A WARHAMMER ONLINE NOVEL

EMPIRE IN CHAOS

Age of Reckoning - 01

Anthony Reynolds

(An Undead Scan v1.0)

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For Joy, a woman full of life, love and poetry, and the baker of the dreaded curried

shortbread.

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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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PROLOGUE

Thunder rolled across the sky and clouds heavy and pregnant with rain hung low over

the land. A malformed figure stood leaning awkwardly on a shovel, his thick, mud-

caked features set in an expression of idiocy as he watched Udo Grunwald’s

approach.

Up through the mud and the waste Udo trudged, leading a half-starved mule that

struggled beneath the weight of the cart it hauled up the incline towards the temple.

The wretched beast strained as the uneven, swollen wheels of the cart turned

laboriously carving a pair of deep furrows through the mud. A dark cloak of oiled

leather covered Udo’s large shoulders, and he wore a heavy crossbow upon his back.

His shaven head was bare to the elements, and his face was thuggish, his nose having

been broken and badly set more than once and his jaw heavy and protruding. The

malformed servant of the temple grinned stupidly as he passed. He stared hard at the

simpleton for a moment before he turned back to look upon the temple gateway.

Dominating the surrounding landscape with its brutal, martial architecture, the

temple appeared more like a small fortress than a place of worship, as befitted the

warrior deity it honoured. Carved statues adorned the buttresses, their features

smoothed and crumbling from centuries of attack from the elements. These were the

saints of this priesthood, warriors all, the devout of holy Sigmar. Each was heavily

armoured in mail and plate and bore weapons—hammers and flails.

Through the arched, fortified gateway he walked, under the raised portcullis that

hung like an array of deadly teeth, and into the dimly lit cobbled passageway leading

to the temple courtyard. He led the mule and cart through the gatehouse, murder

holes and arrow slits watching his progress darkly.

Dozens of pairs of eyes tracked his approach, men-at-arms upon the ramparts

leaning on tall, broad-bladed halberds, cold-eyed priests with the arms of

blacksmiths, and muddy servants of all ages, some crippled and deformed. A heavy-

set soldier in studded leather blocked his path; Udo glared at him. After a quick look

into the cart, the soldier stepped aside without comment.

Udo stopped in the centre of the courtyard before the great double-doors of the

temple. The mule sagged in exhaustion, its bones pushing against its thin skin. Udo

strode to the back of the cart, and glanced down upon its flat bed, at the dead body

lying there—the dead body of his employer.

Dressed in knee-high black riding boots, uniform black trousers, shirt and vest,

and a black shoulder-cloak with a purple lining, the corpse could have been that of

any wealthy young Empire noble with a penchant for morbid colours, but it was the

combination of these clothes with the wide-brimmed black hat, the pair of ornate

wheel-lock pistols on his wide belt and the prominent bronze talisman that hung

around the corpse’s pallid neck that gave away his true calling.

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Witch hunter.

A calling that filled even the innocent with dread and guilt.

Ruthless and without pity, the witch hunters stalked the lands of the Empire,

rooting out corruption, sorcery and mutation wherever it was to be found. To even be

suspected of infernal dealings was to be subject to the witch hunter’s cruel

ministrations, and many confessed to crimes they had no knowledge of merely to

achieve a swift death.

One of the great doors of the temple creaked open, and an ancient, broad-

shouldered figure emerged, his breath turning to steam in the cold air. Adorned in

simple robes of deepest red, his only adornment a pin on his breast in the shape of a

warhammer, the priest had clearly once been a powerful warrior, but the cruelness of

time had robbed him of his strength. His skin was heavily lined and covered with

liver spots, yet he moved with an assurance that belied his age.

The priest stepped down the broad steps of the temple and came to a halt before

Udo. His eyes were slightly cloudy, but there was strength there still. His face was

grim, set in a deep frown that looked like it had not moved in several decades, and he

acknowledged Udo’s presence with a sour nod.

“I will inform the abbot that you have brought his body back to us,” the old priest

said dourly, looking upon the broken body of the witch hunter. Even the dark clothes

of the corpse could not hide the terrible wounds that had killed him—the savage tears

in his flesh that were caused by no human hand.

Udo thought back to that night, only seven nights earlier. He saw again the

painted flesh of the feather-cloaked zealot ripple as things clawed within him. He saw

again the horrific carnage that followed.

The elderly priest turned to climb the stairs leading within the temple once more.

He paused after a step, and turned his rheumy gaze towards the face of the cloaked

man.

“Come,” he said. “Your old master spoke well of you. The Temple of Sigmar has

much it wishes to discuss with you.”

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BOOK ONE

The Armies of Destruction march against the Empire.

From the east come the greenskin hordes, massing beyond the Worlds Edge

Mountains in the Dark Lands, gathering in numbers not seen since the age of holy

Sigmar, before the foundation of the Empire. The dwarfs are stalwart defenders,

but I fear that even their great, ancient holds will not have the strength to stem the

tide.

Far to the west, beyond the Great Ocean, our allies the high elves of Ulthuan

are beset by their hated dark kin, hampering their efforts to come to our plight.

And to the north comes the greatest threat of all, for the hordes of Chaos, they

who have sold their immortal souls into damnation, are marching upon us once

again.

The Raven Host, an army mustered for the sole purpose of the destruction of

the Empire, advances against us. Already they have swept through the Peak Pass,

and overrun the lands of our allies the Kislevites in the frozen north. Dispatches

from the Tsarina have informed me that the great city of Praag itself is besieged.

War has been met in the northern states, and war parties are pushing south

towards the Talabec as I write this. Towns and cities are being sacked even as the

electors gather their armies. Already my people are being butchered, but I know

that this is merely the beginning of a far greater conflict that threatens to

overwhelm us.

Elector Hertwig of the Ostermark struggles to hold back the tide, and von

Raukov of Ostland has already lost much of his state army. Todbringer of

Middenland musters his forces north of the Talabec, but I fear even his martial

skill will do little against the overwhelming hatred driving the enemy. The electors

bicker amongst themselves, bringing ancient enmities and feuds to the surface in

this our time of greatest peril. The temples of Sigmar and Ulric are at loggerheads,

and I fear what shall come to pass if a reconciliation cannot be achieved.

A great plague is sweeping the lands, striking down thousands of my citizens

beneath its unnatural pestilence. My agents of the Order of the Griffon are even

now investigating the source of this dire sickness, and all fingers point towards its

sorcerous nature—it would seem that this is a ploy of the enemy, to weaken our

resolve as their first forays strike against us. It has even reached the streets of

Altdorf itself—it seems that nowhere is safe from the vile pestilence.

The doomsayers predict that this is the dawning of the End Times. I fear that

they may speak the truth.

K.F.

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CHAPTER ONE

The flames crackled, curling around the fresh wood like infernal, flaming tongues.

Annaliese Jaeger stared deep into the glowing blaze, lost within its destructive

beauty.

Though she could feel the heat from the fireplace reddening her face, it did

nothing to dispel the icy chill that pervaded the darkened room of the cabin. No

matter how much wood she stacked within the fireplace, no matter how high the

flames rose, the intense cold would not lift. It was like the cruel touch of death

itself—unstoppable, and so, so cold.

The window in the small room was obscured by a heavy, moth-eaten curtain that

had once been a deep green but had long since faded. Beams of cold, grey light

slipped through where the moths had eaten completely through the fraying material.

The timber beams of the roof sagged as if the weight of existence was too much to

bear, and a rug covered the uneven wooden floorboards. There was no furniture

within the room bar an old straw pallet upon the floor, and a low chair beside it. In

better times, her father would sit in that chair before the fire, lost in his thoughts.

Annaliese tore her dead-eyed gaze from the fire and back to the pale, grey face of

her father. She prayed that she would remember him as the powerful man that he had

been—not this wasted skeleton breathing painfully beneath the heavy, sweat-

drenched blankets. His once strongly muscled arms were now little more than skin

and bone, wasted away as the sickness ravaged his body. For four days he had

remained in this comatose state, neither waking nor uttering a sound. It was only the

nigh-on imperceptible rise and fall of his sunken chest that told her he still lived.

It would not be for long, if Morr were merciful.

Merciful! She almost laughed at the thought. What mercy there was in the world

had long since abandoned the people of Averland.

Winter still held the land tightly to its icy bosom, as it had done for almost five

months, long after the thaw should have come and gone. Snow was banked up

outside. The crops in the fields had long withered and perished in the frozen earth,

and none of the hardy, long-coated sheep farmed in the area had survived. Death was

prevalent, particularly amongst the elderly and infirm, and there had even been blood

spilt amongst the desperate villagers, disputes over the scarce supply of blankets,

firewood and food. Adelmo Haefen, the village’s quietly spoken miller, had been

stabbed in the stomach only two days past after an altercation over a loaf of bread.

But the harshness of the winter was as nothing compared to what had come next.

A deranged, half-naked wretch had come to the village almost three weeks ago.

Nails had been hammered into the bones of his arms, and his back was stripped of

flesh, the skin hanging in loose, bloody rents. Upon his forehead a crude shape of a

twin-tailed comet had been carved, both dried and fresh blood covered his face.

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He had screamed and ranted of the end of the world, proclaiming that death was

coming and that he was its herald. In accompaniment to his doom-laden, fiery

screech, he lashed himself with a flail of leather straps studded with metal barbs.

And the flagellant had been correct, but possibly not in the way that he had

imagined, for he had brought the plague with him. He had collapsed within the day,

falling into a deathly coma from which he could not be roused.

Within days dozens of villagers were struck down seemingly at random, and it

was not long before families who had tolled the land for dozens of generations were

packing their belongings into carts usually used to transport goods to market, heading

for the ethereal safety of far away cities: Nuln, Averheim and Wissenburg. But

gossip said that the plague was rife even on the streets of the Empire’s capital,

Altdorf, and that is when true panic had set in.

Each day more victims were dragged to the trade guildhall that overlooked the

village square. This decaying building with its sunken, uneven roof and perilously

leaning walls had long sat unused, and it had been decided that it would be converted

into a makeshift quarantined hospice. Its doors and windows were kept locked,

shuttered and barred, and warning signs were driven into the ground around its

circumference. For those who could not read the Reikspiel lettering on these boards,

which was most of the common folk of the Empire, the intention of the signs was

made very clear—skulls of dead livestock daubed with the mark of Morr hung from

them, along with the rotting bodies of dead rats, black birds, and other grisly trophies

warning of plague and pestilence.

The village burgher had fled in the dead of night, abandoning his post and the

villagers to their fate. There was no one to bake the bread, for the baker, his wife and

his apprentices had all been early victims, and they lay comatose and wasting away

within the rising filth of the guildhall. The local butcher, who doubled as the local

apothecary and was the closest thing the village had to a healer, had succumbed to

the early stages of the wasting sickness. There was now none who dared enter the

deathly building to tend to the sick and dying. Each morning the local men of the

village drew straws to determine who was to drag the newly discovered plague

victims into the building, covering their mouths and noses with cloths as they rapidly

dumped their charges inside and relocked the doors.

As yet, it was unknown if any of the plague victims had died, but it was believed

that none had awoken from the deathly state that came some three days after the

initial symptoms were identified. Certainly there was no one trying to get out of the

horrific hospice.

Annaliese looked again at the wasted face of her father. Only a week ago he had

been in the peak of health. She had refused to take him to the hellish quarantine

guildhall—she would be damned if she would let him spend his last hours rotting in

that festering place among the dead and the dying.

The sound of angry voices carried over the cabin from the village below, and

Annaliese rose to her feet. She drew aside the heavy, dusty curtains and opened the

dirty window to see what the commotion was. Shielding her eyes against the sudden

glare that came off the snow, she could see a cluster of men, some wearing the

provincial yellow and black uniforms of Averland state soldiers, trudging through the

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muddy slush. Some were brandishing weapons—halberds, pitchforks and clubs—and

their shouting was drawing more onlookers from their homes and their misery.

With a worried glance at her father, she bit her lip in indecision. Strangers to the

village had brought nothing but trouble and sadness of late, and she feared what this

new drama would bring. Still, she was drawn by a morbid curiosity to witness this

new arrival. Her father did not seem to be any worse than he had been for the last two

days, so she made her decision. Drawing her sheepskin coat around her tightly, she

opened the door to the cabin and stepped out into the winter. She would only be a

moment away from her father’s side.

As she walked down the hill, the crisp snow crunching underfoot and making her

long dress wet where it dragged, she saw men pushing and prodding a bound and

gagged prisoner before them. She saw one soldier club the bound figure to the

ground where it was brutally kicked by three or more men before being dragged back

up to its feet.

She saw a flash of long, silken black hair before the figure disappeared into the

crowd again. Some of the men were carrying burning torches, and there were angry,

raised voices shouting for blood.

A crowd was gathering in the village square. None stood too close to the

guildhall, and many covered their mouths and noses with dirty rags and strips of

cloth. Hugging herself for warmth, she went to stand beside Johann Weiss, a portly

villager with heavy jowls.

“What’s happening?” she asked Johann quietly. He was the innkeeper of her

workplace, and she had known him since childhood.

“Three families left the village yesterday, all their possessions packed onto a

single cart,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion but his eyes tired and sad.

Annaliese nodded fearfully. She had known the daughters of the families well.

“They were murdered on the road. Not even the little ones were spared. This,” he

said with a nod of his head, “is one of those responsible.”

Grief and horror washed over Annaliese, and the innkeeper put a fatherly arm

around her shoulders.

The men dragged their murderous captive into the centre of the village square. A

solid, ancient gibbet stood there as it had done for countless decades, a blackened

metal cage hanging from its crossbar. She had always felt a horrible loathing for the

thing, and when she was young had sat aside as other children threw rocks at the

condemned.

A skeleton was slumped within the torturous, black iron device, the remnants of a

thief who had been placed there a year before as a warning to others. The heavy

chains holding the grisly remains aloft were slackened, and the metal cage

plummeted to the ground with a crash and a cheer from the crowd.

Leonard Horst, a reed-thin villager with the stilted, stiff movements of a hunting

stork climbed onto a rotting bale of hay, waving a hand for silence. He was the

village warden, and a man with a reputation for harshness. He had once beaten a

trader to death, it was said, for attempting to bypass paying his road tax.

Nevertheless, he was a respected man, for none doubted his devotion to the village

and its people.

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“The farrier Hellmaan and his family, and the families of his two sisters, have

been brutally murdered on the road to Averheim,” Horst said, his voice bitter and

filled with hatred. Those in the crowd before him held weapons clenched tightly in

their hands, their faces angry. The two men holding the captive pinned to the ground

tightened their grip.

“We return with one of their murderers: a hateful, black-hearted killer of elven

kind.”

There were several gasps from the gathered villagers. Most had come to believe

that elves were nothing more than stories told to children.

“An elf?” breathed Annaliese. She stepped away from the innkeeper and inched

further down the hill, to better see the captive.

“Hang him!” called a man, and others shouted their agreement.

“Burn him alive!” another roared, a pronouncement that was greeted with a cheer.

“Oh, we shall do much worse than that to him,” said the stick-thin figure of Horst

from the rotten hay bale. “He must be made to suffer long for the savagery that he

unleashed upon those poor families.”

His voice rose in pitch, anger and bitterness fuelling his diatribe.

“Let us gag his mouth that he may not incant his vile sorceries or cry out to his

hateful gods for aid. Let us raise him in the gallows and pelt him with stones and

rocks. Let us cut out his eyes and feed them to the crows! After a week in the cage,

let us drag him forth and quarter him, his entrails carried to the four corners of the

village. Then he and all his hated kin shall fear us, and know the true vengeance of

Averland!”

A huge roar rose from the gathered crowd, and Annaliese was shocked and

horrified to see her neighbours, good hearted and caring people, baying for blood and

torture, their faces twisted into masks of hatred. She realised that it was fear and

desperation that was fuelling this emotion—a need to blame someone for their

horrific, hopeless predicament.

She saw the black haired elf pulled to his feet, glimpsing his pale, arrogant profile

for the first time. Almost as white as the crispest snow, his face was angular and

long, his eyes large, dark and almond shaped. He was aloof and distant despite the

bruises and blood upon him, and she saw how he stood against the mob with his head

held high.

Screeching metal accompanied the opening of the cage. The skeleton within was

kicked free and the elf was dragged towards the vacant iron device. He struggled

against his captors. Breaking the grip that one had on him, he smashed his elbow into

the man’s face, crushing his nose. With inhuman swiftness he kicked another state

soldier in the face, and then spun, rolling his wrist so that the arm of the one holding

him was turned until the elbow was facing the sky. With a sharp downward strike the

elf shattered the joint of the soldier’s overextended arm.

A heavy mallet smashed into the back of the elf’s head, and his body went limp.

Swearing, blood pumping from his nose, the first of the fallen men rose to his feet

with a dagger in his hands and murder in his eyes. He stepped towards the slumped

elf, but Horst stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“We will make sure his suffering is long and drawn out,” he hissed. The man

sheathed his knife with a curse, and spat upon the elf.

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The barely conscious elf, blood covering the back of his head, was dragged to the

torturous man-shaped cage. He was pushed within the tight confines, and the cage

door slammed shut. A rusted old padlock as large as a man’s head was clamped shut,

sealing him within. He had no room to move. Half unconscious and bleeding, the elf

was hauled up into the air. Rocks and rotten food pelted him.

Not wanting to see any more, and anxious to be with her father, Annaliese pushed

against the crowd around her, panicked and sickened at the hate, fear and murderous

intent she saw on the faces of those around her. Tears in her eyes, she pushed free of

the frenzied mob, and ran back up through the snow towards her home.

Annaliese slammed the door behind her, breathing hard, wracking sobs rocking

her body. She could still hear the muted shouts of the villagers, a dire sound of

venomous hate fuelled by fear and despair.

