside the fireplace, then poured them into the cauldron set

over the fire. Near him, on the table the guards usually used for their meals, Eorik the

Surgeon was laying out his saws, scalpels, needles and thread. Meanwhile Old Harn,

a peg-legged ex-ironbreaker who was one of Eorik’s usual stretcher carriers, leaned

into the fireplace, singeing his long grey beard as he stirred a pot of pitch, which

would be used to cauterise any amputated limbs.

“Very good, lad,” said Eorik, nodding to Skaari over the top of his spectacles.

“Can’t wash wounds with just any old water. Got to boil the bad out of it first.” He

motioned to the door. “Fill ’em up again. Hurry now.”

“Aye, surgeon,” said Skaari. But as he picked up the buckets again, a horn blared

from outside. He looked up. So did Harn and Eorik.

“They’re here!” said Harn. He limped forward, his wooden leg clopping loudly

on the flags, and took up a wood and canvas stretcher. “Come on, beardling,” he

called. “We’ll be wanted soon.”

“My water first!” said the surgeon.

Skaari grunted with impatience, but took up the buckets again and ran out the

door after the stretcher carrier. As Harn hopped toward the bridge, Skaari dodged

through the yard of the barracks house to its well as all the rest of the dwarfs hurried

the other way, pulling on their helmets and taking the last bites of their breakfast.

“Grungni take them,” grumbled one. “Couldn’t wait ’til I’d finished my sausage,

could they?”

The first rays of the sun were edging the tops of the mountains that towered all

around the bridge in gold, but in the winding pass all was still darkness. The warriors

and thunderers made their way to the span by torchlight, the flames glinting off their

armour and their weapons. Skaari looked at them jealously. He agreed with Aurik

that he deserved the punishment that had been meted out to him, but he still wanted

to be at the front, fighting instead of at the back, carrying away the proudly wounded.

As Skaari lowered a bucket into the well, the thane’s son stepped out of his tent,

looking magnificent in a gleaming suit of gromril armour, and holding the axe

Grudge Ender—which had been in the possession of Clan Byrnik for generations—in

one gauntleted hand. He was surrounded by four of his father’s heavily armoured

hammerers, and paced by the veteran thunderer.

32

“When the goblins reach the barricade,” Aurik told the thunderer as they started

towards the bridge. “Your lads will fall back and take up new positions in the

towers.”

“They won’t like that, Thanesson,” said the thunderer. “They’re going to want to

get stuck in.”

“I know they will,” said Aurik. “But that will be the warriors’ job. Your lads will

be thinning the ranks behind. If they fail to fall back I will hold you accountable.”

“Aye, Aurik,” said the veteran, dejected. “They’ll do as you bid.”

They travelled out of earshot as Skaari lowered the second bucket. He sighed. He

wanted to fight too, but he had about as much chance of that as a goblin had of

marrying an elf maiden.

Both buckets full, he staggered back into the barrack house, dumped them in the

cauldron, then turned to Eorik.

“Anything else, surgeon?”

“No, no,” said Eorik, smiling as he waved him away. “Go on. But do as Old Harn

tells you, mind.”

“Of course, surgeon,” said Skaari, breathing a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He

turned and ran out the door.

He found Harn in the lee of the left-hand bridge tower, standing beside the

stretcher and lighting his pipe unconcernedly as the last of the dwarf warriors filed

onto the bridge and ranked up across it.

“Are they attacking?” Skaari asked as he joined him.

“If they were attacking,” said Harn. “We’d hear it.”

There was a low wall around the base of the tower. Skaari climbed it, then craned

his neck to see down the length of the bridge. He saw murky movement and bobbing

torches at the far end, but it was too far away for him to make out any detail.

At the near end, the dwarfs were all lined up and waiting. Ten thunderers stood at

the front, a shoulder-high barricade erected in front of them that would allow them to

steady the barrels of their guns, as well as protect them from goblin arrows. Behind

them Aurik and his hammerers stared out across the bridge under Karak Grom’s

green and silver banner, their helmets on and their visors down. Stout dwarf warriors

were lined up to either side of them and in two ranks behind. Other than a gun crew

and a handful of crossbow-armed rangers in each tower, these few were all that faced

the six hundred goblins at the far end of the bridge.

Skaari turned and looked behind him towards the winding path that led to the

hold. He almost hoped the reinforcements would be too late. What a grand and

glorious last stand it would be without them.

A distant roar made him turn back. Something was happening at the end of the

bridge. A large and lumpy shape separated itself from the darkness and lumbered

onto the span at an awkward trot. Skaari snarled. It was the troll—the one that had

killed Jarl and thrown the cow at him—and it was running right at the dwarfs.

Skaari was surprised. It was difficult to make a troll do anything, let alone run in

a straight line for any distance. They tended to get distracted, or forget where they

were going. But then he saw two little goblins running after it and poking at its heels

33

with torches. They were driving the thing before them. These really were very clever

goblins.

A rattle of musket fire echoed off the mountains as the troll came in range of the

thunderers. It staggered as the balls pocked it, but then recovered and kept on, roaring

angrily. The two goblins capered behind it, shrilling encouragement, and Skaari

stared as he realised that they were only the vanguard of a surging tide of goblins that

filled the bridge from edge to edge and all the way back to the far side.

It was clear that the goblins meant the troll to smash the dwarfs’ line, and then

swarm in amongst them before they could reform. And it just might work. The troll

was storming forward of its own volition now—the goblins’ goading no longer

needed now that the dwarfs had angered it.

The thunderers fired again, and again the monster was put back on its heels, but

only for a moment. It recovered and charged on, raising its massive club and howling

its defiance. Skaari swore, amazed. The troll had taken at least twenty shots and still

it came on. The vile beast’s regenerative powers were terrifyingly swift.

Then, above Skaari’s head, one of the cannons spoke, belching smoke and flame.

The troll flew back in a hail of grape-shot and crashed against the side of the bridge,

sprawled across the parapet with its head and torso hanging far out over the black

chasm. There were huge holes in its chest and abdomen now, and one of its bat-wing

ears had been shot away. It pawed weakly at the air.

That’s done it, thought Skaari, as the goblin horde hesitated at the sight and the

two torch-wielders shrieked and poked at it. But then, to his amazement, the troll

began to rise again, clutching at the rail as the massive wounds in its torso began to

knit at the edges. It was unkillable!

Then the second cannon fired, spewing more shot, and punched the troll

backwards over the rail. Its legs flew up and it was gone, tumbling down into the

blackness of the deep ravine. Its handlers shrieked and ran back towards the goblin

mob.

“Yes!” cried Skaari, punching the air.

“Fire!” bellowed the veteran thunderer.

His thunderers disappeared in a cloud of smoke as they unloaded into the

greenskins. The cannons echoed their volley, spraying more heavy shot down the

bridge.

“Reload!”

The smoke cleared away on the chill mountain breeze, revealing a score of

mangled green corpses, and the backs of the goblin horde as they fled back towards

their side of the bridge, squealing in panic.

The thunderers sent another volley after them, dropping another dozen, and they

ran even faster.

The dwarfs cheered. Skaari hopped down from the wall and slapped Old Harn on

the back. “Ha! That’s seen them off!”

“Aye,” Harn said, puffing on his pipe. “For now.”

Skaari snorted. “Let them come. If that’s the best they can do we’ll hold this

bridge forever.”

34

Harn glowered at him through his pipe smoke. “Never underestimate a goblin,

beardling,” he said. “Ask the dwarf who’s lost a leg to one.”

“Arrrgh!” rasped Dagskar, biting the end of his whip in frustration as his boys ran

past him willy-nilly, fleeing the bridge. “Now I’ve lost da troll! Now my plan is

busted!” He spun to face Nazbad and stabbed a long finger at him. “Dis is still your

fault!”

“What’d I do now?” asked the shaman, folding his arms over his paunch. “I

didn’t do nothin’ to da troll.”

“It ain’t what you did now. It’s what you did den. If dem stunties hadn’t got past

yer boys, I woulda—”

“Oh, leave off about that!” snarled Nazbad. “I say it’s your fault. If your mob

moved as fast as my spider riders we’d a’beat da stunties to da bridge.”

“And if your boys woulda done their job, we wouldn’a had t’rush!” shouted

Dagskar.

“Would y’stop bringin’ up old news?” said Nazbad. “Whatta we gonna do now?”

Dagskar glared at him then turned away with a snort and surveyed his forces.

What was he going to do? Shifting dwarfs out of a fortified position was like trying

to push an orc through a rat hole. They just wouldn’t go. The squigs would have done

it, but the squigs had had to be put down. The troll could have done it, if it weren’t

for the stunties’ cannons.

His eyes fell on the stolen herd of cows, bringing up the rear with the rest of the

fodder. He paused, thinking. They weren’t as savage as squigs, but they were heavier,

and harder to stop once they got moving. But the damn cannons would still turn them

into mincemeat before they got half way across. Unless…

He looked at Nazbad’s spider riders, hunched on their mounts under the trees at

the side of the path. An idea began to grow like a diseased mushroom in his mind. He

would have to work fast, before the sun found its way down into the pass.

“Hoy, shaman,” he called. “Unfurl yer ears and listen t’me. I got some work fer

yer precious spider-boys.”

“Much obliged, lad,” said a thunderer as Skaari filled his mug from the keg he had

strapped to his back.

Skaari nodded and moved to the next dwarf in line. With the goblins still milling

about at the far end of the bridge, the dwarf lines could not retire, so surgeon Eorik

had ordered Skaari to bring them hearty ale to keep their strength up. It was

humiliating work serving the dwarfs beside whom he would rather be fighting, but it

was necessary, so he did it without complaint, though he couldn’t bring himself to

look any of them in the eye.

He had just turned the spigot on the tap to fill the next thunderer’s mug when a

cry rang out behind him.

“Ware your flanks! To the right!”

Skaari turned, spilling ale. The thunderers turned too. At first all he could see was

the armoured backs of the dwarfs on the right side of the bridge, all surging closer to

the rail. Then came another shout.

35

“On the left, too!”

Then, “The towers! The towers!”

Skaari snapped his head left and right, searching for the threat in the dim morning

light. Over the heads of the dwarfs to the left he saw what looked like long black

swords waving around, and he heard the grunts of dwarfs in pain. Then movement

from the towers drew his eyes and he looked up. Fat black shapes, with smaller

shapes on their backs were swarming up the sheer walls—spiders! Spider riders!

More spiders clambered over the sides of the bridge. Not black swords, thought

Skaari—spider legs! They were surrounded!

“Grungni’s beard!” swore a warrior behind him. “They must have crawled along

the underside!”

Skaari drew his hand axe and turned toward the flanks with the others.

“Thunderers!” called Aurik. “Stay to the front. Keep your eyes on the bridge!”

But it was impossible. The spider riders were amongst them now, stabbing with

spears as their mounts whipped about with their legs. The thunderers had to turn and

fight. Their neat rank dissolved into a mad scrum as they joined the rest and faced the

new menace. Axes chopped and hacked, cleaving goblin skulls and sending shattered

spider limbs spinning. Aurik and his hammerers fought at the left side of the bridge,

cracking carapaces and crushing greenskins. A dwarf staggered past Skaari, his face

swollen and black from a poisoned bite. Blood haemorrhaged from his nose and ears.

A thunderer fired point blank as a spider leapt at him. The spider’s head exploded,

and it collapsed in a clatter of legs, but its rider leapt at him, thrusting at him with his

spear. Skaari hacked the goblin down, but it was too late. The thunderer fell back, the

spear through the eye-slot of his helmet.

A shriek from above made Skaari look up. A spider and goblin were falling from

the tower, but the spider had a dwarf in its clutches and he fell too, still fighting as

they vanished into Skarrenruf Gorge. The sound of furious battle echoed from the

tower tops as the crews defended their guns.

Skaari returned his gaze to the battle. One of Aurik’s hammerers was down,

fighting to throw off a spider that pinned him to the ground. More spiders were

climbing over the struggle to reach Aurik.

“Thanesson! Beware!” Skaari surged forward, the keg on his back lending him

weight and momentum, but before he could reach Aurik, he felt the bridge tremble

under his feet. Something was shaking it. He looked towards the goblins, expecting

to see another troll, or some other horror. Instead, he saw… cows.

The herd— his herd—was stampeding across the bridge, their eyes rolling with

terror, as the whole horde of gibbering goblins poured after them like a green tide.

“Cows!” he shouted. “Stampede! Look out!”

All around him, dwarfs looked up from their fights and stared. Aurik turned and

swore.

“Fall back!” he cried. “Off the bridge!”

Skaari could see it pained him to say it, but the thane’s son was right. With the

cannon crews and the thunderers fighting for their lives, there was nothing to stop the

herd from trampling them to a pulp.

36

The dwarfs backed toward their end of the bridge, trying to extricate themselves

from their fights. Skaari heaved his ale-keg at a spider rider and joined them, though

he knew it would be useless. They weren’t moving fast enough. The thunder of

hooves was getting louder. The herd would close the distance in seconds.

The spider riders screamed as they saw the wall of cow-flesh bearing down on

them. They broke away from the dwarfs, shrilling curses and scuttling over the sides

of the bridge. It seemed they hadn’t been told of the herd’s part in the attack.

Free of their fights, the dwarfs turned and ran. Skaari wondered briefly if there

was dishonour in running from cows, but on the whole he thought not. It was no

more cowardly than running from an avalanche.

The first few dwarf warriors reached the end of the bridge and scattered left and

right behind the towers. They were the lucky ones. The deafening rumble of a

thousand hooves nearly shook Skaari off his feet. Five paces from the end, he threw

himself aside. A bellowing cow shouldered him into the stone rail, crushing his ribs

and knocking him to the flags. Another stepped on his leg. He covered his head with

his arms and curled in a ball as the herd rushed by inches away.

Aurik lay beside him, protected by his armour and the shields of two of his

hammerers, who lay on top of him, heads lowered. One of them was knocked away

by a maddened cow, and went rolling and bouncing into the stream of cattle, kicked

and crushed along with a score of other over-run warriors.

Skaari leapt on the shield the hammerer had left behind, holding it in place over

Aurik. “I have it, thane’s son!” he cried. “Stay down!”

His words were lost in the clattering roar of the herd’s passage. Another cow

kicked him in the shoulder as it leapt over him. Its back feet grazed his helm, tearing

it from his head.

And then the herd was past, but there was no respite. The fading thunder of

hooves was drowned by the shrill war cries of the goblins that swarmed in their

wake. They enveloped the fallen dwarfs like a flood tide, stabbing down at every one

they passed.

Skaari squirmed aside from three spear points and lashed out with his axe,

fanning his attackers back. His ribs screamed, his arms and legs throbbed, his ears

rang, but there was no time for pain: giving in to it meant death.

Aurik lurched up beside him, roaring and bleeding into his beard from a gash on

his cheek as he swept out with his shield and smashed Skaari’s goblins to the ground.

His remaining hammerer stood beside him and guarded his left flank. Skaari

instinctively snatched up the other hammerer’s shield and guarded his right. A dozen

goblins thrust their spears at them, howling for dwarf blood.

“Close up!” shouted Aurik to the few survivors who picked themselves up by the

edges of the bridge. “Close up between the towers!” He cleaved a goblin’s skull with

Grudge Ender and kicked it away, then started cutting his way to the end of the

bridge. “Come on, young cowherd,” he said. “It seems you get to fight after all.”

Skaari’s heart swelled at the words as he followed, hacking around him with his

hand axe. He was protecting his thane’s son—doing a hammerer’s job—in the most

brutal battle of his life. This was an end to be proud of! This was a death to brag of in

the halls of his ancestors!

37

The dwarfs on the bridge rallied around Aurik, and inched towards the space

between the towers. The dwarfs that had escaped the stampede regrouped and pushed

onto the bridge again to join them.

They were entirely surrounded by goblins. Though most of the greenskins were

still scampering across the bridge, those who had run with the herd had already

reached the dwarf side, and were turning back to attack the dwarfs from the rear.

“Form a square!” called Aurik. “All face out!”

The dwarfs, drilled in defensive tactics from birth, fell easily into ranks and files

and plugged the end of the bridge, facing out both front and back. The tide of goblins

stopped, though dwarfs died fighting them all along the edges of the square, which

was quickly growing hollow as the warriors in the centre pushed to the edges to

replace the fallen.

Skaari found himself fighting next to Old Harn, who swung an axe in one hand

and the bucket of hot pitch in the other.

“It won’t last,” the stretcher bearer muttered as he fought. “We’ll never hold

them. There are too many.”

“Then we shall thin their ranks before we die,” said Skaari, beheading a goblin.

“And send them on to Thane Thunderbrand a shadow of their former selves.”

Harn grinned wryly. “Read a few sagas, have you?”

“A… a few.” Skaari smiled sheepishly.

A horn sounded in the distance, barely audible over the din of battle.

Aurik’s head lifted. “The reinforcements!”

“Saved,” said Skaari, knocking aside a goblin’s spear with his shield.

“No!” said Aurik. “They must not come. They would only join us in death, and to

no purpose. They must go back to the hold and protect it.” He turned to his last

remaining hammerer. “Gurgrin, your horn. Acknowledge their call, then blow ‘fall

back and defend—enemy coming’.”

The hammerer unslung his horn stoically, though he knew that he blew his own

death song. Skaari swallowed as the sharp notes blared out over the melee—a

musical version of the rat-a-tat of the old dwarf mine code. That was it then. They

had sealed their fate. He wasn’t frightened, but it is one thing to imagine one’s

glorious death. It is another to know it is a certainty.

Far off, the reinforcements’ horn answered Gurgrin’s blast—querying it

uncertainly.

The hammerer raised the horn to his lips again and repeated the orders—“fall

back and defend—enemy coming”, “fall back and defend—enemy coming!”, “fall

back—”

The notes cut off with a squawk and Skaari turned to see Gurgrin toppling

sideways, his helmet caved in by a cannonball. Skaari stared, shocked. Where had it

come from? He had heard no shot.

“Gurgrin!” cried Aurik.

Another ball smashed down on Old Harn, shattering his shoulder and knocking

him to the ground.

Skaari and Aurik and the others looked up. The spider riders on the tower tops

had won their fights. They stood on the battlements, hurling cannonballs down into

38

the battle and shrieking with glee. Skaari and the others raised their shields as iron

balls rained down on top of them. They thudded off the heavy wood in a crushing

barrage, nearly driving the dwarfs to the ground. Skaari staggered as his arm failed

and his shield cracked him on the head.

The goblins before them took advantage of their awkward position and stabbed at

their bellies. Skaari brought his shield down on three spears and swung his axe over

the top, cracking a knobby skull. Aurik too blocked three spears, but a fourth got

through. A goblin stabbed him in the neck, just above his gromril breastplate, and the

spearhead vanished into his magnificent beard. He staggered back, choking.

“Aurik!” gasped Skaari, and shoved forward to protect his leader, but a

cannonball glancing off another dwarfs shield struck him on the side of the skull, and

suddenly he found himself lying on his back with no memory of falling.

He stared up at Aurik as the thane’s son dropped Grudge Ender to clutch at his

now crimson beard, and a dozen goblins leapt on him with spears and daggers and

bore him to the ground.

Then there was nothing above Skaari but sky, which strangely was getting darker,

though the morning sun was at last rising above the peaks.

39

SIX

Dagskar cackled with glee as he stepped off the bridge and looked around at all the

dead stunties. His gambit had worked! The bridge was his. Now there was nothing

between him and the hold in Skull Pass, with its open door and half-finished

defences. Ha! Taking it would be like kicking a snotling.

Or would it? Dagskar paused for a moment as he remembered that he’d lost the

troll. It would be a tougher job without the big dummy’s muscle backing him up. He

shrugged. He’d have to make do. He had to take that hold! He had to prove to

Skarsnik that he was worthy of being a big boss.

“Hoy!” cried Nazbad, picking his way through the corpses and pointing his warty

green finger at him. “Y’really made a mess of that, y’toadstool.”

“Whaddaya mean,” snarled Dagskar. “We won, didn’t we? We took da bridge.”

“We? My boys took da bridge—and paid da price. Ain’t but half o’em left. Your

boys just ran behind da cows, nice and safe.”

“I lost plenty,” said Dagskar. “And I didn’t see you comin’ up with a better plan.

If I’da left it up t’you, we’d still be on da other side of da bridge, pickin’ our noses.”

“Bah!” said Nazbad. “All yer plans seem to end up with my boys gettin’

skragged.”

Dagskar grinned. “What are y’complainin’ about? Less boys, more loot for dem

what’s left, right? Now go round ’em up. We’re movin’.”

“Well den,” said Nazbad, holding up his glowing wart. “How about I kills half

your boys? You’d be laughin’, right?”

Dagskar curled his lip and was about to make a retort when there was a

scrabbling and shifting from the edge of the ravine. He and the shaman turned, wary.

A huge scaly hand reached over the edge and felt around for purchase. It caught

at a boulder and pulled, and a massive, ugly head rose up and looked around,

blinking stupidly.

The troll! Dagskar laughed out loud. The big drooler was still alive after all.

Perfect! Now he could go back to his original plan. He turned to Kizaz and kicked

him. “Hoy, runt. Get da boys to put all da dead stunties on da wagon, and make sure

dey gets da boss stuntie. He goes on top.”

“Gotcha, boss,” said Kizaz, and ran off, shouting orders.

Dagskar smiled. “Dis day just keeps gettin’ better and better.”

Beside him, Nazbad growled. “For some.”