Moving to the small kitchen adjoining the main room, she plunged her hands into

a bucket of water and washed her face. The water was icy cold, and an involuntary

shiver ran through her. She brushed her long blonde hair back away from her face

and took a deep breath, calming herself.

If the elf truly did murder those families, then he deserved death, she thought—

but not a long, torturous death. That was savage and barbaric.

She took another deep breath. That’s when she heard the first screams.

Running through the cabin, she burst through the front door to see a very

different scene than that she had just left. People were running in all directions, and

she saw blood splashed across the snow. There was screaming and shouting, and her

first thought was that the elf had somehow escaped, or that his allies had come to

rescue him. But no, she could still see his caged form hanging aloft above the

bloodshed below.

She saw a warrior dressed in the yellow and black of a state soldier in the pay of

the Elector of Averland rolling in the slush, fighting with a drably dressed villager.

Two other plainly clothed men dragged another to the ground, their hands around his

throat. Others were knocked to the ground by the press of bodies seeking escape.

What was going on? What madness was this?

There was a solid thump that shook the floorboards, and Annaliese started. It had

come from her father’s room, and a moment later there was a scrape of wood on

wood, and a crash. It sounded like the chair by her father’s palette being pushed back

and toppling to the floor. Tearing herself away from the insane, murderous savagery

below, she stepped warily into the centre of the living area to better see into her

father’s room, her heart pounding in her chest. Floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

Dimly she perceived a low hanging mist coiling within the dark room. She saw

the dark shape of a man on all fours beside the palette, and her heart skipped a beat.

Her father was alive, and up out of his bed!

“Father!” she cried as she rushed to his side. As soon as she entered the room the

temperature fell markedly. The fire that had been raging when she had left the cabin

earlier had died away completely, and a ribbon of smoke rose from the blackened

logs.

Annaliese dropped to her knees, putting an arm around her father’s bony

shoulders. His flesh radiated an icy chill through the rough linen undershirt covering

his skin. His head hung low, and his lank dark hair fell down over his face.

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“Father,” she said once again, tears welling in her eyes. Days ago she had

resigned herself to his passing.

He turned his face towards her. She had a glimpse of blue-tinged lips, and saw

that her father’s eyes were closed. His skin was grey and ashen, and she could see

blue veins criss-crossing within.

Her father’s cold blue lips curled into a sickly grin that made her skin crawl, and

she felt revulsion and horror run through her for a moment. Then he began to

convulse, his wasted muscles tensing as his entire body went into uncontrollable

spasms. He fell to his back, and sickly, yellow froth bubbled at the corners of his still

grinning lips. Annaliese cried out, not knowing what to do. She grasped her father’s

head tightly in her arms, holding him to her bosom in an effort to stop him smashing

his head against the floorboards in his seizure.

It was over in a moment, and he went completely limp. Breathing heavily with

the shock, Annaliese carefully laid her father’s head back down against the floor. She

could not hear him breathing, and she felt for a pulse on his wasted, scrawny neck.

There was none.

Closing her eyes, Annaliese allowed exhaustion and despair to wash over her.

She couldn’t remember when last she had slept, and her entire body heaved with sobs

from the shock of her father’s dying fit.

She opened her eyes to see a cold pair of eyes regarding her.

Blue flames flickered within the sunken sockets of her father’s face, and

Annaliese felt the edges of her sanity begin to fray.

She screamed involuntarily and scrambled backwards across the floor. The thing

that had once been her father pushed itself onto its stomach, and began to claw its

way across the floorboards towards her, fingernails digging into the floorboards. Its

movements were jerky and stilted, as if it were some twisted marionette and someone

was plucking at its strings.

Its face was still locked in a hideous grinning rictus, a manic death-grimace, and

eyes of blue fire blazed coldly.

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CHAPTER TWO

Udo removed his wide-brimmed black hat, and ran a gloved hand across his shaven

head. If there had been hair growing there it would have had grey in it, as there was

in his moustache and the salt-and-pepper stubble that covered his thick jaw. You are

getting old, he thought to himself. His legs were sore, and he cursed again the

bastards who had stolen his horse.

He had been returning to the tall, black stallion after relieving himself up against

a tree when he came upon them. There had been three of them, rough men that had

the look of deserters about them, and they were struggling to keep the stallion from

bucking.

So intent were they on the powerful steed that they didn’t notice the appearance

of Grunwald until he calmly killed the first with a bolt through the back of the neck.

The would-be thief was killed instantly and the reins fell from his limp hand. The

powerful stallion lashed out with its hooves, slamming another of the men to the

ground. Grunwald had stalked forwards then, his dark coat billowing out behind him,

dropping his heavy crossbow to the ground. He hefted a heavy, flanged mace in one

hand and with the other he drew an ornate, gold-worked pistol—one of the weapons

of his former master. The brigand struck by the horse struggled to his feet, and the

pistol boomed deafeningly. The lead shot slammed into his head, sending a mist of

blood out behind him as he fell.

The third man, a small, weasely individual, leapt into the saddle of the bucking

horse, the reins held tightly in his hands.

“It will be better for you if you get off my horse now,” said Grunwald. The

outlaw spat in response, and kicked the stallion into a gallop.

It had not been hard to follow his trail across the destitute lands of Stirland.

The three were part of a larger group that were preying on the weakened local

people. The plague had desolated much of the region, and the armies of Graf

Alberich Haupt-Anderssen, the Elector Count of Stirland, were scouring the land,

killing and burning the bodies of those infected by the foul contagion.

The wretches that Grunwald was now hunting parasites, eking out an existence

by taking advantage of the horrific situation that the Empire found itself in. Low-life

scavengers, they were looting abandoned settlements and villages, and preying upon

those fleeing with all their worldly possessions. Grunwald had learnt from his

inquiries that they had been pressed into service in the armies of the Graf to fight the

terrible threat that pressed from the north, but had deserted their posts, fleeing into

the wilderness rather than stand and fight for the good of the Empire.

Grunwald’s face was dark. It sickened him that while tens of thousands of loyal

soldiers were fighting and dying in the north to protect the Empire, there were others

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such as these who were abandoning their posts and preying on innocents. He would

ensure that these men were punished for their crimes.

But none of those crimes was as heinous as the one they had committed the day

before. They had come across a rural chapel devoted to Sigmar, and in an act of

extreme sacrilege, they had stolen the offering pot and knocked a statue of the holy

deity to the ground in their haste to leave. By such actions they had doomed

themselves. The bruised and battered priest had been shamefaced as he spoke of how

he had been overcome by the ruffians, and Grunwald’s brutish face was set in an

angry expression as he recalled the incident.

He hated this land, Stirland. Always poor, and living in the shadow of the cursed

realm of Sylvania, it seemed to breed corruption and wretchedness. The grim

landscape, with its fields of wasted crops, oppressive dark forests and bleak

mountains merely seemed to feed the feeling of hopelessness that pervaded the life of

the Stirlanders.

Darkness was falling quickly, and the thick clouds overhead ensured no light

from moon or star would reveal him. Twisted trees loomed like dark, malevolent

presences around him, and Grunwald began to crawl forwards through the snow once

more, drawing towards the bored sentry.

Rising up behind the man, he placed one gloved hand around his mouth while the

other ripped a knife across his throat. He pulled the man down into the snow without

a sound, holding him tightly as he convulsed, his warm blood soaking into the

pristine white snow.

After weeks of tracking these doomed bandits, he gloried in the feeling of

satisfaction as he watched the life slip from the ruffian’s eyes.

Concealing the body beneath a fallen log, Grunwald pressed on, slipping between

the thick boles of the dense trees. He cursed as he looked over the deserters’ camp.

There were at least half a dozen of them lounging around a fire, but that was not what

made the witch hunter swear.

There were no horses tethered at the campsite—but there was an unmistakable

equine shape roasting on a heavy spit over a fire.

A battle trained stallion bred from the line of the finest warhorses of Averland,

the horse was worth an Elector’s ransom, and these ignorant fools were roasting it.

Grunwald pushed himself flat in the snow as he heard a voice rise in alarm. He

readied himself for violence. Had they found the sentry already? That was unlikely—

he had watched the camp for almost an hour before he had made his move, and he

was fairly certain that there would be no one checking up on him for good few hours.

He strained to hear the muffled conversation.

“…down the path,” he made out.

“…tracking us?” came the reply, a deeper voice than the first. Grunwald carefully

elbowed himself forward.

He saw a slight man—the one that had ridden off with his horse—talking to a

more solidly built outlaw. Once he might have been well proportioned, but it looked

as though his muscle had long since run to fat.

“Don’t think so, sergeant,” said the smaller man.

“I told you not to damn well call me that!”

14

“Sorry. Lone traveller by the looks of it. A dwarf, heavily armoured. Got himself

a heavy looking pack, too. Must be something in there worth takin’—gold perhaps.

Everyone knows his kind hoard it, countin’ their wealth while us Stirlanders starve.”

The bigger brigand grunted.

“Would certainly be rude to pass up such an opportunity, ’specially when it

appears on our doorstep. Right, let’s get moving then, you pack of worthless

whoresons,” he said, kicking out at the dozing men.

Grunwald swore once again. He had been planning on moving through the

darkness and killing each of the sentries in turn before turning on the sleeping camp.

He sighed, and began crawling backwards through the trees, away from the campsite.

The short, broad-shouldered figure of Thorrik Lokrison hummed tunelessly to

himself as he sat before a small fireplace. A solid pot of black iron was balanced on

top of a small pile of rocks within the fire, and a heavy pack lay in the snow beside

him, an object wrapped in oiled leather carefully positioned on top of it.

A round metal shield leant against the log on which Thorrik sat, a stylised

embossed bearded face in its centre and intricate bronze weave-work running around

the rim. Besides the shield was a single-bladed axe, runes and more intricate bronze-

work adorning it.

Belching loudly, Thorrik leant over the steaming broth bubbling away within the

iron pot, savouring the aroma of the heavy, stodgy food, before leaning back and

resuming his humming.

He had removed his helmet, but was otherwise covered in heavy armour from

head to toe. The only exposed skin that could be seen was his forehead, bulbous nose

and ruddy cheeks, the rest of his face framed by a finely wrought chainmail coif and

a prodigious plaited beard. That beard was woven with bronze win and hung down

over his ornately worked breastplate. The plaits were adorned with metal discs,

stylised faces engraved upon them.

With a heavy, gauntleted hand, the dwarf stirred the meaty broth with a chunky

metal spoon.

“Smells good, friend,” came a voice from behind him that sounded anything but

friendly. Thorrik’s features darkened. He had not heard the man’s approach.

Rising to his feet he picked up his axe and turned face this human that was

interrupting his supper. Eyes as hard as stone glinted from beneath his bushy eye

brows. His gaze flicked left and right, seeing that there were six men fanning out

around him. Two had bows in their hands, while the others were armed with swords

and axes, though they were not drawn. He settled on the overweight figure in the

centre of the group the one who had spoken. A towering brute, he wore tattered

clothes dyed yellow and green and a heavy fur over his shoulders. Beside him was a

slight, pinch-face man that looked to Thorrik not unlike one of the stinking grobi that

infest the depths beneath the mountains, though his skin was not green as were those

hated enemies of his kin.

“’Tis a cold and wintry night to be out here alone, friend,” said the overweight

man, his voice dripping with threat. “Would you not like some company? I would

dearly like to try that fine smelling food you are preparing.”

15

“I’d say you have eaten your fair share of food for two lifetimes, manling,”

growled the dwarf.

The leader of the group laughed at that, and grobi-face gave a sycophantic

chuckle. The remainder of the group made no reaction—their eyes were hard.

“No need for hostility, friend dwarf, though I dare say you are right in your

estimation,” said the man, a brutish smile upon his big-jowled face as he patted his

prodigious belly. “We are merely loyal soldiers of the Empire seeking to warm

ourselves at your camp. May we? I assure you, we mean you no harm.”

Thorrik tightened his grip on his axe, frowning.

“There is no Stirland state patrol within twenty miles and you ’aint scouts or

militia,” he said gruffly. “I’d say you are deserters. Cowards. Your word is worth less

than pig shit.”

The smile dropped from the leader of the outlaws’ face.

“Brave words for someone so heavily outnumbered, dwarf.”

His greedy eyes flicked towards Thorrik’s pack, and the object wrapped in leather

on top of it.

“Give us your belongings, and we will be on our way. No harm need come to

you, friend.”

“Call me friend once more, pig face, and I will carve the fat from your bones,”

growled the dwarf. “Where are your companions? I thought it would take more of

you cowardly dogs to pluck up the courage to rob a clan warrior of Karaz-a-Karak.”

One of the deserters, grobi-face, looked around him “Where’s Anton, sergeant?

And Valdar?”

“Shut your hole,” snarled the big outlaw. “The time for niceties is over, dwarf.

Shoot him.”

The two archers drew back their bows, and Thorrik roared a war cry in Khazalid,

the dwarfen tongue. Hefting his axe, he surged forwards. There was a flash of

movement in the darkness further up the trail, and one of the archers fell, a black bolt

protruding from his neck. The other archer fired, the arrow streaking through the air

towards the dwarf.

Thorrik turned his shoulder into the path of the arrow, and it skidded off one of

his heavy gromril pauldrons, unable to penetrate or even dent the thick metal plate.

He closed the distance to the leader of the outlaws with surprising swiftness, and the

big outlaw swore as he stepped backwards to make more room for himself, drawing a

massive double-handed greatsword from his back.

A brigand darted in from the left, a short sword stabbing towards the dwarf’s

exposed face. With a powerful swipe of his arm, Thorrik deflected the blow with his

armoured forearm and slammed his axe into the man’s neck, and blood fountained

from the mortal wound.

Thorrik saw an ugly brute of a man appear from the darkness and a pistol

boomed, shattering the leg of another of the outlaws, who fell screaming to the

ground. The newcomer wore a dark great-cloak, and had a broad-brimmed hat upon

his head. A heavy black breastplate protected his chest, and his body was criss-

crossed with buckles and straps from which hung an impressive array of knives and

deadly implements.

16

Then the newcomer was amongst them, his mace pulverising the face of one who

had turned to face this new threat.

Thorrik stalked towards the overweight leader of the outlaws, aware of the axe-

man stepping to his flank but keeping his eyes locked on the fat man the other had

called sergeant.

“What’s the matter, friend?” he snarled, his voice gravelly. “Things not turning

out how you had hoped?”

Thorrik saw an arrow fired in haste glance over the shaven-headed man’s

shoulder, and saw the archer draw a long knife from his boot. The thug lunged, but

the dark-clad figure caught his wrist, keeping the knife turned away from him. A

heavy mace smashed down onto the brigand’s shoulder, shattering it with a sickening

crunch. He screamed in agony and dropped to his knees. His cries were silenced as

the mace swung in and crushed his skull.

Thorrik turned as the axe-man to his right darted forwards, and he deflected the

descending axe blade with his own. Twisting the blade, he knocked the axe-man off

balance and into the path of the outlaw leader who had stepped forwards swinging his

greatsword murderously. The outlaw pulled the blow with some difficulty, and

stopped just short of cleaving his comrade in two.

The dwarf stepped forwards and smashed his axe into the brigand’s knee, and he

fell heavily.

The leader of the outlaws spun, feeling a presence behind him, turning to see a

pistol levelled at his head. He stood frozen for a moment, like a deer caught in the

light of a lantern, his eyes wide and staring. Then the trigger was squeezed and the

man’s head was blown apart in a spray of bone and blood.

There were no more outlaws standing, though several of them were moaning in

pain from their prone positions in the snow.

“I didn’t need your damn help,” growled Thorrik, squinting up at the shaven-

headed man.

“And I didn’t come to your aid,” replied the man, holstering his smoking pistol.

“I have been hunting these men for several days.”

“Rob you, did they?” asked Thorrik. The man nodded his head.

“Stole my horse.”

The dwarf grunted in response.

“Get it back?”

“No,” came the reply. The man moved to one of the wounded men who was

moaning in pain. Without ceremony he slashed the outlaw’s throat with his knife, and

moved on to the next. “These bastards ate it.”

“Ah,” said Thorrik, wiping the blood from his axe head on the tunic of one of the

dead men. “Good eating, horse.”

The man glared at Thorrik, but the dwarf ignored the manling and sat down

heavily, stirring his steaming broth.

He glanced up from his now overcooked supper, scowling, and watched as the

man found the last of the living outlaws. The injured deserter had tried to crawl

away, leaving a bloody trail behind him, and Thorrik watched in silence as the dark-

clad man placed his knee in the small of the outlaw’s back, and pulled the brigand’s

17

head back. It was grobi-face, and he whimpered in fear. Without hesitation, his throat

was cut.

Leaving the dying outlaw where he lay, Grunwald picked his way back through the

snow and retrieved his heavy crossbow from where he had dropped it before joining

the fight in-close. The dwarf was sitting smoking an ornate, dragon-headed pipe

when he returned.

“May I?” he asked, indicating towards a large stone opposite the log where

Thorrik sat.

The dwarf grunted, which Grunwald took as assent. He sat down heavily, and

began wiping and blowing the snow from the firing mechanism of his heavy

crossbow.

“You fight well,” he said when it became clear that the dwarf was not going to

initiate a conversation.

Again the dwarf grunted.

“You as well,” he said eventually. “For a manling.”

“My name is Udo Grunwald.” He extended a black-gloved hand towards the

dwarf, who gave a long puff on his pipe before he extended his own hand, ensconced

within his heavy gauntlet. To Grunwald, the dwarf’s grip felt like it was crushing the

bones of his hand.