40

Skaari lay in soothing darkness. He couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t hear

anything. He couldn’t smell anything. There was only sweet, soft nothingness that he

wished would go on forever.

Then, though he tried to keep it away, a speck of unease wormed its way into his

cocoon of comfort, a niggling dust-mote of guilt that whispered that he shouldn’t be

enjoying this. Terrible things were happening outside the velvet black, and he should

do something about them.

The guilt became a throbbing ache, which settled in the side of his head, then

spread to his arms and legs. The whisper became an annoying shrilling and

cluttering, like fighting stoats. He wished they would stop, and that the ache would

go away. It was all making it hard to sink back into the darkness.

Then the floodgates burst and it all came flowing back at once. The spiders. The

stampede. The goblins. Fighting. The crack on the skull. Aurik falling. Pain filled

him like blades fresh from the forge. His skull felt like a clay pot that had cracked in

the kiln. The kicks from the cows hurt all the way down to the bone. He had to fight

to keep from groaning out loud. And the cluttering voices weren’t going away. In

fact, they were getting louder.

Skaari opened one cautious eye, then winced instantly as the sun stabbed down at

him. He blinked back tears and looked around as best he could without moving his

head. He was where he had fallen, at the end of the bridge, and there were dead

dwarfs all around him. Old Harn lay not far off, face down in a pool of drying pitch,

his white beard stuck to it. Aurik…

Aurik was gone!

Skaari turned his head to be sure. The thane’s son’s helmet was there, dented and

dirtied, but his body and Grudge Ender no longer lay beside it. What had happened?

Were the cursed goblins abusing Aurik’s corpse in some way?

The sound of approaching feet made him lie still and close his eyes again. Some

goblins were coming his way, nattering and snarling at each other. He thought they

were going to pass him by, but instead they stopped all around him. Had they seen

him move his head? Were they about to kill him? He tensed, getting ready to leap up

and take as many as he could with him—not many in his current state, he was

certain—but then he felt his wrists and ankles gripped in hard, long-fingered hands,

and he was lifted off the ground. He nearly struggled as the goblins carried him off,

but fought the impulse down. If they were going to throw him on a pile somewhere,

maybe he could slip away later.

But what if they were going to throw him in the ravine? His heart thudded wildly

at the thought. He opened one eye a slit and looked around, then breathed a silent

sigh of relief. They were walking away from the chasm. He was being taken towards

a wagon of dwarfish make, already half-full of dead dwarfs.

The goblins swung him once, twice, thrice, then heaved him up onto the cart and

he thudded down in the middle of the mound of corpses. He stifled another grunt of

pain as his wounds crashed into the hard parts of the dead dwarfs’ armour. When the

agony receded, he opened his eyes and looked around again.

The four goblins were slouching away on another trip to the bridge. To their

right, two other goblins were arguing vociferously. One of them wore a hooded black

41

robe and carried a coiled whip, which he shook in the other goblin’s ugly face. Skaari

remembered him. He was the one who had ordered the goblins to take his herd. The

other goblin wore a wolfskin, and countless amulets and fetishes dangled from his

neck and wrists. He waved his middle finger at the first goblin. There was a wart on

it that glowed with a worrying green aura.

Skaari gave the two goblins a closer look. He knew the one with the whip was a

leader, and from the deference the other goblins paid the one in the wolfskin—edging

around him and ducking their heads in passing—he surmised that he was important

too. The two goblins’ garb suggested they were from two different tribes—night

goblins and forest goblins, just like he and the scouts had seen at the camp—and it

looked like the two sides were fighting now.

He raised his head a little more and looked further afield. Aye. The night goblins

were gathering on the left side of the path to the bridge, while the spider-riding forest

goblins were bunched together on the right side, and both sides were shooting squinty

glances at the other. And there were hundreds of the little, savages standing about, all

armed to the teeth. It seemed that Aurik’s last stand at the bridge had hardly put a

dent in their numbers at all. The hold was going to face the full brunt of the goblin

attack, unless…

Unless the rivalry between them could be used to the dwarfs’ advantage. If Skaari

could get back to the hold and tell Thane Thunderbrand, he might be able to use the

knowledge to make the goblins fight one another and weaken their attack. He had to

try it. It might mean the difference between victory and defeat.

Skaari returned his attention to the area directly around the wagon. The goblins

had left it near the barracks house, the ponies tied to the hitching post outside it. He

couldn’t see any goblins close by. If he could slip off and get behind the house, then

he could climb up into the scrub above the path and escape. He only hoped that,

wounded as he was, he could move faster than goblins on the march.

He looked back towards the bridge. The four goblins were just picking up another

corpse. He had to move now. He rolled over onto his chest, moving closer to the tail-

gate, then paused, listening for sounds of alarm. None. He checked around again. The

four goblins were carrying the dead dwarf his way, but they were talking amongst

themselves and not looking toward the wagon. None of the other groups seemed to

be paying any attention either, and the two leaders were so wrapped up in their

argument he could have stood up and whistled a dwarfen marching song and they

wouldn’t have noticed. Now was the time.

Skaari rolled over again, and dropped off the tail board onto the ground. The

impact almost made him cry out, but he bit it back and rolled quickly under the

wagon. Still no alarm. Good.

The head of the wagon was closer to the house. He crawled the length of it,

squirming under the front axle until he was just behind the ponies. They whickered

nervously and he murmured hurried reassurances. It wouldn’t do for them to bolt and

pull away, leaving him crouching and exposed on the ground looking foolish. They

settled down and he eyed his next step.

There was a rain barrel beside the barracks house, only three quick paces away.

Perfect. He got his legs under him, braced, and ran for it.

42

On his first step, a goblin stepped out of the house, slipping one of surgeon

Eorik’s scalpels through its belt for a dagger. It squawked as Skaari rushed past.

Skaari cursed and kept running, limp-hopping around the rain barrel and down the

side of the house. Of all the terrible luck! But perhaps if he could draw it off and kill

it, none of the others would notice.

The goblin scrambled after him, shrilling curses. Skaari dodged around the back

of the house, feeling at his belt. He still had his dagger. He drew it and whipped

around.

The goblin careened around the corner at top speed and crashed into him. Skaari

jabbed with his dagger, ripping up under the goblin’s ribs. It shrieked in pain.

“Shut up, you little cannibal!” Skaari cursed and stabbed again.

The goblin fell back, mewling and holding its guts. Skaari cut its throat and it fell

to the ground, silent at last. But not soon enough. Skaari looked up as he heard

questioning jabbers coming from the front of the house. They had heard. Now they

were coming. Time to run.

He looked around. There was a little yard behind the barracks house, with a bit of

garden and a small forge for repairing weapons. At the back of that was the wall of

the pass, a steep slope of jagged rock and gnarled scrub. That was his best bet. There

wasn’t a goblin alive that could outclimb a dwarf, or outfight him on a sheer face.

Skaari limped to the slope and started to pull himself up the jumble of boulders

that littered the base of it. His ribs and wounded limbs complained loudly, and he

moved at only a fraction of his normal speed, but he forced himself on.

Before he’d climbed more than six feet, goblins swarmed around the back of the

house from both sides, screeching and pointing. Skaari kept climbing, but risked a

look back. A few of them were running forward to climb after him, but most just

howled and shook their fists. Unfortunately, another few were drawing little double

curved bows and fitting arrows to the strings. He cursed. He had forgotten about

arrows. He was done for.

He climbed on regardless, his back tightening with anticipation, waiting for the

first arrow to pin him to the rocks. But then there was a commanding shout.

Skaari looked back again. The goblin with the whip was stepping into the yard,

barking at all the others and waving its hands. Skaari couldn’t understand what it was

saying, but its words had an effect on the other greenskins. Though they looked less

than happy about it, they lowered their bows and stepped back.

Skaari stared. Was the goblin leader letting him go? Was it some sort of trick?

Then he saw another goblin take out a leather sling and pick up a rock.

Skaari cursed and climbed faster as the goblin fitted the rock into the sling and

began to whirl it around its head. They were going to knock him off the cliff face, but

not kill him. Why? What did they want with him? What were they going to do?

The whirring stopped and something hard cracked him on the side of the head,

right where the cannon-ball had struck him before. The world went black at the

edges. His fingers relaxed and slipped from their holds. He was falling. It was going

to hurt when he hit.

43

“Good,” said Dagskar, as the dwarf tumbled to the ground at his feet. “Now put ’im

back on da wagon, but don’t kill ’im. I needs a live one.”

“Fer what?” asked Nazbad suspiciously.

“Don’t worry yer knob about it, shaman,” Dagskar said, turning away. “It’s all

part’a da big plan.”

As he stepped around the front of the building he jumped up on the wagon and

raised his arms. “All right, boys!” he shouted. “Move out. It’s time t’kill some

stunties!”

The goblins cheered, and the swarming column started into the pass that led to

the unfortified dwarf hold.

Godri frowned as Fafgir Farrisson, the veteran thunderer who he had asked to lead

the reinforcements to the bridge, marched up to the mouth of the hold with his thirty

dwarfs behind him, and bowed before Rodrin and himself.

“By Grimnir, what’s this?” Godri asked. “Why have you returned? And

unscathed? Where is my son?”

Fafgir, a grizzled old brawler with a broken nose and a grey beard to his waist,

shuffled nervously before he replied. “Your son ordered it so, my thane,” he said.

“We sounded a rally call when we were a mile away, to let him know help was on the

way, but a horn came in response—‘fall back and defend—enemy coming’. We blew

a query note, but the reply came the same—‘fall back and defend—enemy coming’.”

He paused again, looking uncomfortable. “Then… then the call cut off, all of a

sudden.”

Godri felt a cold hand close around his heart. “And you did not go forward?”

Fafgir straightened, looking both stiff and nervous. “We followed the orders, my

thane. We fell back, and we are ready to defend. I… I hope—”

“You did the right thing, veteran,” said Godri. “If my son thought it best that you

fall back, then it was best.”

He raised his head and surveyed the dwarfs who stood behind Fafgir. “Now go

and prepare for battle. We have need of every one of you on the front lines.”

The dwarfs saluted him, thudding their armoured and bearded chests with their

fists. Fafgir bowed, then led them away.

As they marched off, Rodrin put his hand on Godri’s shoulder. “Brother…”

“There is no time for that,” snapped Godri. “Make your final preparations and

return to me, for I would fight at your side. Unless some miracle has happened, they

will be here soon. We must be ready.”

“Aye, brother,” said Rodrin. “We will be.” He too bowed and left, leaving Godri

alone but for his hammerers.

Godri turned to Arn, their leader. “Bring me my armour and the axe of my

fathers. It is time.”

And it was. Not a half hour later, just as Arn was buckling on his last pauldron,

and Godri was tugging his tight-fitting gromril and gold helm down over his head

and lowering the stern-visaged visor, a cry went up from the cannon crews on the

platform above the open door.

44

Godri took the axe Thaggstok, with which his father’s father had saved Clan

Byrnik from the vile skaven a thousand years ago, and stepped to the King’s Wall

and looked to the south and west. Rodrin joined him, returning in his finest armour, a

warpick over his shoulder and his horned helm under his arm, and followed his gaze.

Where the narrow path from the bridge opened out at the top of the valley, a dark

stain was spreading, like black blood spilling from a wound. Goblins. Hundreds of

them.

The cold hand around Godri’s heart tightened into a fist. “My son is dead,” he

said. “The filth would not have won past him if he still had strength to draw breath.”

Rodrin groaned beside him.

Godri put a hand on his shoulder, then stepped out beyond the King’s Wall and

beckoned him and the hammerers to follow. “Come,” he said, hefting Thaggstok.

“We go to war.”

He was glad he had lowered his visor. Rodrin and the others would not see his

tears.

45

SEVEN

As he and his boys strode down the sloping track to the valley floor, Dagskar looked

down to where the stunties had dug their hole. The mouth of it was built out from the

rocky face of the mountain on the far side of the valley, and their little above-ground

settlement spread out from it in a half-circle. The sturdy little stone buildings were all

tightly packed together, with pastures and fields of wheat and vegetables making a

band of gold and green beyond them.

He smiled as he watched the little black specks of the dwarfs moving up to take

their places at the edges of the settlement. They were spread very thin along their

lines. Very thin. His boys must outnumber them six to one.

“Dead easy,” he said. “Like steppin’ on ants.”

As his army reached the bottom of the hill Dagskar called Nazbad and his

underbosses to him. “Right,” he said. “Spread out and surround da town, but keep

well back ’til I gives da word, got it?” He glared around at them as they nodded and

grunted. “Anybody what goes in early, I feeds ’em to da troll, feet first.”

“I’d like t’see ya try it,” said Nazbad.

“Mess with me and y’just might,” snarled Dagskar.

The shaman began to puff up and Dagskar sighed and put up his hands.

“Alright, alright, Wartfinger,” he said. “I knows yer mad at me, but if y’wants dat

stuntie hole for yer boys, den we’s gotta work together, got it?”

“I wants it, alright,” said Nazbad. “Da question is, can you get it?”

“I can if y’stop jawwin’ at me and pitch in like y’promised,” said Dagskar. “Now,

listen. Tell yer spider-boys t’sneak up da mountain and get behind da stunties. When

dey sees my boys attack from da front, dey comes down and sticks ’em in da rear,

right?”

Nazbad glared at him suspiciously. “Sounds like yer givin’ my boys da hard bit

again,” he said. “Sneakin’ behind enemy lines.”

“It’s all da hard bit!” snapped Dagskar. “We’s fightin’ stunties, ain’t we? Now,

go tell yer boys what t’do, den come back ’ere and make with da waaagh! Move it!”

The shaman glared at him, and for a second, Dagskar thought he’d have to kill

him right then and there, which would be bad timing to say the least, but at last the

shaman snorted.

“I’ll send ’em,” he said. “But not all of ’em. I ain’t goin’ into a scrap with da

likes’a you without some boys ta watch my back.”

46

He gave Dagskar a final look, then turned and strutted away as if it was him who

was the boss.

Dagskar watched him go, then turned to his under-bosses again. “Alright, get yer

boys set. We go as soon as he starts ’is chant.”

As the boys split up and hurried back to their mobs, Dagskar glared again at

Nazbad, who was giving the orders to his riders. The shaman was asking for it. Well,

he’d settle him as soon as the battle was over—maybe even a bit before.

Skaari shuffled behind the wagon full of corpses, gasping for breath and wincing in

pain as it trundled forward, following the goblin horde that advanced on the dwarf

settlement. The goblins had tied him to the wagon’s tailgate and made him run

behind it the whole way from the bridge, and had whipped and kicked him when he

had fallen. Consequently, his knees and shins were cut to ribbons, adding to the

symphony of pain that was playing at full volume in his battered body.

The homey smell of hops wafting across the fields from the brewery broke

through his agony and brought his head up. He looked around. The bulk of the

goblins were marching straight for the settlement. Only a mob of spider riders was

taking a different tack, scuttling off toward the hills to the east. Skaari groaned as he

took in the scene. The sight of the stout stone buildings of the settlement, seen over

the heads of the advancing goblin army, filled his heart with an agonizing mix of

hope, fear and shame.

The hope was that the buildings would stand, and that the green tide that swept

forward would break upon them and recede. The houses looked so solid and strong, it

seemed impossible that there could be any other outcome, and yet, he had thought the

same thing of the dwarf line at the bridge, just before the spider riders had attacked.

The fear was for the dwarf-wives and children who hid themselves in the hold

beyond the settlement. If the dwarfs who defended it died, then the wives and

children would die too, and not in the heat of battle, but trapped and tortured by evil-

minded savages who had hated dwarf-kind since the dawn of time.

The shame came from the thought that his foolishness and pride might yet cause

that unthinkable outcome. To think that what had started as his selfish attempt to

amend a paltry embarrassment might lead to the downfall of the hold weighed on his

heart like a capstone. He ran through the steps, as if hoping that somehow this time

the end would be different. His embarrassment at being trapped under a cow had

made him volunteer for the scouts, where his shot at the squigs had let the goblins

know they had been scouted, which had brought them to the bridge before the

reinforcements had time to arrive. There he had failed to protect Aurik, and then

failed to escape the goblins when he had the chance, so that he had no chance to

bring them the possibly battle-changing intelligence of the rivalry between the

greenskin leaders.

Truly, the hold would be far better off right now if the troll had killed him right at

the first, when the goblins had stolen the herd. He would have done far less damage

dead than alive.

And he feared he would do more damage yet if he didn’t escape. The goblin boss

had some plan for him, he was sure of that, some scheme that would weaken the

47

dwarfen defences even more. Well, he would kill himself before he allowed that to

happen. He would strangle himself with the ropes they had bound him in.

No. He dismissed the thought even as it came to him. Death alone was not good

enough. Preventing the goblins from using him was only a half measure. If he was

going to die, he wanted a death that would truly make up for his stupidity. He wanted

it to smash the goblins and save the hold. He wanted to do something heroic—but

what? He wasn’t sure he could even free himself from his bonds. They had tied his

hands together so tightly that he could hardly feel them anymore, and left him on a

short lead. He might be able to chew through his bonds, given time, but the goblins

driving the wagon would surely notice before he got very far. Perhaps he could find

something sharp.

The wagon slowed. Skaari looked around. The shaman, the goblin leader, and

their henchmen had halted in the middle of the summer pasture while the bulk of

their army continued forward towards the settlement, spreading out to encircle it as

they went. Skaari sneered as he saw a tiny goblin hoist an ugly half-moon standard

above the leader’s head—just like goblins, he thought, leading from the rear.

Disgusting. The shaman began doing some sort of dance, rattling his fetishes and

raising his hands up in the air. Magic. Even more disgusting.

Skaari continued his survey of the area. A mob of roughly forty night goblin

reserves waited to the leader’s right, while a dozen spider riders gathered to their left.

The troll squatted a little further on, gnawing on a dead cow while four night goblin

handlers kept an eye on it.

The goblins driving the corpse wagon reined the frightened ponies to a halt,

stopping them near the spider riders, then got down and stood before the wagon,

guarding it—and Skaari.

Skaari sighed. He was in a perfect position—less than twenty paces behind the

leader and the shaman—if only he could get free and get a weapon. He examined the

wagon more closely. There were no metal hasps or hinges within reach that had a

sharp enough edge for his purposes. But what about the bodies of the dwarfs that

were piled upon it? Perhaps the goblins had left one of them with his dagger or axe.

No, there wasn’t a blade among them. They’d been stripped of all weapons. He

groaned. He would never get away.

An angry chittering made him look up. One of the night goblins was trotting past

the spider riders, bringing some message to the guards who watched the troll, and the

spider riders were giving him some lip, jeering at him and flicking snot at him. The

night goblin replied in kind, and it looked for a moment that there would be a scuffle,

but then the boss of the spider riders shouted at his boys and they quieted down.

Skaari smiled as an idea formed in his head. Perhaps he could do something

heroic without breaking free.

Just then the goblin shaman shrieked, and a bright flash of green light exploded

over his head. A harsh horn blast echoed across the field in its wake, and a horrible

shrilling screech rose up from the goblin army in answer.

“WAAAGH!”

“Here they come,” said Rodrin.

“Good,” said Godri. “My heart thirsts.”

48

They stood with the hammerers in the gap between the brewery and the mill,

letting the bulky buildings guard their flanks as the goblin horde sprinted towards

them, screaming and shaking their weapons with the green light of battle frenzy

blazing from their eyes.

A trench dug earlier by Rodrin’s miners opened at the dwarfs’ feet. It was a yard

deep and filled with sharpened stakes. Any goblins that charged them would fall into

the trench first, and then have to climb out again, while the dwarfs rained hammer

and axe blows down on them from above. Similar trenches encircled the whole

village—a simple but effective way to gain the high ground.

A cloud of black arrows arced over the advancing goblins and angled down

towards the dwarfs.

“Shields high!” called Godri, and as one, Rodrin and the hammerers raised their

shields over their heads.

It was hardly necessary. Most of the arrows landed well short of the mark. In fact,

some shot the charging goblins in the back. Only a few reached the dwarf line, and

those barely scratched the paint of their shields.

“Pathetic,” said Rodrin. “We’d be in more danger if they spat at us.”

As the goblins closed, the thunderers occupying the top floors of the mill and the

brewery returned fire, filling the air with smoke and the pleasing stench of powder.

The goblins’ screams of rage turned to shrieks of agony as the musket balls ripped

through them, bringing down more than a score.

The deeper bark of the cannons boomed from behind the dwarf lines, and

cannonballs whistled over Godri and Rodrin’s heads to skip through the greenskin

lines like flat stones off the surface of a lake, sending goblins and goblin bits

splashing in all directions with each bounce.

The goblins were not deterred. The mad light in their eyes only blazed brighter,

and they leapt over their fallen comrades without a second glance—entirely focused

on closing with their ancient enemies.

“Shields to the fore!” called Godri, holding Thaggstok aloft. “Dress your line!”

The hammerers brought their shields down and stood shoulder to shoulder,

forming an unbroken wall of wood and steel. It was a mere formality. The first

charge of goblins tumbled into the trench before them, the screaming savages

impaling themselves on the stakes and crashing down on the hard earth to be crushed

by those who followed.

Rodrin laughed as he looked down into the pit at the dead and squirming goblins.

“It really isn’t fair,” he said.

“They deserve no better,” said Godri, with more emotion than he intended.

The goblins that had survived the fall scrambled to their feet and tried to claw

their way up the sheer wall of the trench. Others stabbed up ineffectually with their

spears. Godri slashed down at them with mighty Thaggstok, sheering off spear tips

and staving in heads. Rodrin and the hammerers did the same, bashing mercilessly at

the trapped goblins like they were rats in a gutter.