“Thorrik Lokrison, Ironbreaker of the mining Clan Barad of Karaz-a-Karak,

guardian of the Ungdrin.” Grunwald noted that the dwarf had a strong grasp of

Reikspiel, the language of the Empire, though it was heavily accented.

“Karaz-a-Karak…” said Grunwald, forming the strange dwarfen words with

some difficulty. Clearly his pronunciation was inadequate, for Thorrik scowled.

“It is the greatest of all the dwarfen holds, the seat of the High King himself. In

the tongues of men it is known as the Everpeak.”

“Ah,” said Grunwald, recognising the name. “That is far across the Worlds Edge

and Black Mountains to the south-east, is it not?”

“Such are the names known by manlings, aye,” said Thorrik gruffly.

“You are a long way from home, Thorrik.”

“Thank you for reminding me,” said the dwarf sharply He took a long pull on his

pipe, eyes glittering angrily. He sighed heavily. “It has been eight years since I have

seen the great hold.”

Grunwald’s eyebrows rose. “A long time to be away.”

“To your kind, manling. But aye, it has been too long.”

“What has kept you from returning these past eight years?”

“A throng was raised from Karaz-a-Karak at the High King’s order nine years

ago. The warriors of Clan Barad responded to this call, and I was a part of their

muster. For seven years we have been engaged in the north of your Empire,

bolstering your defence against the hordes massing in the north.”

“You have been fighting within the Empire, to protect our border?” asked

Grunwald. His estimation of the dwarf and his kin rose steeply.

“Aye. The High King takes the oath sworn by King Kurgan very seriously.”

“King Kurgan…”

18

He knew the name, for it was said that the king fought alongside blessed Sigmar

in his battles against the greenskins.

“That was… thousands of years ago.”

“An oath is an oath,” growled Thorrik. “Enough talk.” He retrieved a heavy metal

bowl, spooned out a generous portion of his stew and handed it to Grunwald, who

thanked him with a nod. The dwarf spooned out his own portion, and began to eat

noisily. Grunwald stabbed the pieces of meat on the end of his knife. The food was

heavy and simple, but flavoursome. Thorrik grumbled about it being overcooked.

“Wasn’t much meat on this goat,” he said into his stew. “Wish it was horse.” He

punctuated this statement with a snort, and Grunwald wondered if he were making a

joke.

After the meal, Thorrik offered Grunwald a spare pipe, but he politely declined,

hoping that was not some breach of dwarfen etiquette. Thorrik merely shrugged and

grunted, and took up his own pipe once more.

Cracking his neck to either side, Grunwald pushed himself to his feet,

shouldering his heavy crossbow.

“I wish you well, Thorrik Lokrison,” he said. “And I thank you for the food.”

The dwarf did not stand, but merely squinted up at him. He grunted what may

have been a farewell, and took another long pull on his dragon-headed pipe.

Thorrik watched as Grunwald disappeared into the darkness. He seemed solid

enough for a manling, and at least he did not talk as much as most of them. They

were usually incessant with their inane chatter—as if they needed to cram too many

words into their short lifetimes. He had long ago given up trying to understand the

ways of the humans, and his eight years in the northern states of the Empire had only

reinforced this.

But an oath was an oath.

He brushed the light dusting of snow off the oiled leather that protected the

precious item he bore from harm.

Aye. An oath was an oath.

19

CHAPTER THREE

Annaliese slammed into the doorframe as she scrabbled frantically backwards. She

tried to push herself to her feet, but fell backwards out into the living area of the

cabin in her haste to escape the horrific creature clawing its way towards her.

It pulled itself forward upon wasted, skeletal hands. It was still half wrapped in

blankets, and it dragged them along behind it. Still it smiled its deathly grin, its eyes

blazing with icy fire fixed on her.

“Father!” she cried out as she kicked backwards out of the grasp of the creature

as it made to snatch at her leg. “Father, it’s me!”

It spoke then, but the voice was not the one she knew so well, nor did the

creature’s lips move in time with the words that were spoken.

She could not comprehend the garbled torrent of words, and with horror she

realised that it was not a single voice at all—it sounded as though a multitude of

creatures were attempting to speak to her at once, their voices blurring and

overlapping.

“Tzch’aaaarkan gharbol’ankh’ha mesch’antar’mor,” drawled the strongest of the

voices, a sound that made Annaliese’s skin crawl.

Rising to her feet finally, she ran into the small, stone kitchen and slammed the

heavy door behind her. Her terror granted her strength, and she dragged the heavy

wooden counter in front of the door. She backed away and leant up against the

shuttered window, breathing hard.

That thing was no longer her father. She prayed to Morr and to Sigmar that her

father’s soul had passed on, that this truly was just his abandoned flesh and that his

soul did not live on in torment within the foul creature. The idea was horrific, and she

wished she had not thought it.

There was the wet sound of rotten wood smashing, and a cold hand grabbed her

around the throat. Splinters of damp wood sprayed in from the window behind her.

Annaliese tried to scream, but found she could not, as the cold strength of the

hand tightened its grip. She grabbed at the arm, her fingernails tearing at flesh. She

felt her fingers go numb against its unearthly cold.

A sibilant whispering came from behind her. It was the same host of voices that

had whispered forth from the throat of the creature, only this was spoken right into

her ear.

“Sth’aaark Tzch’aaaarkan,” it hissed.

She scrabbled around frantically as her vision began to waver, and her hand

closed on a bone handled knife in an instant, she lifted the knife and hacked at the

arm that pinned her to the wall, feeling ice-cold blood begin to flow. The grip did not

relent, and she sawed frantically against the wrist of the creature. Cold blood washed

20

over her, making the knife so slippery that she almost lost her grip on it. The blood

made the creature’s hand slippery as well, and with a lurch, Annaliese freed herself

from its grasp, pushing away, gasping for air.

A heavy weight threw itself against the door leading to the living area, and the

wooden counter rocked from the blow. She threw her weight against it, and turned to

stare wide-eyed at the smashed shutters of the window. A heavy arm swept the

remainder of the wood away, and she flinched.

She saw the shape of the monster silhouetted against the pristine white snow

outside. She could see nothing of its features except for its eyes, blue flames that

flickered and burned coldly. It reached forward and ripped the shattered shutters from

their hinges, not noticing the thick splinters of wood that pierced its flesh.

“Always have a weapon to hand,” her father had always told her. “And never

allow yourself to be cornered—always have an escape route.”

Yet here she was, backed into a corner with nothing more than a carving knife.

She cursed, knowing that on the other side of the wall was her father’s precious

sword, agonisingly out of reach. No matter how poor they had become, he had never

even considered selling the blade, and Annaliese had never broached the subject. It

was the last link he had to his former life as a soldier, and she knew that he missed

those times. But one accident had taken all of that away from him when the thumb of

his right hand, his sword hand, had been severed. There was no soldiering work for a

warrior that could not hold a sword.

Flipping the knife around in her hand so that she held it downwards like a dagger,

Annaliese leapt forward as the deathly creature began to clamber through the window

frame, a ceaseless cacophony of hateful gibberish spilling from its throat. She

slammed the knife into the side of creature’s neck, the blade sinking to the hilt before

ripping it free once again.

What would have been a fatal blow to any man barely slowed its advance.

Reaching a blue-tinged arm further into the kitchen, it pulled itself through the

window, falling with a limp thud upon the stone floor, dark, matted hair falling over

its face.

Still, Annaliese didn’t need to see its face to recognise that this creature was once

Jonas Scriber, the farrier’s apprentice. Its once ruddy, furnace-reddened face and

arms were bereft of colour, and it pushed itself heavily to its feet, towering over the

slight framed teenage girl. Its face, too, was set in a deathly grin, its broad features

daemonically lit by flaming orbs. Its shirt was ripped open, and it bore several

wounds, deep gashes in its skin that exposed the red muscle beneath. It lurched

towards her, as if trying to embrace her in its massive arms.

She ducked and slashed her knife across its gut, slicing the skin open. She was

knocked to the side as the wooden bench blocking the door was wrenched away by a

powerful push from the other side of the door, and she stumbled towards the monster

that had been Jonas.

One of its heavy arms clubbed her to the ground, the blow numbing her shoulder

and arm.

The multitude of voices seemed to get more excited, and they spoke quickly, the

garbled words spilling from its mouth in a horrid torrent of foul, insensible words.

21

Pushing up with all her force, she rammed the knife into the soft flesh beneath the

monster’s chin. The blade punched up through the roof of its mouth, sliding on into

its brain.

It twitched for a second, transfixed, and with a push with her shoulder she sent

the creature sprawling backwards, the gore-covered knife still clasped in her hand.

She felt another presence behind her and turned blindly, her bloody knife slashing

out, carving an arc towards the creature that was her father. Too late she realised who

it was, and though she tried to pull the blow, the knife bit deeply. Its head was

knocked to the side by the force of the blow, and it stumbled into the door frame,

falling to its knees.

With a cry, Annaliese dropped the knife and knelt by its side. Its head rolled

around to fix on her once more, and she recoiled from its blood-drenched, smiling

visage. It reached for her, but she surged up, sprinting into the cabin’s living area.

Her gaze settled on her father’s short-bladed sword. She pulled it from its display

hooks in the log-wall, and turned grimly towards the dark shapes moving towards

her, the pale witch-lights of their eyes casting a cold blue tinge across the room. She

ripped the scabbard from the sword, and stood with the glinting blade held ready

before her.

This was not her father, she reminded herself.

And if this truly was her time to pass into the halls of Morr, then she would be

damned if she didn’t take these creatures with her.

She stepped backwards to give herself some room, her mouth set into a

determined line as she lowered herself into a ready stance, the short-sword held out

before her.

“You are not Jonas, and you are not my father,” she breathed as the puppet-like

figures staggered towards her.

The unnaturally cold air was filled with the tumultuous din that spilled from the

throats of the monsters, a dozen voices whispering and hissing all around her. The

twisted, slashed face of the creature that was once her father continued to grin at her

as it advance towards her, and she backed away frantically from its outstretched

hands.

Annaliese was far from an expert swordswoman, but these creatures, with their

stilted and awkward movement, were far from skilled foes. As the zombie-like

creature that resembled Jonas reached for her, she hacked at it with her sword, the

blade severing several blackened, frostbitten fingers. The creature’s eyes blazed ever

brighter, until she plunged the point of the sword into its chest, piercing the heart.

The fire flickered and died, and the creature slumped to the ground a marionette with

its strings cut.

A hand, as cold as death itself, grabbed her by long blonde hair and wrenched her

head back, and she saw the creature’s slashed face close to her own, mouth opened

wide as it lunged for her throat. The ice chill that exuded from the monster burnt her,

and she threw herself to the side in desperation, leaving a hair fill of hair in its grasp.

Annaliese’s head crashed into the leg of the heavy wooden table, and pain shot

through her.

22

Voices were all around her, and when her vision cleared, she looked up into the

twisted face of the monster. It stood over her hefting a heavy chunk of wood above

its head, ready to cave her skull in.

“Father, no!” she screamed in desperation, but if it understood her it gave no

indication.

She slashed with her sword, the blow hitting the creature in the shin, splintering

the bone. Its leg collapsed beneath it and it fell to its knees. Annaliese was on her feet

in an instant, and she lashed out blindly. Her blade hacked into its neck, cutting to the

bone. It lodged fast between the vertebrae, and the sword was wrenched from her

hands as it fell to the ground.

Shaking frantically, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, she burst through the

door of the cabin and ran outside.

She fled blindly from the cabin, her home, stumbling through the snow,

registering that there was the movement of people all around. She fell to her knees as

she tripped over something—a dead body. She jumped to her feet with a moan of

horror, adrenaline pumping through her.

People ran screaming, clutching their children protectively to them, fleeing in

every direction. There was no order to the flight, for there was nothing but panic and

terror in these people, and they fought each other in their haste to get away.

Annaliese was knocked to the ground by a middle-aged villager she knew, though

she had never seen the look of abject horror on his face before, and he made no sign

of recognition or apology as he fled blindly. Bodies were strewn across the ground,

blood splattered over the snow and mixing with the muddy slush. There were shouts

and screams of pain and fear all around and she swung her head from side to side,

trying to see the enemy, or a safe direction to run.

Some people were defending themselves with drawn weapons, and she gasped as

she saw one wildly flailing villager impaled on the shaft of a spear. He didn’t stop

fighting then, either, but dragged himself further onto the haft of the weapon in his

eagerness to get close enough to claw at the warrior.

A woman screamed as she was grabbed from behind. Her throat was ripped out

by her attacker’s teeth, blood spraying madly from the fatal wound.

She saw a wasted and thin figure crouching over fallen woman. She began to

back away, but as if feeling her gaze upon it, the emaciated creature raised its head,

Its eyes were blazing blue orbs of fire and its mouth and chin dripped with blood.

Clearly it had been feasting, but it dropped its meal and began staggering towards

her, its movements jerky and uncoordinated but with deadly intent.

With no weapon to hand she knew she was no match for this creature, and she

turned and ran through the mayhem. She saw an elderly man screaming and fighting

frantically as he was pulled to the ground by two more plague victims, their eyes

burning with cold intensity, and she faltered momentarily, seeing the desperate plea

in the old man’s face. An instant later, his cries were silenced as one of the creatures

smashed his head into the ground with a horrible crack.

A terrified looking soldier swung towards her, the long spike on the tip of his

halberd pointing in her direction. His trousers were stained where he had clearly lost

control of his bodily functions, and raised her hands up before her to show she meant

23

no harm. The point of the halberd wavered dangerously before her, and she flicked a

glance over her shoulder at the creature stumbling towards her.

“I’m not one of them,” she said as she turned back, though she may as well have

been speaking a foreign language, for the soldier merely backed away from her, his

weapon still lowered in her direction and his eyes wide with terror. He tripped over a

severed arm, and fell backwards into the snow.

She darted past him and heard a horrible yelp from the fallen soldier. She did not

look back. The only thing on her mind now was escape.

She found herself running into the village square. Disoriented amongst the

surging crowd, her blind flight had brought her here, and she groaned in fear. The

fighting was intense, and she saw that the doors of the guildhall had been smashed

down from the inside. As she stood there despairing, she saw one of the boarded up

windows blown out, and a pair of grinning, flaming eyed monsters crawled through

the rotten wreckage of splintered wood.

The black iron cage still hung from the gibbet, and the dark haired elf was staring

out across the madness below with wide eyes. As much as he shook the door of the

cage, the rusted padlock imprisoning him within held fast.

Annaliese saw her chance—there was a thin alleyway between the butchers and

the Golden Wheatsheaf, the inn where she worked. It backed onto farmland, and

beyond were the woods. Seeing no one in the narrow passageway, she ran,

sidestepping combatants that rolled in the slush and the grasping hands of zombie-

like plague victims.

A heavy set villager, a local huntsman, was fighting for his life against two of the

plague monsters, a woodsman’s axe in his grasp. He cut one of them down with a

savage blow to the neck, but the other one reached for his face. He stumbled

backwards to gain more room, swinging the axe over his shoulder.

On his backswing, the head of the axe struck the locking mechanism that held the

gibbet cage aloft, freeing the chain and sending the cage plummeting towards the

ground. The huntsman lost his grip on the axe, and the creature was upon him in an

instant, tearing at his skin and flesh with skeletal hands curled like the talons of a bird

of prey.

As he screamed in horror and pain, the black iron gibbet cage smashed into the

earth with a clatter, and fell to its side. Several plague victims swung their heavy

heads towards the sound, and broke off from their feasting to stagger towards the

cage. Annaliese saw the elf shaking the bars of the cage frantically, but the lock held

still.

She stopped short, biting her lip, glancing back towards the elf, still struggling

against his imprisonment. It seemed an unnecessarily cruel way to die, even for one

who had committed murderous, black acts.

Cursing herself, she rushed back into the fray, running lightly towards the cage.

Several creatures went close to it now, and she heard the torrent of ungodly voices

spilling from their throats raise in temporary excitement.

Stooping, she swept up the fallen axe from the human who was being eaten alive

at the base of gibbet, and hefted it over her shoulder before dashing towards the cage.

With all her force and with a scream of anger and fear, she brought the axe crashing

down onto the head of one of the plague victims trying to claw at the elf through the

24

bars of the cage. It cut through its skull, splattering blood and gore over her dress and

across the pristine white face of the elf, and the figure fell to the ground.

Annaliese caught the gaze of the elf, and was struck by his alien, defiant eyes.

They were not black as she had first thought, those eyes, but had a slight tinge of

lavender to them that merely enhanced the impression of inhuman, otherworldliness

about him.

Praying she was doing the right thing, she brought the head of the axe crashing

down on the rusted lock imprisoning the elf, smashing it asunder beneath the blow.

She dropped the axe with numbed fingers, and without waiting to see his escape she

turned and ran. She had given the elf a chance—it was now up to him to do with it

what he would.

Not pausing this time, she bolted into the thin alleyway, running up its narrow

passageway towards the beckoning farmland and woods beyond.

Her foot caught on something and she fell heavily to the ground, the air driven

from her lungs. She hadn’t even had time to get her hands in front of her to break her

fall, and she gasped for air, winded, face down in the snow.

Something was holding onto her ankle, and she kicked out frantically, trying to

free herself. Still trying to regain her breath, she gasped as pain flared up her leg.

Rolling over in the icy cold slush, she saw a hand clasped around her ankle,

blackened fingernails biting through her leather leggings. The fingers of the hand

were a bruised red colour, for the blood had clotted in the veins when the plague

victim’s heart had stopped. She kicked at the hand with her free leg, feeling finger

bones break beneath her heel, but still the grip did not relent.

She saw the creature’s face then, and it filled her with mindless terror. It was the

face of a friend, Ilsa, a barmaid at the Golden Wheatsheaf, though her plump, pretty

face was contorted and foul. Her lips were swollen and bloated, and her skin was

drawn and so pale that she could see the network of blue veins within her flesh.

Sickeningly, the bones of her skull were malformed and warped, a cluster of bony,

branch-like protrusions pushing from the flesh on her right temple. As Annaliese

watched in horror, the twig-like tips of this mutation waved in air, straining towards

her as if they sensed the life in her. Ice-blue flames flared in the girl’s eye-sockets,

and she opened her mouth wide, exposing blackened teeth. Where there should have

been a tongue was a bulbous, staring eyeball, the iris iridescent blue and flecked with

gold. That eye blinked slowly as it stared at her, and Annaliese thrashed against the

grip of this foul creature, kicking at it again and again.

It did not release its grip, and it began to pull itself up her legs, the staring

bulbous eye glaring at her from within the girl’s ever widening mouth.

Over the creature’s shoulder she saw a flash of movement, and she looked up,

absolute panic in her eyes, to see the elf running towards her, the huntsman’s axe in

his hands. He swung it back over his head, and hurled it towards her.

Annaliese screamed as the axe flew through the air, turning end over end.

The axe blade slammed into the back of the mutant girl’s head with a sickening,

wet sound. Annaliese screamed again, pushing away from the now limp monster,

kicking and scrabbling backwards.

25

Then the elf was at her side, pulling her to her feet with strength that belied his

inhumanly slight, tall frame. His grip around her arm was strong, and painful, and her

nostrils were filled with the scent of strange, unearthly spices and herbs.

The horror and shock of the day won out, and Annaliese saw stars of light for a

second before she slumped to the ground unconscious, like a limp rag-doll.

Mouthing a curse in his native tongue, the elf stooped and lifted the girl up in his

arms. Her head flopped back limply, her long blonde hair hanging to the ground.

Cursing himself for a fool, the elf, carrying the slender form of the human

woman, loped away from the mayhem of the village, heading towards the beckoning

trees in the distance.

26

CHAPTER FOUR

Udo Grunwald pushed open the small, ill-fitting door, lowering his head to avoid the

low-hanging lintel and entered the seedy looking inn. It was called the Hanging

Donkey, and outside its gateway hung the rotten, snow-covered corpse of said

donkey, hanging by the noose around its neck. He wondered briefly what crime the

animal had committed, what malefaction it had concocted within its devious criminal

brain to warrant such punishment.

It had probably been the lover of the innkeeper’s wife, he thought, and smiled to

himself. That smile did nothing but make his brutish, ugly face look even more

dangerous.

The inn was dark and smoky, and silence descended as soon as he stepped inside.

His heavy boots sounded loudly on the wooden floorboards, and he glared around

him at the staring faces, daring any of them say a word.

Udo knew he was an intimidating figure, and he used to the way that people’s

eyes quickly turned away from his gaze. Here was no different, though the hostility

within the room was tangible, even if none of these farmers and travellers dared look

him in the eye.

He could understand the reaction to his presence—none were safe on the roads

these days, and the news from the north was grim. Brigands and outlaws roamed the

countryside, preying on those fleeing the trouble, and there were whispers of far

darker things within the forests that were growing restless. Witches, secret covens,

foul mutants and Chaotic beasts that walked upright like men—these were all things

to be feared by people of the Empire, and here was no different. Outsiders were

regarded with fear and distrust, particularly with the growing rumours of the hideous

plague that was spreading like wildfire through the towns and villages.

But more than this, he was a witch hunter, and his occupation was obvious. His

presence inspired fear and twinges of guilt even in the guiltless.

The hushed chatter began to reassert itself as drinkers and cold travellers turned

back to their private musings and discussions, pulling hats and hoods down over their

faces so as not to draw the witch hunter’s attention to them. Udo strode towards the

bar, removing the wide-brimmed hat and placing it down in front of him. Those

standing nearby backed away. He saw one patron try to hide his malformed, club-like

hand within his coat, and Udo shook his head slightly. It was always the same—any

wretch who had a disability would try to hide it from the eyes of a witch hunter,

fearing prosecution. Udo had no interest in burning. Apples or those afflicted with

birth defects but he could understand the fear of these simple people—there were

witch hunters who would see them cleansed in flame.

“What can I get for you, friend?” said the barkeeper, trying and failing to hide his

nervousness. He was a pudgy man with eyeballs that protruded a little too far, giving

27

him a goggle-eyed, startled expression like a fish. He also seemed to be sweating

heavily, though it was not overly warm within the room. Udo instantly disliked him.

“A room. A meal. But first,” he said, “I want a drink.”

“If it’s no bother, good sir, I would see your coin beforehand,” said the innkeeper,

wringing his moist hands nervously. “I don’t mean to be discourteous, but these are

hard times, and I’m sure you can understand my reticence at serving a stranger

without first knowing that he could pay. Can you, sir? Pay, I mean?”

Udo glared at the little man for a moment, his lip curling in distaste. The

barkeeper fidgeted, his protruding eyes flicking left and right. Udo pulled the glove

off one of his hands, finger by finger, and the pudgy, sweating innkeeper jumped as

he slapped the black leather glove down on the bar. Still staring at the barkeeper,

Grunwald lifted a clinking pouch of dark leather from his belt and pulled out a pair

coins, which he slammed down onto the bar.

“Will this do?” he sneered.

“Most indeed, gracious sir! Most indeed!” said the barman. The coins

disappeared in a flash, and he thrust his hand towards Grunwald. “I am Claus Fiedler,

the owner of this fine establishment. I am happy to have such a fine upstanding

gentleman such as you staying beneath my roof.”

Udo stared at the innkeeper’s proffered, sweating hand in distaste, and ignored it.

“I’ll take that drink now,” he said.

“Why, yes, of course sir.” He began enthusiastically pumping a grimy mug with

ale, grinning like an idiot, sweat dripping down his brow.

Don’t fall in my ale, Grunwald thought, seeing a heavy bead of sweat hanging

precariously over his pint from Fiedler’s eyebrow. Thankfully, it didn’t, though the

image had already soured his enjoyment of the drink.

Taking the mug, he turned his back on the unpleasant barkeep. It was probably

the barkeeper that had been caught with the donkey, he thought.

He looked for an isolated place to sit, having no wish to engage with anyone. He

saw the dwarf he had met three days earlier smoking his dragon-headed pipe in the

corner. Thorrik, wasn’t it? He inclined his head to the stocky dwarf warrior, who

nodded his head solemnly in acknowledgement. He was not surprised to see the

dwarf again—this was one of the few inns on the road to the south-east.

Pushing through the stinking crowd of travellers, farmers and local drinkers, Udo

found himself a secluded bench in a dark corner, away from the press of bodies. He

placed his ale on the table, shrugged off his crossbow which also went down on the

table with a heavy thump, and shifted the bench so that it was up against the wall,

glaring at the patrons who tutted and huffed as they were bumped out of the way.

He slumped down in the seat with his back to the all and cracked his aching neck

from side to side.

Lifting his ale, he took a tentative sip. It was weak, but not bad, and he gulped

back a mouthful.

He was sore and tired, and he sighed as he rested his aching back against the wall.

After the battle alongside the dwarf, he had recovered what coin he could from the

bandits and returned to the Sigmarite shrine that they had robbed, intending to

bequeath it to the priest there. He had found the priest lying on the floor of the holy

28

shrine, his throat savagely cut and his body filled with stab wounds. For two days he

searched for sign of the killers, but had found nothing. His failure to discover the

culprits rankled him, and after burying the priest and putting the shrine in order, he

had somewhat reluctantly continued on his way. His master was expecting him, and

he had already wasted enough time.

It wasn’t long before the sweating figure of Fiedler was back at his side, putting a

bowl of steaming grey slop down before him and a hunk of bread. It looked

incredibly unappetising, and he poked at it with his spoon. Fiedler stood at his side,

grinning like an idiot, clearly waiting for some complimentary reaction to his food.

“Go away,” said Udo, and the pudgy innkeeper nodded and stuttered before

moving back behind the bar. Udo saw him cuff a servant hard over the back of the

head.

“Out of the way!” he heard Fiedler shout, which got a laugh from some of the

customers. The servant was clearly a simpleton, his head tilted to the side and his jaw

slack. As he shuffled out of the way of his master, Udo saw that one of his legs was

twisted awkwardly beneath him, giving him an ungainly loping gait.

Grunwald ate his fill, dipping the bread into the steaming slop, which wasn’t as

bad as it looked, though he could not identify the chunks of meat in it. It was

probably best that he didn’t know, he decided.

Upon the completion of his meal, the simpleton came to collect his plate, limping

through the press of people. He lifted Udo’s used plate, his fleshy tongue protruding

from the side of his mouth in concentration. In an instant, Fiedler was at his side, and

he cuffed the servant over the head again, swearing at him, and took the plate from

his hands.

“I’m sorry about that, sir, he’s not right in the head and shouldn’t be bothering

you,” he said apologetically.

“What is his name?” asked Grunwald.

“Otto. Idiot son of my dead sister,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially,

as if speaking to one who would understand his sentiments. “If he weren’t family he

would have been out on his arse years ago. Still might be, the way the useless cripple

carries on. Upsets the customers.” He chuckled to himself and nudged Udo. “And we

can’t be having customers the likes of you bein’ upset by the likes of him, family or

no.”

Grunwald looked into the eyes of the repugnant barkeeper. “Touch me one more

time and I will break your face,” he said quietly. Fiedler visibly paled. Ignoring him,

Grunwald addressed the servant cowering at the barkeeper’s side. “Thank you, Otto.”

The simpleton grinned at him broadly.

“Your presence repulses me, you foetid little man,” said Grunwald, addressing

Fiedler, who was still hovering at his side. He didn’t move away, however, and

Grunwald looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “Leave,” he said slowly and

menacingly. “Now!”

Udo sighed. He gained nothing by threatening the man except for spit or

something worse in his meal if he ever ate here again. But he wouldn’t be eating here

again—he would leave before dawn, and would eat on the road. He still had some

way to travel, and the sooner he was away from here the better. Briefly he considered

29

taking his money back and leaving, to sleep rough on the road, but the promise of a

pallet was too enticing, even if it was in a hovel such as the Hanging Donkey.

Grunwald had just decided to turn in early when a ruckus erupted across the

room. A patron’s head was slammed into a table, breaking his nose and leaving a

smear of blood on the wood.

“We don’t want your type round here no more,” shouted a burly, drunk local,

lifting the dazed man roughly to his feet. The thug’s friends tried to calm him down,

but he shook off their hands angrily.

“No!” bellowed the drunk, and he rocked on his heels, unsteady with drink. He

slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, and he folded under the force of the blow,

falling to the ground.

“Now Rikard, that’s enough,” said Fiedler, approaching the drunk with his

sweating hands held out before him.

“S’alright for you,” slurred the drunk. “You are gettin’ fat off the money of all

these travellers. But not me,” he said, tapping himself on the chest. “They come

here—any one of ’em could be bringin’ plague. Shouldn’t be allowed here anymore,

I say!”

A hearty, drunken cheer from more than half the patrons in the bar followed this

pronouncement. The travellers, many sitting with their wives and children as they

fled the ravages of plague and war, looked around nervously, feeling the hostility

within the room directed towards them. Heartened, the drunken local thug kicked the

downed man hard in the face.

“I say make a stand—make sure there won’t be no one passing through here ’til

the plague is long gone,” he bellowed, to another hearty cheer. He emphasised his

point by kicking the fallen man again.

“Now Rikard, I think you’ve had enough for one night. Go home and sleep it off,

eh?” said Fiedler, taking another wary step towards the swaying thug. The drunkard

rumbled at his belt and drew a short-bladed knife, which he levelled at the

barkeeper’s throat.

“Keep back with you, or I’ll gut you like the swine you are, Fiedler,” he snarled.

He nodded his head towards the fallen man. “I’m gonna string this bastard up.

Word’ll spread, and there won’t be any more damn outsiders passin’ through. Pick

him up,” he barked to his friends. They immediately lifted the near unconscious man,

and followed the drunkard as he stomped outside.

There were scattered cheers, and the sound of chairs being pushed back as more

patrons rose to follow the thuggish trio, clearly wanting to witness the outcome of the

confrontation.

Udo sighed and stood up. He pressed a coin into the malformed hand of the

simpleton servant, Otto. “Don’t let anyone touch my crossbow,” he said. “And don’t

tell your uncle that I gave you this coin,” he added. Otto grinned at him, and Udo

stalked through the packed inn, pushing people out of his way as he followed the

crowd.

Outside, the beaten man was on his knees in the middle of the street.

“Please, Sigmar no!” he pleaded, tears and blood running down his face. “I am

travelling to my wife and child in Averheim! I sent them on ahead! If you kill me,

you kill them too! Please, you cannot do this!”

30

Ignoring his pleas, the drunkard grabbed the man by his hair, pulling his head

back for the killing blow. The crowd roared for blood.

Pushing people roughly out of his way, Udo stalked into the centre of the circle.

“Kill that man and you die next,” he said. His voice was not loud, but he spoke

with such authority and menace that it gave the villagers pause. Grunwald had drawn

one of his ornate, embossed pistols and it was levelled at the drunken would-be

murderer’s head. The roaring died down, and the fallen man looked up at him,

desperate hope in his eyes.

“Who is this?” snarled the drunk, gesturing with his knife towards the dark clad

figure of Grunwald, eyes trying to focus on the barrel of the gun pointed at him.

“Grunwald,” he said loudly, his deep voice pitched perfectly to carry to all those

crowded around. His next words were said slowly and clearly, so that none could

mistake them. “Udo Grunwald, witch hunter of the Temple of Sigmar.” There was

sudden silence, and several within the crowd began to inch away from him. “And I

say again—you kill that man and you will die next. I promise you that.”

Blinking his eyes heavily, the drunk glanced at the crowd around him. His

motives were easily read—he was gauging the crowd’s reaction, trying to judge if

they would tackle the witch hunter if things got more serious. He looked once more

at the pistol held before him, and he spat a thick ball of phlegm onto the ground at

Grunwald’s feet before sheathing his knife.

“This ’aint over,” he snarled, and turned and stomped unsteadily away. He made

to kick the fallen man once more as he left, and smirked as the beaten man flinched.

The crowd rapidly dissipated. Grunwald was soon left alone bar the bruised man who

was thanking him through his tears. He was surprised to see the dwarf Thorrik

standing a few paces away, his axe in his hands.

“Thought I was going to have to come to your aid this time round,” he said, his

voice grave.

“Glad they saw sense and it was not needed,” said Grunwald darkly.

“Bah. That manling had murder in his eyes. Though I think he saw the sense in

not arguing with a loaded gun—even if it is a shoddy weapon made by the clumsy

hands of men.”

Grunwald snorted. “Come,” he said, as the pair walked back to the inn, helping

the wounded man inside. “I’ll buy you a drink.”

They saw Fiedler standing in the door of the inn, wringing his hands nervously.

“See that this man is taken to a room and his wounds tended to. If he is not well

cared for, I will hold you personally responsible,” Udo said to him. The barkeeper’s

face was pale, but he nodded, and helped the man inside.

“Repugnant little troll,” commented Thorrik, his face curled as if he had stepped

in something unpleasant.

“A bit unfair, perhaps,” said Grunwald mildly. “On trolls, I mean.”

The dwarf looked seriously at Udo for a moment before his eyes creased with

humour, and he gave a throaty chuckle.

“Aye,” he said. “You may be right.”

Annaliese stopped to rest for a moment, leaning her hand against a tree, her

breath ragged. Though it was freezing cold, she was sweating inside her heavy, fur-

31

lined coat. She stared up the steep incline to where the elf stood, his face turned back

towards her. He beckoned sharply for her to continue, and she steeled herself for the

climb.

She had always prided herself on her physical fitness. She regularly did fourteen-

hour shifts at the Golden Wheatsheaf and was on her feet all day, carrying trays of

food back and forth from the kitchen and clearing up at the day’s end, but she had

never been more exhausted than over the past two days. She knew the elf was

frustrated at the pace they were travelling. His stamina was astounding—she would

not have been surprised if he was able to run for days without slowing. He also

moved with unnerving silence, and she had been startled on several occasions by him

appearing at her side while she thought she had been alone.

She had no idea where the elf was leading her, but he was insistent, and seemed

to know exactly where he was going. It seemed that he could not, or would not, speak

a word of Reikspiel, and though she had questioned him as to their destination,

silence was his only response.

They were passing deeper into the Westenholz than Annaliese had ever ventured,

and in truth perhaps they were already beyond that wood and into unknown territory.

These woods were dangerous, a refuge for brigands, wild beasts and worse.

She thought back to the words of the village warden, who had said that this elf

was one of the murderers of the family on the road. Was she his captive now? He had

not bound her arms, and indeed he had saved her from the mutant back in the village.

She shivered. Everything that had happened to her seemed unreal, like a nightmare.

But it was all too real.

For a night and a day they had been travelling together in silence, the elf’s

impatience clear on his inhuman face. Still, he allowed her to stop and rest when she

needed it, and he gave her food—strange, savoury flat cakes that stemmed her hunger

instantly.

Was she his slave now? Would he take advantage of her once he deemed them far

enough away from the village, and beyond pursuit? She had decided that she would

not sleep the previous night at all—she would wait until the elf was asleep, and she

would escape from him. That plan had come to nothing, for she had dropped into a

deep and fitful sleep. She had been plagued by horrible dreams—she saw her father’s

face, twisted and grinning, burning blue orbs where his eyes should have been. When

she had finally woken, the elf was already up and waiting for her. Tonight, she

thought. Tonight I will escape from him. Having caught her breath, she began

clambering up the incline, slipping in the dark, moist earth, the muscles of her legs

burning. Drawing near the pale-skinned elf she raised her gaze to meet his, her eyes

defiant. His hard, cold, lavender eyes held hers for a moment before he indicated for

her to continue up the incline with a quick nod of his pointed chin.