On the far side of the trench, the advancing goblins were trying to stop from

jumping in, but they were being pushed forward by the mass of their fellow

greenskins behind them, who did not yet know of the danger. They tumbled in,

49

skidding their heels and shrieking, all their earlier battle lust gone, while some tried

to push back through the onrushing press.

“Ha!” laughed Arn, crushing the skulls of two goblins in one swipe. “It’s a

massacre. It’ll be over before it starts.”

A roar from the left drew Godri’s attention. Stout dwarf warriors stood on a long

earthen rampart that had been built up around the brewery using the dirt dug from the

trench, fighting a mob of goblins that swarmed up its sloping front. Near the centre of

that line, Borri Graniteskin had pushed halfway down the incline, up to his chest in

goblins and swinging an axe and a burning torch in a dizzying blur of fire and steel.

The greenskins fell back from him in bloody pieces, shrieking and howling as

they died.

“Bring me the troll!” the slayer roared, shaking his axe and revealing the clay fire

pot he had slung under his arm. “Where is the troll?”

“Grimnir’s bloody axe,” Godri said, as another handful of goblins fell by the

slayer’s hand. “The blowhard can actually fight!”

“I never would have believed it,” chuckled Rodrin.

A grunt from Arn drew Godri’s attention to the field again.

“What is that?” asked the thunderer, pointing as he kicked another goblin back

into the trench.

Godri followed his finger. A shimmering green translucence was gathering above

the dancing goblin shaman, far at the back of the horde. It looked like the phantom

fire one sometimes saw at the top of flagpoles and lightning rods—a flickering, half-

seen will-o-the-wisp—and it began to drift their way.

“Magic,” spat Rodrin. “The foul winds.”

“Pay it no mind,” barked Godri. “Hold the trench.”

Rodrin and the hammerers growled their agreement and returned their full

attention to the trench and the goblins, hacking and bashing at them with a steady,

tireless rhythm. Godri did too. From long experience he knew it was better to focus

on a threat one could fight than worry about an intangible one.

And the goblins in the trench were at last becoming a true threat. Enough of them

had died in it now that it was starting to fill with their bodies, and the scores pouring

into it were now protected from the stakes by a carpet of their fallen comrades. Soon

it would be so full that they would be able to run across it like level ground.

Godri caved in a goblin’s chest with Thaggstok, then shattered the jaw of another

with the back swing. Still not a dwarf he could see had fallen—proof that forethought

and preparation were the best defence against mindless savagery.

A dwarf horn rang out from the right flank—a staccato of coded notes. “Enemy

behind—riders—surrounded.”

“That’s Dargin’s horn!” said Rodrin as he shouldered a dying goblin back into

the pit. “But who could have got behind him? His lads put their backs against the

mountain side.”

“The spider riders,” said Godri. He kicked down another goblin, then looked to

where his runners waited behind the line—swift rangers with little armour. “Hugin!

Tell Ogriff to bring his miners to Dargin’s aid.”

50

“At once, my thane!” said the ranger, and sprinted back towards the entrance of

the hold, where Ogriff and the other reserves waited.

Skaari looked across the pasture towards the front line as the distant roar and clash of

battle rang in his ears. His brothers were holding, but for how long? The horde of

goblins that rushed towards them seemed without end, and the shaman in the

wolfskin was beginning another dance. Now was the time to put his plan into action,

before it was too late, but unfortunately the start of the battle had made it more

difficult.

The night goblin and spider rider reserves had crept forward, like small boys

drawn towards a puppet show, straining their necks to see the action. He had been

left behind at the back of the wagon, out of range for what he had in mind. But then

at last—a prayer answered the wagon guards couldn’t resist edging forward either.

They prodded the ponies forward and moved the wagon up behind the night goblins

and spider riders for a better vantage point, then climbed on the bench at the front to

watch. Perfect.

Skaari looked around on the grassy ground. They were in the winter pasture,

where his herd should have been grazing, had the goblins not stolen it. There were a

few pebbles scattered amidst the grass, but they were too small. He needed

something substantial.

He paused as he saw a cowpat, sun-baked, and as hard as petrified wood. Again

perfect.

Unfortunately, the ropes that tied him to the wagon were too short for him to

reach his hands to the ground, so he wedged the toe of his boot under the cowpat and

pried up until it was free of the grass. He raised his head. The night goblin reserves

were closest. The ones at the back of the mob were less than ten paces away.

He took a deep breath and got his foot well under the cowpat, eyeing a potential

target. He would have to make this good on the first try. The trick wouldn’t work

twice.

“Grimnir guide my aim,” he whispered, then kicked the cowpat at the night

goblins.

He held his breath as it sailed up in a high arc. For a moment he was afraid he

hadn’t given it enough distance, but then it angled down again and clocked a short,

sinewy goblin on the side of the head, just over the ear. It cringed and ducked as the

ancient crap shattered and fell about it in a cloud of dust.

Skaari quickly whistled loud in the spider riders’ direction, and was rewarded

when a couple of the riders at the back of the pack looked over just as the little goblin

was glaring around to see who its attacker was. It saw the spider riders turning their

heads and squinted suspiciously at them.

Now came the tricky part. Though it hurt his cracked ribs terribly to do it, Skaari

bellowed out a whooping laugh and slapped his thighs like he had never seen

anything funnier.

The dirtied goblin and the two spider riders turned, looking quizzically at him.

Skaari laughed at them, pointing first to the two spider riders and miming throwing

the cowpat and it sailing through the air, then pointing at the little goblin and miming

51

being hit in the head. He guffawed again and crossed his eyes, tottering like he was

drunk.

“They got you good, laddie!” he called. “And no mistake!”

The little night goblin turned to glare at the spider riders, snarling. They held up

their hands and shook their heads, but he wasn’t having any of it. He picked up the

shards of the calcified cowpat and threw it at them, showering them in faecal dust,

then jabbed his mates in the ribs and pointed at the spider riders, describing the

attack.

The spider riders shouted angrily as they shook off the dirt and snatched up

cowpats of their own. They hurled them at the little goblin, but their aim—as was

often the case with goblins—was off, and the dry clods clobbered entirely innocent

goblins on the heads. They turned around, enraged, and started throwing cowpats too.

Skaari chuckled, pleased with himself for a job well done, then leaned against the

wagon to watch the fun. If he knew his goblins, the battle would have a second front

in a matter of seconds.

52

EIGHT

Godri fought on mechanically, cutting down goblin after goblin as they tried to climb

from the trench, but his mind remained with Dargin on the right wing. The goblins’

savagery was not so mindless after all. A flanking attack, using troops that could

manoeuvre vertical terrain: there was a mind behind this assault—a dangerous

mind—one that must be destroyed, before it destroyed them.

A bolt of green lightning shot down from above, booming loud and blasting Arn

and a few of his hammerers off their feet. Godri looked up. The shaman’s

shimmering green cloud hovered above them. Another bolt shot from it, and another.

Crackling energy slammed Godri to the ground like the slap of a giant green hand. It

rippled over his armour and froze his joints. His teeth ached with it, and his arms

stuck out stiff from his sides, rigid, as he hissed and cursed. Rodrin and the rest were

the same, lying twisted and clutching the ground as green flickers danced over their

bodies.

A last bolt and the shimmering cloud vanished like a mirage, leaving only jagged

lines on the inside of Godri’s eyelids. Shrill cheers filled his ears as he raised his

head. The goblins were surging up out of the trench, and swarming towards the fallen

dwarfs.

Godri raised his shield and blocked a spear thrust, then cut his opponent’s legs

out from under it with Thaggstok. He struggled to his feet, cursing and slashing,

surrounded. All around him, his dwarfs were in the same straits—chest-deep in a

swirling swamp of scrawny green horrors. Arn went down under the tide, a goblin

stabbing him in the face with a dagger. Damn the shaman! His pitiful spell hadn’t

killed a single dwarf—magic never bothered dwarfs much—yet it had distracted

them just long enough to allow the goblins to get in amongst them. They were

already flowing behind the brewery ramparts and attacking the backs of the defenders

there. The dwarf line was broken. It would be impossible to stem the tide.

“Fall back!” he called. “Blow the horn. Back to the second trench!”

Dagskar nodded, pleased, as he surveyed the battle. All over the settlement, the

dwarfs were falling back to rearward positions. The mill, the brewery, the grain

storehouses were all his. It was going well.

“What a mess!” cried Nazbad beside him. “We’s gettin’ slaughtered!”

Dagskar scowled at him. “What battle is you watchin’? We’ve got ’em on da

run!”

53

“But dey’s killin’ five’a us for every one o’dem we kills!”

“Good thing we got six’a us for every one o’dem then, ain’t it?” Dagskar

laughed. “If it did da trick, I’d waste twice as many.” He shrugged dismissively, then

grinned as he looked over the stuntie lines. “Da real killin’s gonna start now anyway.

It’s time for da troll.”

But as he turned to call for the troll, a babble of angry goblin voices rose up to his

left, and he saw a mess of night goblins and spider riders surging towards each other

around the corpse wagon, fists swinging and daggers flashing.

“What’s all this?” He roared, and charged towards the brawl, uncoiling his whip

as he went. Kizaz trotted after him, the banner swaying crazily above him.

“Hoy!” cried Nazbad, turning as well. “Lay off!” He ran for the fray too.

Dagskar waded into the fight, cracking his whip and pulling goblins off each

other. “You can’t fight here!” he shouted. “Dis is a battle!”

A spider rider was strangling a night goblin. Dagskar whipped the rider across the

shoulders, cutting deep.

“Get off!”

The goblin turned, snarling, and hacked at him with a hand axe. Dagskar caught

the axe and twisted it from its hand, then buried it in the goblin’s head.

A hard hand spun him around, and he found himself eye to eye with Nazbad.

“What was that?” rasped the shaman. “You killed one’a my boys!”

“And he was killin’ one’a my boys!”

The shaman snarled and held up his hand, middle finger extended, wart glowing.

“D’you want me t’give you da finger? I ain’t gonna stand fer dis!”

Dagskar had had enough. The shaman had done what he needed him to. He had

broken the dwarf line.

Now he was just in the way. Dagskar lashed out with his axe and cut off the

raised finger at the root. It spun away in a spray of black blood, the green glow of its

wart fading as the shaman shrieked and fell back.

“My finger!” he wailed. “You cut off my wartfinger!”

Dagskar leapt after him, aiming another axe blow at his head, but the shaman

blocked with his staff and countered with a crack to the shins.

All around them, the night goblins and spider riders threw themselves at each

other in a rage, coming to the defence of their leaders.

“Kill da over-grounders!” cried Dagskar. “Dey’s breakin’ da pact!”

“Call da boys back!” Nazbad bellowed to a rider with a horn around his neck.

“We’s been betrayed!”