He was tall, taller even than her father had been, though he was inhumanly

slender. But not weak, she decided. No, he was far from weak. He was lean and

sinewy, like a rangy wolf, and his every move was perfectly balanced and elegant.

There was a harshness to him that made every movement he made seem fuelled by

bitterness, and she often jumped at his swift, sharp movements.

Dressed in soft, grey leather, he wore a pair of thin, empty scabbards strapped to

his thighs. Over his back were two empty quivers. The soldiers had clearly taken his

32

weapons away from him. Still, he did not seem any less dangerous for being

unarmed.

His eyes seemed to mock her, to speak of her frailty. Annaliese was determined

not to show weakness in front of him.

With her head held high, she moved past him and continued climbing the hill,

trying to ignore the pain in her legs.

She rose over the incline and began to move along the ridge. Lost in her own

misery, she walked for some time before she felt a hand upon her shoulder. She

gasped involuntarily.

It was the elf, of course, and Annaliese cursed herself for showing her fear.

He pointed into the undergrowth, but she couldn’t see anything. She shrugged,

furrowing her brow, and the elf gave a slight, disdainful shake of his head, and

indicated for her to follow him.

They moved some thirty yards through the ferns towards an ancient and contorted

oak tree, where the elf halted. He swept off his long grey cloak in a quick movement

and threw it over a low-hanging branch, fixing it there with simple leather ties. He

pinned the corners of the cloak into the ground, using twigs a makeshift pegs. It had

taken only seconds, but he had constructed a basic, yet highly effective one-man

shelter. He indicated for her to sit beneath the cloak; but she stayed where she was

standing, glaring at him, After a moment, he shrugged his shoulders, and pulled the

twig-pegs from the moist soil and swung the cloak back over his shoulder. He pulled

the hood over his head, so that his face was all but hidden in it depths, his eyes

glittering.

A moment later it began to sleet, icy rain coming down in sheets. The water

slipped off the elf’s hood like oil, and Annaliese pulled her coat around her tighter.

She thought she saw a hint of amusement in the eyes of the elf, and she lifted her

head high, her mouth set in a grim line.

The elf stabbed a finger towards her, then at the ground. He was telling her to

stay here. He repeated the action, and she nodded her head.

Then he was gone, slipping away into the trees like a shadow. In an instant he had

disappeared.

This was her chance to escape, she knew. But she had no idea where she was, and

if there were more of those monsters lurking nearby. These dense woods were rife

with outlaws and killers. There were even some who claimed to have seen hulking

creatures here with horns sprouting from their bestial heads and walking like men,

but upon cloven hooves. In stories she had heard as a child these woods were haunted

by the shades of the criminals hung on its outskirts, and that they walked amongst the

trees in the dead of night, seeking the living. Her childhood fears rose within her.

If she died out here no one would mourn her.

She shivered again, and crouched down in the lee of the twisted oak tree, trying

to get out of the biting wind and relentless sleet. She pulled her hands within the

sleeves of her coat to warm them. She realised that she had nowhere to run. Tears ran

down her face, invisible against the icy sleet.

How had she come to be in this situation, she wondered? Her legs were stiff and

sore and she sat down on a twisted root, uncaring of the mud. She pushed herself

33

back against the tree and hugged herself tightly. Despite the wind, the sleet lashing

the tree and the uncomfortable position she was in, she fell asleep within moments.

Annaliese woke to the delicious aroma of cooking meat. The wind and rain had

stopped, and dusk had fallen.

She sat up. She was aching from the awkward position she had slept in. Standing,

she stretched like a cat, loosening her cold, cramped muscles. She saw the elf tending

a small, smokeless fire-pit dug into the earth. He was cooking what looked like a pair

of spherical shaped green objects, but the smell coming from them was divine.

Rolling them from the fire, the elf moved them skilfully onto a pair of flat stones

with sticks.

He gestured for her to approach, and she did so cautiously. He placed one of the

flat stones at Annaliese’s side, then sat himself back down across from her on the

other side of the small, glowing fire-pit.

She took a seat on a fallen log, and looked at her meal, intrigued. Glancing over

the glowing embers, she watched as the elf deftly prized the greenery away with one

hand and a stick. A whoosh of steam rose from within. Feeling her looking at him,

his almond-shaped eyes rose, and she hastily dropped her gaze to the meal in front of

her.

She saw the green ball was a series of leaves carefully woven together and

overlapped to form a spherical container. It was beautiful in its simplicity and the

obvious care that had gone into it. With her hand and a stick she opened it up, trying

to emulate the elf’s deft movements, and steam billowed from within. It brought with

it the aroma of rabbit and all manner of herbs, many that she did not recognise.

Her stomach groaned loudly, but she hesitated. The elf was picking at his food

delicately, watching her. What if it was poisoned, she thought? Then you will be

dead, but at least you will die with warm food in your belly, she answered herself.

She tried a piece of rabbit tentatively. It was exquisite, and she smiled shyly to

the elf before eating her meal hungrily. The elf regarded her coldly. She didn’t care.

Afterwards she realised that she must have appeared like some ravenous

barbarian thanks to the speed that she devoured the delicious meal. As she licked her

fingers, she found herself staring over the glowing embers at the elf.

Long and black, his hair was drawn over his head and pulled into a tight ponytail,

and there was a thin black tattoo upon his cheek. It showed an alien symbol of

curling lines and elegantly tapered flourishes. It was beautiful and powerful, and she

wondered what it signified. The elf ate his food slowly, delicately picking at the

pieces with his long, pale fingers that for some reason reminded her of the legs of

spiders—delicate, their movements measured, concealing their deadly power.

Annaliese looked away quickly. There was something chilling about him. She

was fearful of him, of that there was no doubt; everything about him was just so…

inhuman.

Still, despite her fear, she was curious.

“I—” began Annaliese, realising that she had no idea what to say to him. “I don’t

think you can understand me,” she said. He stared at her blankly.

34

“Did you kill that family? Did you murder those poor little girls?” she said. “And

are you going to kill me as well?”

The elf shrugged his shoulders and stood, moving around the campfire towards

her. She recoiled back away from him. He squatted down in front of her, and held out

his hands. Looking down, she saw that he was offering her his meal—he had not

eaten it all. She felt foolish suddenly, and a blush rose over her lightly freckled face.

She shook her head. He offered her his meal again, his face emotionless, and this

time she accepted it. She touched his hands as she took it from him—though they

looked as cold and hard as the whitest marble, they were warm and soft.

She blushed again, and began to eat as he moved away. After she had finished

this second meal, she tried talking to him again.

“Thank you for the meal,” she said. She felt somewhat foolish talking to this

silent, aloof figure—it was like talking to a blank stone wall. But she was determined

to attempt to communicate. His impassive, ghostly white face gave away not a hint of

what he was thinking.

She tapped herself on the chest. “Annaliese, Annaliese,” she repeated. Then she

pointed at him and raised her eyebrows questioningly. He made no movement,

merely continued staring at her with his lavender eyes.

“Annaliese,” she said once again, tapping herself on the chest. She pointed at him

again and made a questioning motion. He probably thinks I have lost my mind, she

thought. He stared at her for a moment longer, and began to turn away.

He turned back briefly, and tapped himself on the chest, “Eldanair Lathalos ath

Laralemenos lo Nagarythe,” he breathed in a carefully enunciated voice, the words

clipped and spoken quickly.

Annaliese stared at him. She didn’t catch any of what he had just said, and it was

clear on her face.

The elf blinked, then spoke more slowly, tapping his chest.

“Eldanair,” he said, then turned his back on her.

“Eldanair,” said Annaliese quietly to herself, listening to the sound of the name as

it rolled off her tongue. The way she said it didn’t sound quite how the elf had spoken

it, but at least she now knew his name. It was a start.

35

CHAPTER FIVE

The darkened cellar was a bloodbath.

Men lay strewn upon the rough cobbled floor, moaning in agony as their

lifeblood leaked from fatal wounds. The stench of the dead and dying was

overpowering. There were shouts and curses, the ringing of steel upon steel, and the

sickening, wet, meaty sound of swords cleaving flesh.

A thunderous voice rose above the din.

“No clemency! Let none leave here alive!”

More soldiers pounded down the stairs, swords drawn. They wore the black,

slashed doublets of Nuln, and carried swords and bucklers—their more traditional

halberds would have been next to useless in the confined space.

The enemy were not hard to discern amongst the frantic melee, for they wore

long silken robes of blues, yellows and purples. They had drawn weapons of their

own, and once they realised that there was to be no escape, they fought with a frenzy

and lack of self-preservation that was off-putting, even to the battle-hardened of the

state soldiers—they fought rabid, cornered animals.

“Grunwald! To me!” came the booming voice.

The burly, unshaven sergeant loosed a shaft from his crossbow. It punched

through the forehead of one of the coven members who fell to his back, dead.

“You heard the man,” Udo Grunwald roared, hurling the crossbow to the side and

pulling his heavy, flanged mace from his belt. “Push forward! We end this now!”

With a roar, he led a group of black-clad soldiers into the fray. He swatted a blade

away from him with his heavy weapon and smashed the mace-head into a cultist’s

face with his return blow, shattering his lower jaw in a spray of blood and teeth.

Another fell, a sword piercing his stomach, and Grunwald kicked him savagely in

the head as he went down. A blade slashed across his shoulder and he grimaced in

pain, and brained his attacker, the ridge edges of his heavy mace shattering the skull.

He heard a string of shouted words; phrases yelled in a language that he didn’t

know.

Hissing against the pain in his shoulder, Grunwald, saw the towering, black-

cloaked figure of the witch hunter Stoebar battling against a trio of assailants,

consummate swordsman, his sabre flashed out, slicing open the throat of the first, and

whipped back quickly enough to block a lethal cut from another foe that would have

disembowelled him.

“With me!” shouted Grunwald, and pushed his way through the press of bodies

towards the witch hunter, his mace crushing shoulders and breaking limbs.

The soldier to his left died as a spear was thrust into his throat, and another to his

right was dropped as a knife plunged into his thigh. Still, the weight of the soldiers

36

smashed the snarling cultists aside, clubbing them to the ground and plunging swords

into their prone forms.

A wave of revulsion and nausea washed over them, and Grunwald staggered. He

heard a voice chanting in an unholy language, and he felt his stomach contract tightly

and painfully.

Again the witch hunter’s voice sounded out.

“Sigmar, lend us strength!”

Grunwald felt the pain within him lessen, and he opened his tightly clenched eyes

to see a figure standing on a dais, arms raised over its head as its chant reached a

crescendo.

The witch hunter Stoebar cut down the last of his opponents and leapt up the

stairs towards the figure, and Grunwald staggered after him.

With a shout that hurt the eardrums with its intensity, the figure completed the

incantation and dropped his arms to his side. A high collar of iridescent feathers

framed the zealot’s lowered head. Naked to the waist, swirling blue patterns had been

painstakingly etched onto his skin. Grunwald saw the twisted patterns begin to move,

rotating in circular motions, weaving new patterns and symbols upon the zealot’s

flesh.

With a roar of pure hatred and loathing, Stoebar raised his long bladed sabre over

his shoulder as he drew near the coven leader, and the sword flashed out to open the

throat of the motionless figure.

Throughout the basement, the last of the cultists were hacked down, and the state

soldiers of Nuln closed in towards the dais, gripping their bloody weapons tightly as

they watched the fateful blow fall.

Half a foot before the blade struck flesh the blow was halted. In mid-air the witch

hunter’s blade stopped, and he gasped as he strained to complete the killing strike.

The zealot raised its head then, blue fire flickering in its eyes and a smile upon its

lips.

The air around the sorcerer seemed to ripple as if with a wave of intense heat, and

his flesh bulged unnaturally, as if things within were trying to escape as line of

backwards curving barbs pushed through the skin of his forearms, forming a deadly

ridge of horns and his hands extended into long, cruel talons, like those of some

mutated eagle. Mouths screaming in obscene languages opened up all over the

zealot’s body, ripping through muscle and flesh. Some were filled with needle-like

teeth and long, sinuous tongue tipped with thorns, while others were little more than

bony beaks filled with tiny, barbed teeth.

Stoebar seemed unable to move, and the creature reached forwards, gripping him

by the shoulders. Blood welled where the daemon-possessed zealot’s talons bit into

his flesh, and it drew him closer to its hideous, maddening form.

Then, merely by willing it so, the Chaos abomination ripped the witch hunter’s

chest open. As if unseen knives slashed him, the clothes and armour of the witch

hunter were slashed dozens of times, and the flesh was turned to bloody tatters. Ribs

were snapped as his rib cage was pulled back by invisible hands, exposing the

pulsing organs within. His heart exploded messily, and the dead witch hunter was

hurled across the room away from the daemonically possessed zealot, landing in a

wet, bloody heap at Grunwald’s feat.

37

The daemon’s eyes blazed with fire, and it opened its mouth wide, lips pulling

back to expose a double set of sharpened teeth. It lifted one pale taloned hand before

it and it began to glow with burning light, as if the fires of the sun were building

within its flesh.

Grunwald reached down and grabbed the icon of Sigmar wrapped around the

dead witch hunter’s hand—a bronze symbol depicting Sigmar’s holy hammer, Ghal

Maraz. It was burning hot to the touch. He held it aloft by its chain, and he felt the

heat radiated by the holy symbol increase tenfold. Blinding light spilled from the

hammer icon as Grunwald cried out to the warrior god for aid.

But this is where his dream took a path divergent to what had occurred that night.

Five years earlier, the creature had been driven back by the symbol, buying time for

the soldiers to surge forwards and kill the daemon’s earthly body, sending it

screaming back to its own plane of existence.

But not tonight.

No, in Grunwald’s dream the daemon merely laughed at him, mocking his pitiful,

weak faith. It killed until Grunwald alone was left alive and frozen in place. And then

the daemon began to tear at his skin with invisible claws. He felt his ribcage being

pulled open, and heard the first cracks as the bones snapped…

He awoke, gasping, sitting upright in his sweat-soaked bed. The pain in his chest

lingered for a foment.

That was when he noticed the smoke. Swearing, he leapt up, throwing off the

sheets, crossed to his door quickly, unbolting it and throw it wide. He stepped out

onto the internal balcony above the bar. Smoke was thick, and he could see t glow of

flames.

“Fire!” he roared. In his past life, before he became witch hunter, he had been a

sergeant in the state army of Nuln, and he was well used to shouting loud enough and

with enough authority for his orders to be heard and obeyed over the din of battle.

“Fire!” he roared again, and people began to stumble from their bedrooms.

He saw Thorrik kick his door open violently. The dwarf was wearing his armour

and brandished his axe in one hand, while his shield was on his other arm. Grunwald

ran back into his room, and hastily pull on his boots and hitched his belt around his

waist, feeling instantly more in control with his weapons at his side. He scooped up

his belongings in his arms and quickly left the room. All the rooms were being

vacated now, and there were screams and wails from the people trying to flee the

rising inferno. The heat and smoke made him light headed. He saw the terrified, pale

face of Fiedler as the plump man ran past him, dressed in his nightclothes. Stumbling

out of the front door, the occupants spilled out into the cold, Grunwald and Thorrik

amongst them. The Hanging Donkey was ablaze, flame leaping high up the old,

leaning structure. Several people were making ineffective attempts to stem the blaze-

throwing pails of water against the wood, and beating the flames with blankets.

There was a group of men standing in the main street out front, flaming brands

held in their hands. The drunkard who Grunwald had stopped from killing the

innocent man earlier that night stood in the middle of the group, knife in one hand

and a burning torch in the other. It was clear that the men had continued drinking and

now they had drunk themselves enough courage to return and finish what they had

started, Grunwald surmised.

38

“What have you done?” wailed Fiedler.

“Shut up, worm,” shouted one of the men. “It’s your damned inn that is bringing

people here!”

“Bring him to me!” shouted the instigator of this violence. “I’ve come to finish

what I started!”

Grunwald, the braces of his trousers hanging by his sides and his undershirt

unbuttoned and exposing his heavily scarred upper body, stalked towards the group,

his square jaw jutting forwards.

At ten paces he drew his pistol from the holster on his belt and without a word

shot the troublemaker in the head. The sound of the pistol was deafening, and blood,

bits of skull and brain splattered over the gathered drunk locals, who stood frozen in

shock.

Grunwald holstered the smoking pistol and drew his heavy-headed mace, facing

off against the remaining ten men.

“You bastard!” snarled one of them, a young man Udo recognised from earlier in

the night. He hurled his flaming brand at the witch hunter, and ran forwards with his

knife drawn.

Grunwald swayed out of the brand’s path and stepped in to meet the man. With a

deft side step he avoided the man’s drunken, clumsy blow and smashed his mace into

his head, dropping him without a sound. The others hefted their own weapons, their

faces angry and dark, and Udo realised that he was in some serious trouble. A gruff,

rumbling voice halted the men before they could launch their attack.

“It’s a good day to die, manlings,” growled Thorrik, “Step forward and see if

your time has come.”

The dwarf stamped forward heavily to stand at Grunwald’s side, and the witch

hunter saw that he was fully decked out in his armour as if ready for war. He held his

heavy, circular metal shield over his left arm, and his head was completely enclosed

in a helmet shaped and worked to represent a stylised dwarf face. His eyes glittered

dangerously within, and his heavy, short-handled axe was held over his shoulder

ready to hack at the first man that came within range.

He looked absolutely impervious to harm, for there was not a single inch of

exposed flesh on him. Udo had to admit he was an intimidating presence, despite his

height. The men stood rooted to the spot, indecision cleat on their faces. None of

them wanted to die here. He sensed the change in mood coming over them.

“You two,” he barked, pointing sharply at a pair of men, making them jump.

“Pick up your friend here and take him home. He is alive, but his skull may be

fractured. And you two,” he said, pointing to another pair, “see that your dead friend

is buried. The rest of you, go and help fight those fires.”

His voice was commanding, brooking no argument and the men responded

instantly, the fight having evaporated from them completely.

“Beardlings,” scoffed Thorrik, his voice muffle behind the thick metal of his full-

face helm.

“Indeed,” said Grunwald, judging it was an insult by the tone of the dwarf’s

voice. He walked back towards where he had placed his possessions, shortening his

39

strides to allow the dwarf to walk alongside him, clanking in his heavy armour. He

buttoned up his undershirt and pulled his braces over his broad shoulders.

The villagers were battling the flames, though it was impossible to tell if they

were winning. Udo saw the barkeeper wringing his hands and hopping from foot to

foot, doing little to help.

The pair aided the villagers, Grunwald organising them into worker teams to

more efficiently tackle the blaze, and as the dawn began to light the sky, the last of

the fire was put out. It had gutted the kitchen and a good portion of the common area,

and the exterior was blackened, but the structure was more or less intact, though it

would doubtless need months of work.

Grunwald’s face was blackened with soot. He approached Thorrik as he sat on

the stoop smoking his pipe. “I’m leaving,” he said.

“Aye, sounds like a plan. I’ve had my fill of this stinking place.” He glared up at

the fire-blackened inn. “That’s what comes of building with wood,” he remarked.

“Only thing wood is good for is burning. Build something out of stone and it will

stand for generations.”

“I can see the merit in that,” said Grunwald.

“I don’t understand you humans, you know,” said the dwarf, looking up at the

brightening sky.

“Oh?”

“Your Empire is at war, and your people are suffering from starvation and

plague. And yet still you fight amongst yourselves. Have you no honour?”

Grunwald thought about this for a moment and shrugged his shoulders. “Precious

little these days, seems. Still, don’t judge us all by the actions of the weak and

cowardly.”

“I don’t understand you humans,” said Thorrik. “I’m not sure that I ever will—

and I will be glad of that.”

He stood up, and ensured that his pack was tightly secured. With dutiful care, he

tightened the leather straps that held the long, oilskin wrapped object upon the pack,

and tied his shield protectively over it.

“What is that you carry?” asked Udo as the dwarf hefted the heavy looking pack

to his broad shoulders.

“Never you mind,” said the dwarf brusquely, shoving his helmet over his head.

“Always wanting to know everyone else’s business, you humans,” came his voice,

muffled behind the thick metal of his helm. Udo noted that the helmet even had a

stylised metal moustache upon it. The helmet alone must have been worth a fortune,

with all the intricate, bronze-gilt knotwork around its rim, let alone his entire set of

armour.

Udo shrugged again, and Thorrik began to walk away, each heavy footstep

leaving a deep impression in the muddy ground. He walked ten paces before he

paused and turned back towards the witch hunter.

“Where you headed?” he said gruffly.

“I am returning to my temple, to seek the counsel of my superior. Near Black Fire

Pass.”

The dwarf huffed in response.

40

“Well, come on then,” he said eventually. “I’m heading to Black Fire myself.”

Eldanair knelt in the undergrowth. He placed a hand to the ground, carefully and

precisely reading the sign for even a trained woodsman there would be nothing here

to see, but to the elf the ground was like an open book, and he could read its stories

effortlessly. Those that had left the tracks were not unskilled—indeed they displayed

a skill that he found surprising this far from Ulthuan. No human could move through

woodland and leave such a faint trail of its passing, and his unease grew. This was

not the mark of one of his party, and he knew of no other Asur moving through this

area, but he could not shake the belief that this was the spoor of one of his kin.

Unconsciously, he brushed a wisp of long, dark hair behind one of his pointed ears,

his eyebrows drawn together in thought upon his ivory forehead.

The human woman, Annaliese, stood behind him, watching him with interest.

She showed spirit, this woman, though to his eyes her movements were painfully

clumsy, slow and noisy. She had slowed his progress considerably, but he had bound

himself to see her safe. And the safest place for her now was with his kin. The seer

would know best what to do with her.

He moved on, picking his way silently through the trees. He paused again,

touching his fingers to the cold earth. He lifted them to his nose, sniffing delicately.

His concern grew.

These were not human tracks, he was sure of that now. Nor were they made by

any of the foul creatures that existed within the dark, foreboding forests that engulfed

the Empire.

Urging Annaliese to hurry, he began to run lightly trough the trees. Swift and

silent, he leapt over fallen logs and ducked beneath low hanging branches, leaving no

trace of his passing. Decades earlier he had mastered the art, and he now he did not

break even single blade of grass with his soft footfalls. None would be able to track

him.

The same could not be said for the human woman however. She crashed along

behind him, and he had to pause often so that she was not left behind. He shook his

head slightly at the noise she made as twigs and sticks cracked beneath her heavy

footfalls. He glanced back sharply, irritation and impatience flashing in his eyes, and

she looked up at him apologetically. It was unfair to blame her, he knew, but that

didn’t make it easier to accept her inept blundering.

For three hours he pushed on, allowing Annaliese little time to catch her breath.

He couldn’t explain to her what he feared these tracks portended, but she seemed to

understand his need for urgency. He was still confused by the tracks, but a deeply

unsettling feeling had settled in his stomach.

He cursed himself for a fool. If the elven patrol had been ambushed by enemies,

then he knew that he and he alone was to blame, and that he would carry the burden

upon his shoulders. If he had not gone to the aid of the human child, then none of this

would have happened.

His mind drifted back to the fateful events. The shame of his capture still cut him.

He had been scouting a wide range in front of the advancing senthanos. The

group had been made up of a dozen of the Asur, led by a powerful seer. Eldanair was

41

the scout for the senthanos, their Shadow Warrior, and it was his duty to ensure the

paths they travelled were clear of the enemy.

There had been a scream, the high-pitched cry of a child, and he had dropped to

his haunches among the low-lying ferns. The birds in the dark canopy far above had

gone silent, and there was no sound but the icy howl of the wind whipping through

the skeletal boughs of the trees, the creaking of branches that longed for the thaw to

come.

A second scream carried to him on the wind. Spitting a curse, he had risen from

his crouch and raced through the woodland towards the sound. To an onlooker, he

knew that he would have appeared as little more than a shadow as he ghosted through

the trees, moving at great speed.

What he had discovered had been sickening. It was the sight of a massacre.

Human bodies were strewn across the road, blood pooling beneath their still forms.

They had been savagely mutilated, and dozens of wounds covered each of the

corpses so that they were almost unrecognisable, little more than hacked-apart meat.

There were puncture wounds in most of the bodies, and Eldanair knew that that was

where arrows had been pulled from their flesh. Or crossbow bolts, he thought darkly.

The eyes of each corpse had been cut out, and by the evidence of the ripped open

chest cavities, it looked to Eldanair as if they had all had their hearts removed. Even

the mule hitched to the wagon had been killed, its throat slashed open and its eyes

torn from their sockets.

A girl, probably less than five human years old, was standing on the back of the

wagon, her face pale as she looked around at the devastation that had been wrought.

She must have hidden when the attack had come.

Eldanair had approached the girl, speaking soothingly, and she stared at him with

the frightened eyes of a doe, her body trembling. He approached slowly, and his

voice was soft and calming. He placed his bow down upon the ground, and walked

towards her his hands outstretched.

Her eyes flicked over his shoulder, and then she screamed again, loudly and

piercingly. He spun around to see a score of rough looking human soldiers moving

out of the trees to encircle him. He cursed. In his haste, he had not heard or smelt

their approach.

The men stared at the carnage with despair and outrage, their weapons levelled in

his direction. When they looked upon him again, he saw the hatred, the fear and the

anger written in their eyes.

He had lifted his hands up, showing he was unarmed, but they clubbed him to the

ground anyway, and had dragged him back their village. He hadn’t seen the little girl

again.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Eldanair motioned to Annaliese to halt, and to

be silent.

He ghosted up a rocky escarpment, crouching low to the ground. Nearing the top,

he dropped to his stomach and wormed his way to its edge. He was careful to keep

himself concealed amongst the wet ferns and not make any of them move, giving

away his position. What he saw below made his blood run cold. He had found his

companions. He had found the senthanos.

They were dead.

42

Their broken corpses lay strewn across the protected clearing, their white and

blue cloaks and robes torn and slashed, stained dark with blood. Sorrow, shock and

guilt fought for dominance within him, and he swallowed dryly.

He almost cried out when he saw the form of the seer, his slender frame hanging

against the trunk of a tree. Crude wooden nails had been hammered through his

wrists and ankles, and the robes had been torn from his chest. His ribs were splayed

open, exposing his internal organs, and his heart was missing. By the look of agony

on the dead seer’s face, Eldanair guessed that his death had not been quick.

The human woman, Annaliese, had crawled up beside him, and her eyes widened

in horror as she looked down upon the sight of the massacre. Her mouth opened to

scream, but Eldanair clamped his hand over it tightly, holding her firmly in his arms.

His eyes were locked on a shadow on the far side of the clearing.

The shadow was moving, so slowly at first that it was almost impossible to

discern. But Eldanair’s eyes were far keener than the eyes of a human, and he could

see the movement, even if Annaliese could not.

It was a slim figure, clad from head to toe in black, and it wore the darkness

around it like a cloak. Shadows seemed to follow it, clinging to its rangy form like

living creatures, and every muscle in Eldanair’s body tensed with a deep and all-

consuming hatred.

The black clad figure stepped gingerly over the corpses, turning its head from

side to side as if sniffing the air. Black cloth covered the lower part of its face, and a

deep black hood covered its head, but Eldanair caught a glimpse of the figure’s face,

and he burnt its visage into his memory.

The face was delicate and fine-boned, with high cheekbones that gave it an

arrogant and graceful appearance, and Eldanair saw that it was female. Her flesh was

as pale as his own, and her eyes were wide and cruelly, seductively curved. A small

crossbow was held in one hand, and he made out a teardrop tattoo beneath her left

eye before she turned away.

She dragged the concealing shadows with her as she left, and Eldanair cursed that

he did not have his bow to hand. It would have been so easy to have killed her then

and there. In an instant she had disappeared, melting into the darkness beneath the

trees, and Eldanair tensed himself to go after her, hatred and the need for vengeance

burning within him. He would hunt down and kill every one of the cursed murderers.

He glanced to his side and saw Annaliese’s eyes wide and filled with helplessness

and fear. To leave her was as good as a death sentence, and he cursed softly in elvish.

They lay unmoving for almost an hour before the elf deemed it safe to move from

their position.

His heart heavy with sorrow and grief, he climbed down towards the mutilated

bodies of his kin. Annaliese came down with him, tears in her eyes as she surveyed

the carnage.

She said something to him, but he didn’t know what her words meant.

Fixed in his mind’s eye was the face of his enemy.

“Druchii,” he said to himself, the word spat with such venom that Annaliese

looked at him sharply.

Dark elves were moving within the Empire.

43

CHAPTER SIX

Four days had passed since they had left the site of the massacre. Eldanair’s eyes

were dark and brooding, and despite their inability to communicate verbally,

Annaliese could see that a heavy burden weighed upon him.

If possible, he seemed even more distant, more cold and removed, than he had

done previously. Nevertheless, the bond between the two had certainly strengthened,

and Annaliese no longer feared him as she had done. She was convinced that he had

not been one of the murderers that slaughtered the poor family on the road, for it

seemed to her that the same killers were the ones to have set upon his own people.

Eldanair had worked tirelessly to give his people a simple burial. In shallow

graves he had arranged their bodies carefully, crossing their arms over their chests, to

death they looked ghostly and ethereal, yet at peace once Eldanair had cleaned away

the blood from their flesh, and covered their wounds with draped cloaks. Annaliese

was surprised to see that several of the party were female, yet garbed for war in the

same manner as their comrades. Their weapons and personal belongings were placed

alongside them, and the mourning elf had sung a soft, haunting song for them in the

moonlight. With Annaliese’s aid, he had gathered rocks and stones that he carefully

piled onto the graves, forming a dozen cairns spread in a semi circular arc that clearly

had some significance, though its meaning was unclear to her.

Tears had run down her face as Eldanair bid his comrades farewell, speaking

quietly in his lilting, lyrical tongue. Though she could not understand his words, there

was a deep and profound sadness about them.

Eldanair had armed himself, whispering to the fallen as he took up the weapons.

A powerful recurving longbow of pale wood was now never far from his hands, and a

slender longsword and matching knife were sheathed at his side.

Annaliese had felt honoured and moved as the elf had solemnly presented her

with a weapon from one of his fallen kin—a slim-bladed shortsword of beautiful

artistry. It was surprisingly light in her hands, and the blade was so thin that at first

she thought it would shatter with any solid blow. It was far stronger than it looked—

indeed, she now believed that it was far stronger than any of the broad, heavy blades

that her father had on the walls of their cabin. Perfectly balanced, it felt comfortable

in her hand. Even its scabbard was a work of art—simple and functional, yet highly

elegant.

She longed to question Eldanair, about his people and about the murderous figure

cloaked in shadows that she had glimpsed. It had not been human, she knew that

much, for it moved with a sinister grace that human could replicate. It moved, she

noted, in the same way that Eldanair did, though the sheer malice and hatred the

creature had exuded had been palpable. Being unable to communicate was proving

44

frustrating, though the elf seemed content to remain in silence, lost in his own

brooding, grim thoughts.

Annaliese was unsure of exactly where they currently were, but she guessed that

they were nearing the border of Averland and Wissenland, heading towards the

Upper Reik that divided the two states. It was the furthest she had ever been from her

home, and it made her simultaneously scared and excited. Where Eldanair was now

leading her was beyond her, and she wondered if he even had a destination in mind.

Earlier he had been focused on escorting her to the camp of his kin, but now she did

not know where he was taking her, and his movements lacked the urgency that had

previously marked their travel. She could sense that he wanted to go after the

shadow-cloaked figure, doubtlessly to enact his vengeance, and he was clearly in two

minds. Sometimes she found him staring at her, with eyes angry and full of pain.

She wondered if he was taking her to a place of safety, to free himself of the

burden of her presence. In honesty she could not guess at his thoughts, for he gave

little away, and his ways, she reminded herself, were alien.

They travelled through woodland when they could, thought this was not always

possible, for these lands had long been dedicated to farming, and great expanses of

trees had been felled generations earlier. The great forests that swathed most of the

Empire were far to the north-west, and even the densest woodland in the south-

eastern states was utterly unlike the claustrophobic, dark and dangerous Drakwald.

Eldanair was clearly uncomfortable travelling across the open fields, though they

saw few people, and those were far away and easily avoided. They came across many

abandoned farmsteads, and passed through icy fields that had long been neglected

and left to ruin.

They paused to eat beside a natural spring. She guessed it was around midday,

though it was hard to judge—heavy clouds threatened overhead, making the light

dim and gloomy, and thunder rumbled ominously.

They ate a simple meal of berries and mushrooms they had collected while

travelling. Eldanair pointed out edible foods as they passed, as well as indicating

which mushrooms and toadstools were poisonous. Where she had viewed the snow-

covered land as lacking in nourishment, she now realised that there was abundant

food all around if you knew where to look. They drank from the spring, the mineral

laden water tasting slightly metallic but not unpleasant.

After they had eaten, Annaliese slid her thin, elven blade from its scabbard. The

metal was bluish-silver, without a hint of tarnish, and she held it reverently in her

hands, savouring its weight. Eldanair motioned for her to stand, and she did so

warily, sword in hand. He unclasped his flowing grey cloak and placed it on the

ground before drawing his own blade and stepped backwards to give them some

room. With a nod, he made an overly slow attack towards her.

She parried the blow with an overhead defence, as her father had taught her, and

gave a swift riposte, smoothly he parried the blow with a deft flick of his wrist, and

he nodded at her, seeing that she had at least some skill. She felt a sudden need to

impress the silent elf, and she whipped another attack towards him, rowing more

weight and speed behind it.

He stepped swiftly to the side and angled her blade away from him. She

stumbled, off balance, and she felt a flush creep over her face. He had been so

45

balanced and swift. Frustrated and embarrassed she attacked again, her sword cutting

left and right.

Eldanair’s blade moved like liquid silver, darting back and forth, effortlessly

deflecting her increasingly powerful blows, and the sound of steel on steel rang out

sharply as each strike was turned away. He was not launching any attacks of his own,

and Annaliese felt her frustration grow. She pulled her arm back to launch a yet

fiercer attack, but Eldanair stepped away from her, raising his hand, a slight smile

curling the corner of his lips.

Feeling foolish, she dropped her arm, breathing heavily. Eldanair walked to stand

by her side and raised his sword into a defensive ready position before him. He

nodded to Annaliese. When she didn’t understand his meaning, he motioned more

emphatically for her to raise her own weapon into the same position.

He ran through a series of strikes, correcting her technique and posture as she

tried to emulate his crisp, sharp movements. He massaged her shoulders for a second,

motioning to her to relax. She felt awkward, and the blush returned to her face.

Eldanair imitated her, swinging his sword in a wild arc, putting too much power

into the blow and stumbling theatrically off balance. Annaliese’s mouth opened in

mock indignation.

“I don’t look like that,” she said, half insulted and half laughing. Eldanair nodded

at her.

“Right, well show me how to move like you, all balanced and everything.” She

knew he could not understand, but it felt strange to her to remain in silence.

They practised for over an hour until Annaliese’s arm felt like a leaden weight.