At the fallback line—this one flanked by a forge and a stonecutter’s workshop—

Godri, Rodrin and the surviving hammerers were filling another trench with dead

goblins. Godri had seen a dozen dwarfs fall as they retired to the new position, and

knew that dozens more must have died all along the perimeter of the settlement, but

the retreat had been orderly and their lines still held.

Even Borri Graniteskin had fallen back with the rest when the goblins had set fire

to the brewery, and now fought side by side with Godri.

54

“By Grimnir, I’ll not fall to a goblin’s spear!” he’d growled when the others had

teased him for retreating. “That’s not a doom worthy of a slayer. I’m waiting for the

troll!”

A gabble of harsh horns sounded from behind the goblin lines, all blowing

different phrases. Godri didn’t know what they meant, and it seemed the goblins

didn’t either. Some of them looked back, seemingly confused. Others turned and

tried to retreat, while still others continued forward. Scuffles and shoving matches

broke out amongst them.

The dwarfs were not hesitant to take advantage of their enemy’s confusion,

decapitating turned heads and cutting down goblins that were already fighting each

other.

“This is it!” wheezed Rodrin, grinning. “They’ve fallen out. They’ll collapse any

minute!”

A cheer went up from the right. Godri looked down the lines to see the spider

riders retreating from Dargin’s lines, skittering back towards the command position

with musket shot peppering their backs. Dargin’s lads started after them, cutting

through the goblins before them and roaring with bloodlust.

Godri cursed. “No! The fool! Don’t be drawn!” He turned to his trumpeter.

“Blow: ‘hold fast!’ Hurry!”

The trumpeter blasted out the call, repeating it again and again, and at last

Dargin’s lads halted their advance. But Godri could see they were surrounded by

goblins now and fighting on all sides, while more greenskins poured through the gap

they had left. Godri looked back. He had only a handful of reserves left.

“Go!” he shouted at them. “Shore up the right!” He ground his teeth. If any other

part of the line broke they would have to fall back to the King’s Wall—and from that

there was no retreating.

A dead night goblin flew through the air, flung like a rag doll by one of the hulking

spiders in the centre of the brawl. The goblin crashed in a heap beside the wagon,

almost directly at Skaari’s feet. Skaari stared. It was a gift from his ancestors, for the

goblin was still clutching his spear!

Skaari looked around cautiously, but his guards had long since abandoned their

posts to join the scrap. No one was watching him. He stretched forward and hooked

the haft of the spear with a questing boot toe, then drew it back and raised it carefully

to waist height. He caught it in his numbed fingers and propped it against the tailgate

of the wagon, then leaned on it to keep it steady.

Another quick look around. The goblins were still at it, though it would be over

soon. Only a few last spider riders fought on, defending their leader. Skaari would

have to work fast while they were still distracted. He put his bound wrists to the

jagged edge of the spear tip and began to saw.

Dagskar had to hand it to Nazbad. Even without his wartfinger and his waaagh, the

pot-bellied little shaman could fight. He’d blocked him strike for strike while all

around them their boys tore each other apart. Dagskar was bleeding all over from the

sharp bits at the end of Nazbad’s staff, and his head was swimmy from all the

55

knocks. But he had given as good as he got. The shaman was covered in whip-stripes

and blade cuts, and was missing an ear and the first three inches of his nose.

Finally, Dagskar got in a lucky shot with his stuntie sticker and chopped

Nazbad’s staff in two, and the shaman stumbled back, disarmed.

He held up his nine fingers in supplication. “Give us a break, Earscrapper. It was

just a misunderstandin’. You know how it is. Da boys get rowdy sometimes.”

Dagskar kicked the shaman down and stood on his throat. “So does I, brudda. So

does I.”

And with that he stabbed straight down with his stuntie sticker and buried it

between Nazbad’s beady little eyes. The shaman twitched, then slumped loose as

dark blood oozed up around the edges of the sword.

Dagskar wrenched it free and looked up. All around him his boys were finishing

off the last of the spiders and the spider riders. He grinned. That was just fine. The

forest boys had done what he needed them to do. They’d got him across the bridge,

and tore up the stuntie lines from behind. He didn’t need them anymore.

“Good work, boys!” he shouted. “Now we don’t gotta share da spoils with ’em!”

He raised his whip and shook it. “Now get back to da stunties, ya lazy layabouts!”

The goblins squealed with bloodlust and ran back towards the dwarf line.

Dagskar nodded after them, satisfied, then turned away. “Now, where was I?” He

waved to the boys who were watching the troll. “Hoy, bring da dummy over and get

’im on da wagon!” He started towards the wagon. “And where’s that sneaky little

stuntie?”

He stopped. The captured dwarf was gone. His ropes lay limp on the ground.

Dagskar cursed. The plan wasn’t going to work without the dwarf. He scrambled

up on top of the corpse wagon and looked around anxiously.

Skaari held his breath as he crept for the long grass in the fallow field next to the

pasture. Once there he could crawl unseen to the dwarf lines and join the fight where

it mattered. He chuckled at his own cleverness and good fortune. The spider riders

were all dead, their threat removed from the battlefield, and it was him that had done

it—and all with a cowpat!

He’d even managed to escape in the confusion—an added bonus he hadn’t

expected. Now perhaps he could find more ways to make up for his incompetence

and folly.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he reached the fallow field and began to push

through the tall stalks. He was safe now. He—

A soft noise behind him made him freeze. Had that been a footfall? He turned his

head, but before he could see anything, a weight slammed him to the ground and

something jagged and sharp pressed into his neck.

Fetid mushroom breath made him wince as a leering voice whispered in his ear.

“Goin’ back t’yer mates, are ya?” A harsh cackle nearly deafened him. “That’s just

what you’ll do!”

Godri and Rodrin and Borri Graniteskin fought side by side before a surging press of

goblins. Godri’s arms were weary, his gromril armour seemed to weigh a tonne, and

56

the goblin horde hadn’t collapsed like Rodrin had predicted it would; nonetheless, he

was cautiously optimistic. After the scare on the right flank, the dwarfs had

regrouped well, and were holding their positions all along the line. There were many

dead, but those that remained still fought with heart, and did not waver.

The same could not be said for the goblins. The squabbling at the rear of their

position seemed to have died down, but the horde hadn’t recovered. They no longer

fought with their earlier seething rage or oneness of purpose, and Godri could see

that they were growing tired of throwing themselves against the dwarfs’ unbreakable

wall of shields. They looked ready to turn around and go home. He hoped it was

soon.

A movement from beyond the greenskin line caught his eye as he bashed down

another goblin with his shield. He stared. A wagon was speeding straight for them. A

dwarf wagon, with a dwarf driver shaking the reins and the ponies galloping as if

possessed. It looked as if it were piled high with dwarf dead.

“Who…?” he said, squinting at the driver, trying to make out his face. And what

was that beside him?

“It’s the cowherd!” cried Rodrin. “Skaari Otgunsson, and… and he has Aurik

with him!”

Godri looked again as the wagon raced closer, and his heart soared. Rodrin was

right. Beside the cowherd on the wagon’s bench lay his son, his head in Skaari’s lap,

the axe Grudge Ender held slack in his hand. Godri couldn’t tell if Aurik was alive or

dead. It didn’t matter. His son was returned to him!

“Break the line,” he roared. “Let them through! Let them through!”

The ponies trampled straight through the goblin ranks as the dwarfs parted to let

them pass. Godri thought he saw a goblin leap from between them and roll away at

the last second, but it might have been flung up by their crushing hooves.

Godri and Rodrin backed out of the dwarf line as Borri the slayer and the

remaining hammerers closed the gap and faced the goblins again. Godri’s heart

pounded with anticipation as he and his brother hurried to the wagon. It was only as

he got closer that he noticed that the cowherd looked strange. He had a rag stuffed in

his mouth, and his hands were bound to the reins. Not only that, he was tied to the

bench—as was his son.

The beardling mumphed at him, eyes rolling wildly, trying to say something

through the rag.

“What is this, lad?” asked Godri, drawing his dagger. “What’s happened to you?”

He stepped up onto the wagon and cut Skaari’s hands free of the reins, then pulled

the rag from his mouth.

“It’s a trap!” shouted Skaari. “It’s a trap! Get away!”

Suddenly, from the bed of the wagon, a huge shape surged up, shrugging off the

dead dwarfs that had covered it like dry leaves. The troll! It roared with bestial rage

and raised a club the size of an ancestor stone over its ugly head.

Godri threw himself backward as the massive weapon came down and slammed

into the wagon, but he wasn’t fast enough. The end of it mashed his shoulder and he

crumpled to the ground, his mind whirling and black with pain.

Through the agony he heard shocked cries and angry bellows.

57

“Defend the thane!”

“Get him away!”

“Hold the line!”

“Brother, do you live?”

“Back off, you weaklings! The troll is mine!”

Dagskar cackled as he saw the dwarf line collapse in the middle, the troll wreaking

havoc among them. This is what he had been waiting for.

He turned to his reserves, who were straining forward like squigs on a leash.

“What are y’waitin’ for?” he shrieked. “Tear ’em apart!”

The boys howled with glee and streamed forward, waving their spears and

choppers.

Skaari lay in a tangle of ropes and reins, barely conscious and hanging half off the

wagon, still loosely bound to the shattered bench. The troll’s club had come down

inches from him, smashing the bench and stunning him, then the big beast had leapt

over him, roaring and swinging at Thane Thunderbrand.

He raised his head to find himself surrounded by a nightmare. A hammerer

screamed as the troll’s club flattened him to a grisly pancake. Another was crawling

away using only his hands, his legs crushed to a paste. Rodrin and another hammerer

were dragging the thane away, back towards the hold. Godri slumped between them,

unconscious or dead, his gromril armour crushed and torn at the shoulder. The slayer

was trying to pull a fire-pot over his head while dodging behind the troll and roaring

for its attention.

And beyond this chaos, all along the lines, dwarfs were turning and running to

help while the goblins surged through the gaps, shrieking with delight. The dwarfs’

defence was collapsing, and it was all his fault!

Tears of rage and shame came to Skaari’s eyes as he struggled to free himself

from the slack ropes that held him to the bench. He should have thrust his neck

forward when the goblin put his blade against it. He should have killed himself

before he let this happen! Instead he had frozen with fear and let the evil little savage

bind him to the wagon and send him off with the buried troll in tow—an innocent-

looking package with death inside.

He gave an angry tug on his ropes and fell to the ground with a thud as they

finally unravelled. Goblins and dwarfs fought all around him, with the troll and the

slayer performing a mad dance in the middle that sent all the rest scattering. The troll

kept slamming its club at the slayer, and the slayer kept rolling away and hacking it

across the back or the legs, cursing and bellowing all the while. He was still having

trouble getting the strap of the fire-pot off over his head, so his actions looked

strangely comical.

Skaari pushed himself to his feet in the lee of the wagon, looking for a weapon as

the mad melee swirled around him. He had to join the fight. He had to make amends,

even in the smallest way, for all the terrible things his actions and inactions had

caused. He saw that poor dead Aurik lay beside him, his axe Grudge Ender still

58

clutched in his hand. Skaari nearly wept at the sight. Instead, he knelt and pried the

precious axe from his thane’s son’s fingers.

With a cry of triumph, the slayer at last pulled the strap of the fire-pot over his

head and cocked his arm back to throw it. The troll spun around, swinging its club for

Borri’s head. The slayer leapt aside again, but this time he was just a second too

slow. The club grazed his hip and sent him spinning through the air to crash down

next to the wagon. The fire-pot bounced out of his hand at the impact and rolled

across the ground, almost under the troll’s feet.

Skaari stared at the clay pot as the monster strode towards the fallen slayer. This

was it. This was what he could do. Without fire, the troll was nearly unkillable. Its

wounds closed almost as quickly as they were made. But fire cooked its flesh and

made it impossible for it to knit together again. Skaari might not be able to kill it

himself, but he could make sure someone else could do the job.

The slayer rolled under the cart as the troll pounded the ground where he had

been. Now!

Skaari short hafted Grudge Ender, then sprinted past the troll as it lifted the cart

and heaved it aside. The fire-pot lay at an angle in the grass next to a massive

footprint, its little flame guttering under its open-sided cap. Skaari snatched it up and

turned.

The slayer was diving away from another club smash, but his bruised leg buckled

as he landed. The troll’s swipe had hurt him. He writhed on the ground.

Skaari ran forward. “Troll!” he screamed. “Turn and face your doom!”

He flung the fire-pot at the monster’s broad scaly back. The clay vessel smashed

on its knobby spine and oil splashed everywhere, then exploded with a “whump” of

flame as the fumes caught.

The troll screamed and twisted, dropping its club and slapping ineffectually at its

back as it turned. Skaari raised Grudge Ender and charged, bellowing his clan name.

The troll snatched him up like he was a doll and crushed him in its monstrous

grip. He could feel his ribs snap like twigs. He hacked down at its wrist with Aurik’s

axe and made a deep cut. The troll howled and threw him down.

His skull hit something hard. Bright agony spiked like lightning through his

brain. The world swam before him, and he felt his collar grow heavy and sticky. He

raised a shaking hand to the back of his head. There was a hole where there shouldn’t

be. Blood was pouring out of it like a river.

The troll loomed above him, its head on fire as it reached for him. Then Borri

slammed into it, roaring and hacking. The troll caught the slayer and raised him high,

tearing at him with its huge hands. Borri’s axe flashed. The troll fell. So did Borri.

Both were headless.

Skaari chuckled painfully as his vision dimmed. He had fought with Borri

Graniteskin when he’d first met him. Now he would walk with him to the halls of

their ancestors.

They had killed the troll, and though that single act might not have saved the day,

they had still died trying valiantly to erase their shame, and to the spirits of their

fathers, that was all that mattered.

Skaari was content.

59

NINE

Godri’s teeth snapped shut as a bump jarred him. He hissed in pain and the world

came back to him, rocking and jouncing. He was being carried between Rodrin and

one of his hammerers as a few others held off the mob of goblins that swarmed after

them.

Then he was being lifted.

“Sorry, brother,” said Rodrin. “This will hurt.”

Rodrin and the hammerer heaved him up and dumped him over the chain of the

King’s Wall to land heavily on the other side. Rodrin was right. It did hurt. Quite a

lot. Beneath his crumpled armour, Godri’s left arm and shoulder felt like all the

bones had been replaced with jagged gravel, which was likely near enough to the

truth.

Rodrin and the hammerer threw themselves over the chains after him, and were

quickly followed by a stream of battered dwarfs, falling back from different positions

all over the field.

Rodrin and the hammerer pulled Godri back behind the ragged line that was

forming at the Wall and laid him on steps that rose up to the entrance of the hold.

“Stay here, brother,” said Rodrin. “I will fetch you a surgeon.”

“No,” said Godri. He struggled to rise. “Let me stand. I will not lie down while

my warriors fight.”

“But your arm,” said Rodrin.

Godri tore his cloak off his shoulders. “Tie it up,” he rasped. “The King’s Wall

shall be my shield.”

Rodrin looked doubtful, but folded Godri’s slack arm in front of him and tied the

cloak like a sling around one shoulder so that it was tight against his chest. Even that

was painful, but at least it held the limb still.

Godri stood and hefted Thaggstok one-handed, then nodded. He could fight. That

was all that mattered.

“Take heart, noble sons of Karak Grom,” called Rodrin. “Your thane lives! Fight

in his name. Fight in the name of our hold!”

The dwarfs holding the line behind the chain of the King’s Wall roared in

response. “For Thunderbrand! For Karak Grom!”

Godri stepped forward and looked along their rank. The situation was bad. His

dwarfs could not bring any guns to bear on the goblins. The thunderers were all

60

engaged hand to hand, fighting side by side with the rest of the warriors, and the

cannons, almost directly above them on the platform over the door to the hold, could

not tilt down far enough to find a target. They would have to win the battle standing

and fighting toe to toe.

That, of course, was the dwarf way, their strength and their pride. He knew that

his lads’ hearts were strong and their will indomitable. He knew that they would fall

before they faltered. But they were so few now, and wounded and weary besides, that

he feared it might not be enough. But it must be. It must!

His fists clenched as he looked beyond his fighting few—and beyond the roiling

wall of goblins that pressed in on them from all sides—to the brave dead dwarfs

whose bodies lay littered all over the settlement like shattered boulders. So many

dead. It hurt him to see them. Karak Grom was small enough that he knew them all,

and their fathers, brothers, sisters and mothers as well. He knew the heartbreak that

would come when the battle was over, whether they won or whether they lost. He

would not let their sacrifices be for naught. Though it seemed almost hopeless now,

he would not let the hold fall.

“For Karak Grom!” he bellowed, stepping to the chain with Rodrin and the

hammerers and hacking with mighty Thaggstok at the goblins that fought to tear it

down. “For our clan and our fallen!”

“For our clan and our fallen!” echoed the dwarfs, and fought on with renewed

fervour.

Dagskar cursed. He’d thought it was over! He thought the stunties had caved at last,

but the stubborn rock-eaters were holding the line again, and now his troll was dead,

burning like a bonfire with the body of the ugly red-crested slayer still clutched in its

crisping claws.

“Where’r my arrow boys at?” he snapped.

“Uh, dey’s in da brewery, I think,” said Kizaz, tottering behind him with his

standard. “Tryin’ t’get da beer out before it boils.”

Dagskar snarled and clubbed the little goblin with the handle of his whip. “Well

get ’em out! Dey’s got work t’do!”

With the arrows came a terrible decision.

Godri was convinced they could have held off the goblins indefinitely had it only

been axes against spears, dwarf strength against goblin savagery, but when the black

rain began to fall, there was no defence they could make. If they raised their shields,

the goblins trying to claw their way over the King’s Wall would gut them; if they

lowered their shields, the arrows would stab down at shoulders and skulls and necks

and wither their ranks from above.

Certainly not many of the arrows got through. Most glanced off the dwarfs’

sturdy armour, but enough found holes in torn mail, or bare heads that had lost their

helms, or unprotected arms or knees, and dwarfs continued to fall. And with each that

died, the goblins pressed harder, and Godri’s line got thinner and thinner. Soon there

would not be enough to hold them back. The savages would break through some gap

and get behind them, and it would be over. The dwarfs of Karak Grom would be cut

61

down in front of the open door of their hold and the goblins would pour in to pillage

and slaughter the innocents who hid within.

Godri could not let that happen. And there was a solution. If they retreated into

the entry passage they would be safe from the arrows, and there would be no danger

of the goblins flanking them. It would be a perfect position. But it would mean

retreating from the King’s Wall, and he had made a vow that he would never do that.

How could he face King Lunn, having dishonoured his gift?

He fought on, indecisive, as more dwarfs died around him. The last of his

hammerers fell to goblin spears as he tried to pull a black arrow from his neck.

Rodrin had lost his helm and one of his pauldrons and was bleeding from a gash

across his scalp. A mob of goblins forced open a gap on his left and pushed through,

shrieking and flailing like rabid weasels. They were butchered almost immediately,

but two dwarfs fell pushing the rest back and closing up the hole.

“We must retreat,” he said to Rodrin.

Rodrin shot an astonished glance at him. “But… but the King’s Wall! You

pledged that you would hold it or die!”

“I know,” said Godri through clenched teeth. “And I will carry the shame of

breaking that pledge to the grave and beyond, but I cannot allow my personal shame

to stand in the way of the safety of my people. I will not lose the hold to keep a vow.

I will not let our wives die at goblin hands to preserve my honour.”

He turned to his trumpeter. “Blow: ‘fall back—hold the passage’.”

The trumpeter stared. “My thane?”

“Blow it! Sound the retreat!”

“Aye, my thane.”

Dagskar howled with delight and relief as he heard the stunties’ horn and saw his

boys leap the chain fence and swarm after them as they retreated into the hold. At

last! At last! The hold would be his.

“Yes!” he cried. “After them! In! Kill da stunties! Take their hole!”

He scurried forward to lead from the rear.

In the narrow passage, Godri ducked a thrusting spear and chopped the goblin behind

it in the side. It squealed and fell, but three more trampled over it and stabbed at him.

With his left arm wrapped and unable to carry a shield, he couldn’t block, and was

forced to take a step back.

He cursed. There had been too many steps back. Though the dwarfs killed every

goblin that reached them, there were so many of them pushing into the passage that it

didn’t matter. The pressure from the ones at the back drove the ones at the front

forward, forcing them into the dwarfs’ weapons. The carpet of dead goblins was so

high that the live ones were leaping down on the dwarfs from the top of it. They were

like a cresting wave crashing into a shoreline, and the dwarfs were drowning in them.

A thunderer to Godri’s left fell as a dying goblin dragged his axe down and two

more leapt over it to stab him through the throat. Rodrin gasped as a spear punched

through his armour and cut his leg. Naragrim, Godri’s red-faced chief mason, swung

62

a digger’s pick like a lunatic, appalled that greenskins had defiled the hold that he

had designed.

“It’s not even finished yet!” he cried. “They’re going to dirty it up before it’s

done!”

“They may do worse than that,” hissed Rodrin, limping.

Another step back. Godri saw that the dwarf line had retreated past another one of

the explosive charges Naragrim’s engineers had placed in holes in the walls of the

passage to widen it. He grimaced. He had been using the holes as a measure of the

success of the battle, and it wasn’t going well. There were ten sets of charged holes

along the corridor, and they had backed past six now. Only four more and the dwarfs

would be forced into the great hall and the goblins would be able to swarm around

their flanks and surround them, then it would be over at last.