Still, she had begun to feel more comfortable with the sword, that her movements

were a little more controlled and sharp. She was now acutely aware that it would take

her many years of practice to be classed as a decent swordswoman. She had been

humbled, for she had regarded herself as at least competent with the blade, but that

fact was now doubtful, she realised. She blew a strand of hair away from her face,

and smiled broadly at Eldanair.

“Thank you,” she said, as she sheathed her blade. She collapsed onto the ground

in mock exhaustion.

When she opened her eyes she saw Eldanair standing looking into the distance,

his posture alert and his expression intense.

“What is it?” she said, sitting up. Eldanair held up a hand for silence and cocked

his head to the side, listening intently. Annaliese could hear nothing but the gentle

babbling of the spring. The light had dimmed further, so that it resembled the

shadowy half-light after sunset.

Tense and cold, his eyes hard, Eldanair urged Annaliese to her feet swiftly,

speaking sharply, and he led her quickly to the east, climbing the gentle rise away

from the spring.

A distant horn sounded, and Eldanair broke into a looping run, nocking an arrow

smoothly to his bowstring.

Annaliese felt a wave of fear wash over her at the horrible sound. It was the

sound of victorious hunters closing on their prey.

But what, or who, was the prey?

46

They travelled swiftly across the countryside, Annaliese struggling to keep pace

with the elf. Dimly, she heard shouts and a shrill scream, accompanied by what

sounded like the snarls and roars of wolves, or bears, though there was also the

bleating not unlike that of goats, though deeper and more powerful. It made her feel

instantly uneasy, and a shiver ran down her spine. There was the clash of weapons,

and the hunting horn blared again; two long, hard notes.

As she struggled to the top of a steep rise, Eldanair pushed her roughly to the

ground. She opened her mouth to voice her protest at his rough treatment, but held

her tongue as he dropped to one knee and raised his bow. In one smooth action he

pulled the bowstring taut and fired; the arrow hissed through the air away from him.

In a flash he had another arrow drawn and nocked, and he fired it seemingly without

pause to aim.

She followed the path of the arrows with difficulty through the dim light, and saw

a powerfully muscled figure clad in furs stagger as an arrow slammed into its lower

back.

It fell to its knees but struggled back to its feet, pulling the arrow free. Another

arrow thudded into its head, and it fell motionless to the snowy ground.

It had been running with astonishing speed toward a train of wagons, and

Annaliese saw that there were women and children crowded within them—more

people fleeing the plague, most probably.

Forming a desperate ring around the wagons were a score of uniformed men,

dressed in the black and yellow of Averland state troops. She heard a barked

command, and four of the men fired their long arquebus handguns, the cracking

sound of their fire echoing across the sky. Flame flashed from the barrels of the

unwieldy weapons, and smoke obscured them from view.

These soldiers were accompanied by a rag-tag bunch of men hefting a motley

array of axes, pitchforks and spears—the husbands, fathers and sons of the

womenfolk within the wagons.

Hurtling through the snow from either side of the wagons came their attackers,

big men dressed in furs—they seemed to Annaliese to be wearing bestial faced,

horned masks as well, and she was momentarily stunned by their bizarre appearance.

They streamed towards the wagons and a fusillade from a second group of

handgunners boomed, dropping several of them, dark blood misting out behind them.

Eldanair dropped another of them with an arrow through the base of his skull, and

Annaliese heard three sharp blasts from a hunting horn. At the sound, Eldanair

instantly rose, dragging Annaliese to her feet, and began pulling her by the arm down

the hill, cutting left away from the wagons. She lost sight of them as she was half-

dragged around a raised hillock covered in twisted thorn bushes and rocks.

Annaliese shook free of his grip.

“We have to help them!” she shouted, pointing towards the wagons. Eldanair said

something sharp in his own tongue, and made to grab her wrist once again, but she

stepped away from him, her face defiant.

“No!” she shouted. “We are going to help them!”

A stream of words spat from Eldanair’s lips, and he made an encircling motion

that she did not understand.

47

“These are my people,” said Annaliese. “I have to help them.” She turned away

from Eldanair, and began moving around the hillock back towards the wagons.

A monstrous bestial roar, something akin to that of a bear but filled with malice,

echoed loudly down into the dip, and Annaliese faltered, looking around her

fearfully. Scanning the area with wide eyes, she saw a pair of the fur-clad figures

standing on the ridge they had just left, their horned heads scanning the area. One of

them snarled as it spotted her, and the pair of them began leaping down the incline

towards her, kicking powdery snow out around them.

They were not wearing furs, she realised, and they were not human. The one in

the lead was roughly the same size of a man, but its face was a bestial mockery of

humanity. A pair of short horns jutted from its forehead, and small, feral eyes fixed

hungrily on her. It whooped in excitement, exposing an array of stubby fangs, and

began closing the distance to her with terrifying swiftness. Its two legs were back-

jointed like those of a goat and covered in shaggy, dark fur.

And yet, it was not some mindless, mutated beast of the forest, that much was

clear. Its baleful eyes blazed with animal cunning, and there was the hint of a feral

intelligence working there, and it wore a semblance of clothing. A loincloth of rough

leather was secured by strips of sinew tied around its waist, and tokens and bones

hung from this crude belt. Bracers of beaten copper protected its forearms, and in its

clawed hands it clasped a pair of weapons—a savagely barbed spear decorated with

plaited hair soaked in blood, and rusted cleaver.

The second of the creatures was much more heavily built, and thick matted fur

hung down over the rippling muscles of its torso. It stood easily a head taller than six

feet in height, and its brutish face was broad and hateful, a pair of thick horns

covered in beaten copper curling from the sides of its head. Around the thick, corded

muscles of its neck hung strings of bones and teeth. An obscene symbol had been

smeared in blood upon its massive chest, and it carried a massive axe in its hands. Its

skin, the colour of wet earth, was pierced with studs and rings of metal, and it

bellowed deafeningly as it charged towards her, hefting its axe over its heavy head.

The first creature drew back its arm and hurled its heavy spear.

Eldanair slammed into Annaliese from behind, knocking her to the ground, and

the deadly missile streaked over her head to imbed itself into the snow. He was up

instantly, loosing an arrow from his bow.

Annaliese scrambled to her feet, her shaking hands fumbling for her sword. The

first creature fell as if pole-axed as Eldanair’s arrow thudded into its neck, but the

second was barely slowed as another arrow embedded itself deep into the slab-like

muscle of its chest.

Then it was on them, towering over Eldanair, swinging its axe down in a

powerful blow that would have split him in two had it connected. He ducked beneath

the wild swing and leapt past the creature, rolling neatly and coming up to one knee,

an arrow nocked. He fired, and such was the power of bow at close range that the

arrow sank almost to its feathered flight into the creature’s back, and it roared as it

was knocked forward a pace by the force.

Still it did not fall, and it swung towards him, spittle dripping in thick ropes from

its maw.

48

With a scream, Annaliese surged forwards and the blade of her elven shortsword

pierced the creature’s side. With one hand upon the pommel she drove the blade in

with all her strength and weight, pushing it deep into its body. Blood, dark and hot,

poured from the wound and the creature roared in pain and fury. It spun around and

the haft of its giant axe caught Annaliese a glancing blow to the side of the head,

sending her reeling backwards into the snow. It stepped over her, axe raised for the

killing blow. The beast shuddered as an arrow punched through the back of its skull,

piercing its brain. It toppled into the snow beside Annaliese, blood leaking from its

wounds.

Annaliese rose shakily to her knees, wincing as she touched a hand gingerly to

her temple. She felt a wave of nausea overcome her, and she coughed and retched the

contents of her stomach onto the pristine white snow. The stink of the creature was

overpowering.

Three sharp blasts were blown on a hunting horn, and Eldanair loosed several

more arrows, though Annaliese, her head pounding, could not focus on what he was

firing at. She gathered a handful of snow and held it against her head; the cold

numbed the pain.

Wiping her mouth, she stared bleary-eyed at the corpses of the two creatures.

Shuddering, she looked away. Eldanair was kneeling at her side, concern on his face,

and he gently pulled her hand away from the rising lump on her head, inspecting the

wound carefully. Apparently satisfied, he nodded his head, and went to the bodies of

the dead beastmen, wrenching his arrows free from their dead flesh and studying

their tips, testing them on his thumb. He pulled free Annaliese’s sword, and wiped

the gore from it with a handful of snow. Spinning it around in his hand, he presented

it hilt first to the fallen woman.

When she was able to stand, her legs shaking, Annaliese saw that the battle was

over. Milling people surrounded the wagons, and she heard the wailing of women

and the cries of children. She motioned to Eldanair that she was going towards the

wagons, and he nodded, pulling the hood of his cloak over his head to hide his elven

features. He moved out across the open ground to retrieve his other arrows.

As she drew close, she saw women crying over the bodies of dead men:

husbands, brothers or fathers. Others were binding the wounds of those lucky enough

to have survived, and a team of soldiers was struggling to get the lead wagon

moving, as it was stuck in a snowdrift.

She saw a flicker of movement, and cried out when she saw a small boy, no more

than five years old, crawling through the snow towards a corpse on the ground. Fresh

blood was trailing behind the boy.

No one was moving towards the child, and Annaliese ran to him. The man he was

crawling towards had the look of a farmer about him, and his head had been all but

severed from his body by a vicious blow to the back of his neck. Blood soaked the

snow around him.

Kneeling, Annaliese took the boy in her arms, carefully turning him over. He

cried out, straining to see the corpse, and Annaliese felt tears spring to her eyes as she

saw the blood soaking the child’s tunic and the expression on the child’s face as it

contorted in pain. She clasped him to her, tears rolling down her cheeks, soothing

him with gentle words.

49

“Da?” gasped the boy, his wide blue eyes fearful.

“Shh,” soothed Annaliese, wiping her hand over his brow, brushing back his

sandy hair.

“Where is Da?” the boy said again, blood frothing on his lips.

“At peace,” said Annaliese softly. The boy cried out in pain, and Annaliese’s

heart wrenched. “Be brave, little warrior,” she said.

She closed her eyes and prayed then, silently mouthing words to Sigmar. Angry

and bitter, she raged against the cruelty of the world, and beseeched the warrior-god

for mercy, tears running down her face.

When she opened her eyes she saw that the boy was asleep, his heart beating

strongly against her.

Annaliese laid him back against the ground, and ripped open his blood-drenched

tunic. She rubbed her hand across the flesh of his stomach, expecting to find a deep

wound, but the skin was unbroken. Her eyes widened in shock.

“You should leave him,” said a voice. “I saw the cursed spear strike him. It was a

cowardly blow, but not even a full grown man could have survived it.”

Annaliese looked up into the sad, grim eyes of a farmer and smiled. “He is not

even wounded,” she said breathlessly, shaking her head. The farmer stared at her as if

she were mad.

“I saw it myself, girl,” he repeated, a pitying expression coming over his face.

She shook her head, and wiped away more of the blood on the boy’s skin.

“Look—there is no wound! The boy lives!” she said, louder this time. She was

certain that the boy had been close to death, but she could now see the rise and fall of

his chest as he rested peacefully.

The farmer looked at the boy, then at her, fear in his eyes.

“Witchcraft,” he muttered.

“What?” said Annaliese. “What are you talking about? It must not have been his

blood. The spear must have missed him!”

“Don’t look at me, witch!” cried the farmer, shielding his eyes from her gaze.

More people looked over at her, fear and suspicion on their faces. They muttered

beneath their breath.

Annaliese stood up, wiping the tears from her face. “No,” she said emphatically,

shaking her head. “You are mistaken. The boy is well.”

“Where did she come from?” said a fearful voice. Several of the soldiers

tightened their grips on their halberds uneasily, stepping towards her.

“She wasn’t with us before the attack. She led them to us!” declared an elderly

woman, to the accompaniment of angry mutterings.

Lifting the boy protectively in her arms, she stepped backwards away from the

angry group, shaking her head. She felt the reassuring presence of Eldanair behind

her, his bow in hand.

“Leave her be,” snapped one of the soldiers. “She and her companion killed

several of the beasts.”

“That child was dead, I tell you. He should be journeying to the halls of Morr,

alongside his father,” said the first farmer, his voice raised. “She brought him back to

life! She’s a witch!”

50

“Enough,” roared the soldier. “There will be no more bloodshed this day. Go get

those wagons moving.” The farmer stared at the man darkly. “Go!” the soldier

barked. Then he marched towards Annaliese.

“Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “I… I don’t understand it. I too thought he

was close to death. But… I must have been mistaken.”

The soldier was middle-aged, and his armour dented and scarred from use and

repair. His face was grim, and his eyes dead as they flicked from Annaliese to

Eldanair, who tugged his hood down lower over his face. He shrugged.

“I don’t want to see any more people hurt,” he said.

“Where are the boy’s parents?”

“His mother died in childbirth. Her father lies dead at your feet. He has no

family.”

“Someone must take him in,” Annaliese said. The soldier looked at her blankly.

“He has no family,” he said slowly. “There is no one to take him in.”

“Surely someone amongst these people will care for him? Some relative, or

friend?”

The soldier shook his head. “These people are starving,” he said, his voice

lowered. “There are not enough provisions as it is—he is just another mouth to feed,

another back to clothe. There is no one, I’m sorry.” He turned away from her, and

began marching back towards the wagons.

“But you cannot leave him here to die!” she said, going after him. The soldier

turned back to her, his face hard.

“It might have been better for him if he had died,” he hissed. “I saw him struck as

well—it was a mortal blow I don’t know what power it was that you used to heal

him, but I will not allow you or the boy to travel with us. Care for him yourself.”

The anger faded from him and he seemed to slump, exhaustion overcoming him.

He sighed, running a hand across his unshaved jaw, and Annaliese realised that this

was the real reason why they would not accept the child—they feared that she had

healed him with sorcerous power, and that perhaps he had been tainted by the power

of Chaos.

“There is a temple of Shallya, some twenty leagues to the north-east. Follow the

road, and you will find it. The gentle sisters of that order will take the boy in. I wish

you well.”

With that, he turned away.

Eldanair glared at the humans from within his deep cowl, and loosened the tension on

his bowstring, though he kept an arrow nocked. He couldn’t understand the words

spoken during the exchange, but he guessed at their meaning. These humans were

barbarians, he thought, turning on each other in their ignorance and fear.

He had hoped to escort the woman to her people, to see her safe and then he

could return to hunting the Druchii and enact his vengeance. He touched a long

finger to his cheek, following the thin black tattoo design. Thalui was the name for

the rune and it represented hatred and vengeance. Many of his people, the Shadow

Warriors of ruined Nagarythe, bore such symbols so that the atrocities perpetrated by

the hated Dark Elves, the Druchii, would never be forgotten. But he saw now that she

51

would not be safe with these people, for they clearly could not even protect

themselves.

To see the beastmen herd so far from the dense forests where they bred was

surprising. To see them emboldened enough to venture forth, and in daylight no less,

spoke of the threat that the human realm was in. With the human armies engaged

elsewhere, the beasts of the deep forbidden places where man feared to tread had

become bold, striking out against ones likes these, weakly protected and vulnerable.

He doubted that many of the humans even realised that their world, their Empire,

teetered on the brink of destruction.

Guilt wracked him. Had he been with his kin, he would surely have seen signs of

the Druchii war party. His kinsmen would not have died. If he had not gone to the aid

of the human child, then he would never have been captured. If he had left Annaliese

to her fate, then he would have covered the ground back to his kin far swifter, and

their massacre would have been averted.

The weight of their deaths was upon his shoulders. Annaliese had lived at the

expense of his kin, and for that he may have hated her. But he did not. No, if she

were to die, then the deaths of his kin were for nought, and he now swore to himself

to protect her, to see her safe until such a time as he deemed her ably protected.

A human would have difficulty understanding his honour, he knew, but that

mattered little to him. They were a strange people, and before he met Annaliese he

had discounted them all. But she was different, he saw that, and as much as he

desired his vengeance against the Druchii, he knew that it could wait. When the

human woman was safe, then he would resume his blood-quest against them. Only

then, when all those who had slaughtered his kin had perished, would his soul be

unburdened by guilt and remorse.

He would take Annaliese to the south. War wracked the north—though, as they

had seen, no place was safe—the southern lands of the Empire would be the least

affected in the dark days to come. He sighed, for she seemed to have adopted the

human child. Though it would slow their progress further, he could not expect her to

abandon the child, as it seemed the others had done.

“Annaliese,” he said, indicating that they should get moving. He was wary of the

beasts of Chaos nearby, and he reckoned that once they had recovered their nerve,

they would attack again, probably under the cover of darkness. With certainty, he

knew that the humans with the wagons would be dead by sunrise.

He motioned again for her to come, to resume their travel, but she merely shook

her head, pointing along the road, to the east. It was the direction that the wagons had

come from. What was she thinking? He shook his head, but saw the determined set of

her mouth, and knew that she would not relent. By the gods of the Asur, she was a

headstrong woman.

“Upon the spirits of my murdered brothers of the Asur, I swear that I shall see

you safe,” he snapped in his native tongue. “But I cannot protect you from your own

innate human stubbornness, child.”

She pointed fiercely to the east, and he shook his head resolutely. She snapped

something in her crude, guttural language, and turned to watch the wagons rolling

away, shifting the weight of the sleeping child to her hip, his head on her shoulder.

52

They could have been mother and child, he thought, for they both glared the same

sandy blonde hair.

How old was she? Perhaps eighteen? Long past the time when most human

women would have spawned children of their own, he thought with some distaste.

Rare was it amongst his own people for a child to be born of an elf maiden less than a

hundred and fifty years old. Humanity is a race of children, no wonder they bickered

and turned on their own with such frequency. It was also no wonder that they were so

susceptible to the wiles of Chaos, he thought darkly, for with their foreshortened,

largely futile lives, the tempting lure of a shortcut to power must be attractive.