A small part of Godri almost welcomed it. He was so weary, and his shoulder and

arm ached so much that he could barely see, let alone think. It would be a relief to

just lower his axe and let there be an end to it. He forced himself to remember that he

wasn’t thinking only for himself. The hold was counting on him. The dwarf wives

and the children, the dwarfs that fought at his side. He could give up for himself, but

not for them.

He gutted another goblin with Thaggstok, but again, more savages forced him

back. Another explosive charge passed by as the dwarfs retreated another step. Only

three more before the end of the passage and the end of their defence, and there was

no end to the stream of goblins that filled the passage from wall to wall. They

stretched back all the way to the entrance and beyond. There would be no stopping

them. It was already too late. They would kill all his dwarfs and destroy the hold. He

would never see it complete. He would never see Naragrim’s work finished. He

would never live below ground again.

As he thought of Naragrin’s work, a horrible idea filled his mind—a terrible

idea—an idea that would push back his dreams of completing the hold for years,

perhaps decades; maybe end them entirely.

The goblins forced him back another step as he tried to find another solution. He

could not.

“Naragrim,” he said, turning to the architect. “Fall back behind us. When we

reach the door to the great hall, fire the charges in the passage.”

Naragrim paled as he turned to him. “But, the fault!” gasped the engineer. “The

ceiling will come down!”

“Exactly.”

Rodrin stared at him as Naragrim hesitated. “Brother. Is there no other way?”

“Only to fight on as we are, with no hope of success.” He turned and barked at

Naragrim. “Go. Ready the charges.”

The engineer bowed, his face grim. “Aye, my thane.” He turned and pushed back

through the dwarf ranks.

After another minute of grinding slaughter and retreat, the dwarfs’ front line

stood at last in the door to the great hall, and the goblins pressed harder than ever,

sensing that victory was within their grasp.

“The fuses are ready, my thane!” called Naragrim from one side of the door.

63

“Then light them and call a count!” shouted Godri. He looked to his left and

right. “Hold the line here until Naragrim’s order. Let no goblin pass. Then run to the

centre of the hall and take cover behind your shields!”

A hissing crackle reached Godri’s ears as sparking flames consumed the

matchcord that snaked in from the great hall to run under the goblins’ feet and along

the bases of the corridor walls.

“Ten!” shouted Naragrim. “Nine! Eight! Seven…”

Dagskar cracked his whip over the heads of his goblins as the last of his horde tried

to shove in to the tunnel after their comrades, who filled it from wall to wall.

“Push harder!” he cried. “Drive ’em back! Cut their beards off! Eat their livers!”

His scrawny chest swelled with pride as he stepped into the shadow of the tunnel

at the back of the pack, Kizaz waving the Crooked Moon banner over his head. He

had done it! He was walking into the stunties’ hole! He was gonna be a big boss!

There was no way Skarsnik could tell him no now!

A deep-throated “crump” interrupted his thoughts. The ground jumped beneath

his feet as if it had been hit by the hammer of a god. Before he could do more than

mouth a confused “Wha—?” a boiling wall of flame, smoke, rocks and bits of goblin

exploded out of the tunnel and blasted him back, heels over head, to crack his skull

against one of the stone posts of the stunties’ chain fence, while dead and

dismembered goblins landed all around him like a green and red avalanche.

The last thing Dagskar was conscious of before all went black was a deep

shuddering rumble, like muffled thunder.

Godri picked himself up from the floor at the centre of the great hall, coughing in the

thick cloud of smoke and granite dust that filled it. The other dwarfs were doing the

same. Even at such a distance, the force of the explosion had knocked them on their

backs. Many of them were wiggling their fingers in their ears, trying to pop them.

The few goblins that had chased them into the hall when they had fallen back

were sitting up too, looking dazed. Some were staggering in circles, clutching their

heads. Godri squinted past them through the veil of settling dust, looking toward the

entry corridor, from which the rumble and crash of falling rock still echoed. The dark

doorway was filled to the top with a mix of rubble and crushed goblins that spilled

out into the chamber like meat from a sausage casing.

His plan had worked, perhaps too well. It would take them ages to dig out the

corridor, and if what Naragrim had said about the crack in its ceiling was true; it

might not be repairable at all. He sighed. That speculation was for the future. There

was more immediate work to be done.

“Come,” he said, picking up his axe. “Let’s finish them.”

Rodrin and Naragrim and the others fell in beside him and started towards the

disoriented goblins.

“Now this will be a slaughter,” said Rodrin, grinning savagely.

“This will be vengeance,” said Godri.

The others murmured their agreement and raised their weapons.

64

A loud scraping from above them stopped them in their tracks. They looked up.

Dust and pebbles rained down from the roof, pattering around the dizzy goblins.

Godri blinked through the grit. A fan of hairline cracks was climbing up the dome

roof of the great hall from the collapsed arch of the entry corridor, spreading as it

went, and the screeching of stone sliding against stone shivered the room.

“Grungni,” breathed Rodrin. “What now?”

With a deafening crash, a chunk of granite as big as a troll broke away from the

roof and plummeted to the floor, squashing a stupefied goblin flat. A shower of lesser

chunks followed it as more cracks spread.

“No,” said Naragrim, stepping forward. “No! The fault!” A boulder slammed

down next to him. He didn’t seem to notice. “It was worse than I thought.”

Another huge block tore out of the ceiling and the cracks widened and multiplied

as they arced over the top of the dome. More blocks followed the first. A dwarf

sprung away from one, only to be crushed by a second.

Godri pointed to a small corridor at the far side of the chamber. “Back!” he

shouted over the thunder. “To the living quarters! Hurry!”

The dwarfs turned and ran as fast as they could across the wide hall. Those that

could only limp were helped by the rest. Godri put his good shoulder under Rodrin’s

arm and they ran side by side, supporting each other as a torrent of granite boulders

chased them, pounding the floor to splinters and raising an almost impenetrable cloud

of dust.

A rock the size of an orc’s head glanced off Godri’s broken shoulder and his

knees buckled as pain overwhelmed him, but Rodrin hauled him up and they hurried

on. Goblins ran with them, shrieking, all thoughts of slaughter lost to blind panic.

Another boulder bounced along the floor like a huge ball, crushing dwarf and goblin

alike.

At last the dark arch of the corridor that led to the living quarters appeared out of

the dust before them and the dwarfs ran for it. Godri and Rodrin paused just outside it

and urged the others on, sometimes hauling in those too weak or hurt to continue, or

kicking back a goblin that dared seek shelter in the narrow corridor.

Godri looked back once more as the last warrior ran through, just to be sure. The

thick-set silhouette of a dwarf stood in the centre of the room, turning in circles and

looking up at the roof as rocks and rubble rained down all around him.

“Naragrim!” Godri roared. “Hurry!”

But the architect did not heed him, only raised his arms and face as if in

supplication.

“Leave him,” said Rodrin, putting a hand on Godri’s shoulder. “We must go.”

Godri let his brother pull him into the safety of the corridor, but could not help

but look back.

The top of the dome gave way all at once and Naragrim was gone. Godri blinked

as the dust cloud from the impact billowed up and spread across the chamber, then

poured into the corridor and engulfed him and the last of the brave sons of Karak

Grom in a fog of grit.

He wiped his eyes. They were tearing up.

Because of the dust.

65

TEN

On the morning of the next day a team of engineers cut through the iron grate that

capped one of the narrow shafts that brought air deep into the bowels of the hold and

pushed it open. A pair of hammerers climbed out, then helped their thane, Godri

Thunderbrand, and his brother Rodrin step out onto a narrow ledge on the flinty

mountainside that rose above Skull Pass.

The two brothers stepped to the edge of the outcropping as more of their

followers crawled from the shaft behind them. Together they looked silently down at

the ruins of the settlement they had built there.

The brewery was a blackened hulk. The forge and the mill had been razed to the

ground. The houses were wrecked. Not a single building had escaped damage. Their

herd was dead or dispersed, the forest where they hunted game and gathered fire

wood had been burned to sticks, and their crops had been trampled and looted.

And it was worse inside the mountain. Once the cave-ins and tremors had at last

stopped, Godri, Rodrin and the surviving engineers had surveyed the damage to the

hold. The front passage was of course completely blocked, and the ceiling of the

great hall collapsed, but that was only the beginning. Smashed by the falling ceiling

the floor of the great hall had caved in, burying the guild halls under it. Worse, the

passage to the grain vaults had also collapsed. It would be months before they would

be able to dig it out and reach the grain. This and the loss of the herd meant that, with

winter coming on, he had neither meat nor bread nor beer with which to feed his

people. There was a real danger that they would starve.

And these depredations did not count the cost in lives. His son was dead. Indeed,

more than half of Godri’s warriors were dead, and many that lived were badly

wounded. There were but a few more than a score fit to defend the hold, should the

goblins strike again.

Rodrin sighed. “I told you the place was cursed. We won’t be able to survive the

winter. We’ll have to go to Karak Azul and ask them to take us in.”

Godri shook his head. “No, brother. This is Karak Grom—Enduring Defiance.

We will find a way. We will survive. We will rebuild. By Grungni and Grimnir and

my ancestors, I swear it.”

His followers gathered around him, staring down into Skull Pass and nodding

gravely. “Aye, thane,” they said. “We will survive. We will rebuild. We are Karak

Grom.”

66

In the stolen dwarf hall deep under Karak Eight Peaks, Dagskar Earscrapper stood

once again before Warboss Skarsnik’s throne, waiting while Skarsnik gnawed the last

strips of meat off a tasty-looking human leg.

“Ya failed,” the warboss said at last, tossing the bone aside. “Y’didn’t pass da

test.”

“I did!” protested Dagskar. “Dem stunties is helpless. Dey got no defences. I

could finish ’em like dat.”

Skarsnik raised an eyebrow. “Is dey still in their hole?”

Dagskar shuffled his feet. “Well, yeah, but…”

Skarsnik whistled. There was a grunt from behind his throne and an enormous

shape bounded out and landed with a thud in front of Dagskar, goggling at him and

drooling from its cavernous mouth.

“No, boss!” cried Dagskar, backing away. “Not Gobbla! I can beat ’em! I swears

I—”

With a bouncing lunge, the massive squig snapped up Dagskar whole and began

to chew noisily. The goblin didn’t even have time to scream.

Skarsnik crooned at Gobbla affectionately, then looked up at his assembled boys

and grinned. “Right,” he said. “Who else wants a go?”

67

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Nathan Long was a struggling screenwriter for fifteen years, during which time he

had three movies made and a handful of live-action and animated TV episodes

produced. Now he is a novelist, and is enjoying it much more. For Black Library he

has written three Warhammer novels featuring the Blackhearts, and has taken over

the Gotrek and Felix series, starting with the eighth installment, Orcslayer. He lives

in Hollywood.

Scanning and basic

proofing by Red Dwarf,

formatting and additional

proofing by Undead.

68