When she turned back to him, there were tears in her eyes. She indicated to the

sleeping boy, and pointed to the east once more, though this time the movement

lacked anger. Eldanair did not move a muscle. Annaliese stepped in to him, and

raising herself up onto her tiptoes, she placed a sad kiss upon his pale cheek. She said

something else that he guessed was a parting goodbye, and she turned away from him

and began walking along the road, heading to the east.

Thunder rolled, and vast arcs of lightning could be seen flashing in the sky. Vaul

was at his anvil, as was said amongst his people of Nagarythe to describe such

weather.

He glared at the departing figure of Annaliese, and began walking to the east,

following in her wake.

53

CHAPTER SEVEN

Udo Grunwald swore and gritted his teeth as the gruff voice behind him continued its

slow, rhythmic, mournful song, if that dire sound could be classed as song, he

thought.

He didn’t understand the words of course, but it sounded like some relentless

requiem that droned on and on monotonously without end. When occasionally it

stopped, Grunwald closed his eyes and listened to the blessed silence. It never lasted

long.

They had covered tens of miles on foot, and he wasn’t sure if his travelling

companion had merely started the chanting song over again after these small breaks,

or if it really was some torturous drone that truly had no end. He wouldn’t be at all

surprised if that were the case.

This wasn’t the only thing that grated on Grunwald’s nerves. His companion

seemed incapable of moving without alerting every living soul within a ten-mile

radius of their position. Every heavy step of his nail-studded, metal encased boots

was accompanied by the clanking of metal and the jangling of buckles and chainmail.

Grunwald turned around to look upon his companion, his deep baritone voice still

booming out from beneath his helmet.

Thorrik stood just over four feet tall, a decent height for his kin, and he was

almost as wide as he was tall. He probably weighed twice that of a full-grown man,

and that was before you included the heavy armour that he wore. Gromril, Thorrik

had called the metal it was forged of, and it was unlike any metal that the witch

hunter had ever seen. Stronger than steel, the dwarf claimed, able to deflect all but

the most powerful blows, it was sometimes known as silverstone or hammernought.

Within the lands of the Empire, it was called meteoric iron, and that was a name

familiar to Grunwald, though he had never seen the fabled metal before.

Only Thorrik’s glittering eyes could be seen beneath his fully enclosed helmet.

Beneath this spilled his real beard, his pride and joy, a billowing mass of red hair that

had been drawn into a dozen plaits with thin wire twisted through them and each

decorated with a circular metal icon depicting a stylised dwarfen face. Ancestor

deities, Grunwald had learnt.

He had no idea how the dwarf moved within such an immense amount of armour,

let alone marched and fought. And it wasn’t as if the armour was the only load that

the dwarf bore—he carried a heavy looking pack across his shoulders, along with the

mysterious large chape wrapped in waterproofed leather. On one arm he carried his

solid gromril shield, and he carried his axe. Such a load would have been a heavy

burden for a mule, let alone a man, but the dwarf bore it without complaint and he

seemed easily able to march all day despite the weight.

54

Seeing that Grunwald had halted, Thorrik ceased his baritone singing and planted

his feet in the snow, glaring up at the taller figure.

“What’s the problem?” he growled, his voice deep and rumbling. “Why are you

stopping?”

“What was that you were singing, anyway? You have been singing it non-stop for

days now,” said Grunwald.

“It is a traditional marching chant of Clan Barad, from Karaz-a-Karak,” Thorrik

replied. “It was the chant the armies of Clan Barad would march to war by in the time

of my great-great-grandfather. It recounts the deeds of those slain during the siege of

Karak Drazh, when Clan Barad came to the aid of our besieged kin. Rousing, is it

not?”

“That’s not the word that I was going to use,” said Grunwald. “Can you not travel

more… quietly?”

“I do not hide from my enemies. I have no need to travel silently.”

Grunwald turned away from the dwarf and began striding through the snow up

the ridge. Thorrik wasn’t singing, but still each footstep was accompanied by the

clank of metal. In the distance, the mountain range came into view.

The Black Mountains—sharp and inhospitable peaks with barren, sheer cliffs of

iron-hard rock, they had a dangerous reputation. They towered up into the clouds,

though Grunwald knew that even their dizzy heights were far surpassed by the

immense Worlds Edge Mountains that butted up against them to the north-east. That

range climbed higher than he could conceive.

The mountains surrounded the Empire on most sides, and Grunwald knew that

his people had grown strong thanks to their defensive borders. Though the enemies of

mankind were many and powerful, were it not for the towering mountains the Empire

would have long ago become merely a footnote in the histories of the dwarfs.

A flutter of movement caught his eyes, and he halted, squinting into the morning

sunlight that had finally managed to pierce the ever-present clouds.

“What now, manling?” blurted Thorrik. “You try my patience!”

Without speaking, Grunwald pointed into the distance. The vanguard of an

Empire state force could be seen, rounding an area of coppiced woodland. Banners

flying the black and yellow of Averland fluttered in the sharp breeze, and the sound

of drumbeats could now be heard, carrying across the open ground. The soldiers

marched in perfect unison to the beat of the drums. In a long, thin column they

snaked from behind the coppice, following the road that led from Averheim. Tall

halberds rested on the right shoulders of the front regiments, and many of the soldiers

wore long black feathers in their helmets and cloth caps that bobbed in time to their

disciplined march.

The smaller road that Grunwald and Thorrik travelled along, little more than a

pair of deep furrows carved by the wheels of wagons loaded with goods, intercepted

the larger road that the Empire troops marched along some three hundred yards from

their position. “Looks like they are heading in the same direction as us,” said

Grunwald.

He estimated that there were around eight hundred men already in view, and the

State army continued to emerge from behind the woods. Alongside the column were

several contingents of knights riding powerful warhorses bedecked in lacquered

55

black and bronze barding. Elegant plumes topped the helms of the fully armoured

knights, and pennants rippled from the tips of their lances.

Grunwald squinted to make out the details of their banners—a bronze sun device

on a black background, surrounded by intricate scrollwork.

“Knights of the Blazing Sun,” he commented. “An entire temple’s worth by the

looks of it.” He grunted and frowned. This was an army of considerable force, all

heading towards Black Fire Pass. Surely they would be of more worth deployed in

the north, he thought.

“Wonder if they would spare a horse?” he added.

“Hateful beasts,” grumbled Thorrik.

One of the contingents of knights broke into a canter and wheeled off the road,

heading towards Grunwald and Thorrik. The witch hunter reached beneath his tunic

and pulled out a bronze icon hung from a chain around his neck so that it hung

outside his dark clothes. It was a weighty pendant shaped to mirror the holy weapon

of Sigmar Heldenhammer, the great war hammer Ghal Maraz, and it was the symbol

that denoted him as a servant of Sigmar’s temple. It had previously belonged to the

witch hunter Stoebar, before Grunwald became one of the order.

He saw that Thorrik was tense as the powerful destriers of the knights closed the

distance, pounding across the rough ground and kicking up great clods of earth as

they went.

They were an impressive sight, and Grunwald was thankful that their lances were

held aloft rather than lowered for the charge. A charge by these seasoned knights

would be terrifying.

As they drew closer, he saw that a brazen icon topped the heavy fabric of the

standard, depicting an eagle clutching a spear in its talons. This was a variation of the

symbol of the foreign deity Myrmidia, patron goddess of the human realms to the

south-west of the Empire. Though he was suspicious of this god, for it was not a

deity traditionally honoured within the Empire, Grunwald respected the martial

traditions of its followers and the strict code of honour it was said they abided by.

The ground shook with the thunder of hooves, and they pulled up in perfect

unison before the pair of travellers, displaying remarkable horsemanship and control.

Horses snorted and shook their heads, jangling their bridges. The armour of the

knights was wonderfully crafted—immaculate burnished bronze edging rimmed their

gleaming, black lacquered plate mail.

One of the knights, bearing a wreath of bronze-leafed ivy around the crown of his

helmet, lifted his visor. The knight’s face was surprisingly young and clean-shaven.

“Who are you, and what business have you in these parts?” the young knight said,

looking down at the pair, his voice strong and authoritative.

“What business is that of yours?” snapped Thorrik, and Grunwald glared at him,

holding a hand up to him. He shook his head slightly before looking up at the young

knight.

“My name is Udo Grunwald, and I am a holy templar of Sigmar,” he said. “I am

travelling to the temple of my order near Black Fire Pass. This is my travelling

companion, Thorrik Lokrison, of Everpeak. And you, knight of Myrmidia, what is

your name and purpose here?”

56

“I am Karl Heiden, preceptor of the Knights of the Blazing Sun. We travel with

an army of Averland to the defence of Black Fire Pass.”

“The defence of the pass? What is this you speak of? The war is in the north.”

“Some amongst us will travel from Black Fire Pass to the north. But the war is all

around us,” countered the knight. “The pass is threatened.”

“The pass is guarded by the clans of my kinsmen,” growled Thorrik. “Do you

doubt the strength of the dwarfs, beardling?”

The knight turned his gaze upon the bristling figure of the dwarf ironbreaker. “I

intend no slur or disrespect with my words,” he said. “But if Black Fire Pass falls, it

is Empire lands that will be ravaged, not those of dwarfen kind.”

“To guard what manlings call Black Fire Pass was an oath sworn by the forebears

of all dwarfs,” growled Thorrik, his gravelly voice thick with outrage. “It was an oath

sworn of blood, and as long as a single dwarf lives, no enemy shall attack the Empire

through the pass.” Grunwald sighed.

“I commend your vigilance and pride, master dwarf,” said the knight carefully,

“and I believe you would speak the truth, if times were different. But war threatens

the dwarfen holds as well as the Empire—come to bolster Black Fire Pass at the

behest of your High King himself.” Thorrik’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you speak of when you say war threatens dwarfen holds?”

“The greenskin tribes are massing beyond the mountains. It is said they threaten

the Everpeak itself.”

“Bah!” snorted Thorrik. “Impossible!” The knight shrugged his shoulders, a

movement all but hidden by his thick, black lacquered armour.

“Is the temple of Sigmar intact and secure?” asked Grunwald sharply.

“I regret that I do not know,” replied the knight. He raised his hand, and the

knights snapped to attention. The first regiments of foot troops were passing along

the road now, the thump of their footsteps echoing loudly.

“You say that some amongst your force will travel to the north from Black Fire—

why travel here if your destination is in the northern states? That’s a long way out of

your way, templar,” said Grunwald. The knight merely grinned. “You haven’t heard

of the steam engine of the dwarfs, then?”

Grunwald frowned, but the preceptor continued, not giving him time to query his

words.

“We march to Black Fire Pass. Travel with us if you wish,” said the knight.

“Speak to supplies officer Siegfried at the rear of the column. You may request a

steed from him, tell him that I have authorised it. He may even be able to find a small

pony for your friend to ride,” he said, his eyes shining with humour though his face

was serious. “Or a large dog,” with that, the knights turned and wheeled away,

leaving Grunwald smiling and Thorrik apoplectic with rage.

“I should stick my axe so far up his arse that it severs his tongue for that insult,”

he raged, his face turning a deep crimson that matched the colour of his bristling

beard.

“I’m sure he was just trying to be helpful,” commented Grunwald.

“Helpful? The stripling, beardless whoreson bastard.” Without pausing for breath

the dwarf switched to his native language and cut loose with a torrent of bile-fuelled

57

phrases. Grunwald didn’t know what he was saying, but he winced at the acidic,

barbed and vengeful tone of voice. It slowly descended into insensible muttering.

“So, what do you think of dogs?” asked Grunwald, trying to hide his smirk.

Thorrik glared up at him suspiciously, trying to see any mockery in his face.

Satisfied, he grunted loudly before making his answer.

“Good eating,” he said, finally.

Annaliese was exhausted when they finally reached the brow of a hill and saw the

temple of Shallya in the distance. She walked hand in hand with the boy. After two

days he had finally spoken, though he said nothing more than his name.

“Look Tomas,” she said, pointing towards the crooked spire that topped the

temple of Shallya. “The sisters are kind. If you are lucky, you might even get a hot

bath this evening!” She leant down and sniffed at him, then reeled, her face a mask of

exaggerated disgust. The boy giggled, his facing lighting up. He copied her, sniffing

her and then gasping.

Annaliese laughed. “I guess I could do with a bath too, young Tomas.” It had

been too long since she’d had anything to laugh at.

It took an hour to walk down to the temple. She carried Tomas part of the way,

until he felt like a leaden weight in her arms. The sky was dark overhead, clouds

hanging too close to the ground, making the air claustrophobic and heavy. Still, it

was a little warmer here, either because she was further south than her village—or

perhaps the winter was finally breaking.

There was still snow piled in drifts up against rough stone walls and hedges, but

the fields were relatively clear. The grass was muddy and dead, but it would grow

back.

Tomas made her laugh as he spotted a mouse and sprang after it as it ducked into

a hedgerow to escape from him. The boy emerged a moment later, sticks in his hair,

grinning, crunching happily through the snow back to her side.

Eldanair appeared silently, the hood pulled down low over his face. Tomas

instantly hid behind Annaliese, and she put her hand comfortingly upon his shoulder.

The elf pulled off his hood. His face was grim, and Annaliese looked at him in

growing concern. She heard the ugly cawing of crows. The temple of Shallya had

been ransacked, and gutted by fire. Worse, it had been defiled, and crude symbols

had been daubed on its walls in what looked like blood. There was no sign of the

sisters.

There was an animal stink that assailed their nostrils as they approached the

temple, as if a herd of wild dogs had used the place as a refuse pit, and despite the

cold the buzzing of flies filled the air. Annaliese lifted Tomas, hugging him against

her chest and keeping his head turned away from the desecrated place. He began to

cry, and she rocked him in her arms, making soothing noises.

Eldanair held his hand up for her to remain outside, and with an arrow nocked to

his bow, he stepped lightly through the shattered doors of the temple.

Annaliese surveyed the carnage with sad eyes. The windows had been smashed

in, and the smell of faeces and urine was strong. Her eyes were drawn to the crude

symbols painted on the pale stone walls of the small chapel, and she felt revulsion

pull at her.

58

She walked around the outside of the chapel grounds. There was a small

vegetable garden around the rear of the structure, but it was trampled and kicked

apart. There were small icon shrines positioned on low poles in front of small

wooden benches, places for silent, isolated communion. They had all been smashed

down. She stopped before one of these shattered icons, seeing a small woodcarving

of Shallya kneeling. Carefully so as not to drop Tomas, she bent over and lifted the

carving out of the snow. It looked as though an axe had removed the head of the

carving. She dropped it back into the snow with a sigh.

Rounding the shrine, she lifted her eyes and gasped. She had found one of the

gentle sisters of the goddess of healing.

She was spreadeagled across a wagon wheel and nailed to its wooden rim. The

wheel had been lifted into the air and its broken axle driven into the ground, so that

she lay looking up into the sky.

Carrion birds hopped over the body, flapping their wings and cawing loudly as

they fought over the tastiest morsels. Annaliese felt bile rise in her throat, and she

began to shake uncontrollably. Tomas wailed, and tried to squirm out of her grip, but

she covered his eyes with her hand and kept him clasped to her tightly. She ran

blindly away from the nightmarish scene, round the corner of the shrine and straight

into the arms of Eldanair.

She cried into his chest as his arms closed around her awkwardly, as if he were

uneasy with such contact. At last she pulled away, hugging Tomas to her with one

hand as she wiped the tears away from her face.

Eldanair indicated for her to follow him, and he led her around to the front of the

shrine and through its shattered door. She almost gagged at the stench inside, and

Tomas began to cry loudly once more.

The elf led them to the back of the temple, past smashed pews. Glass crunched

underfoot, and Eldanair finally pointed down a stone staircase that led beneath the

temple floor, down into the crypt.

She looked at him in concern, but he nodded encouragement, and led the way

down the narrow, worn steps. It was icy cold as she descended, but it was not as dark

as she had imagined, as light illuminated the crypt through carved recesses, shafts

that led up to windows in the shrine.

There were carved statues of reclining women, and each had a plaque before it.

She looked at one, but she could not read, and it meant nothing to her. The stubs of

candles protruded from candelabras that may have been lit in honour of the temple’s

deceased priestesses, but thankfully it seemed that the marauders had not discovered

this area, and the stench was not as strong down here.

The hair on the back of Annaliese’s neck rose as she heard a scrape against the

cold stone flooring, and she froze. A shadowy shape dashed away from them, and

Eldanair motioned for her to approach.

Peering into the gloom, she saw that there was a person crouched behind one of

the tombs. She saw a glimpse of long hair and pale robes, and understanding dawned

on her. She placed Tomas onto the ground and knelt before him, looking into his

tearful eyes.

59

“I want you to be a brave boy, and to stay with Eldanair for a moment. I won’t be

long.” The boy whimpered and clung to her. “I promise I will be back in a moment, I

am just going to talk to the lady over there.”

She began to move towards the woman, but Tomas continued to cling to her

desperately. She sighed, and picked him up again. Eldanair shrugged. “All right

Tomas, you can come with me. Come on.”

She moved slowly towards the woman. “Hello?” she said. “My name is

Annaliese, and we are not going to harm you. You are safe now.”

She stepped around an ancient stone tomb. The woman cowered in the corner, her

face mostly hidden beneath an unruly mass of dark hair. She was wearing the robes

of a priestess.

“You are one of the Sisters of Shallya, aren’t you? It’s alright; there is nothing

here now. They have gone.”

She moved closer, and dropped to her knees, steadying Tomas onto his feet. He

stared at the woman curiously.

“Where are the others of your order, sister?”

The woman looked her in the eyes then, and they were filled with pain and fear.

Her face was dirty and streaked with tears, and she began rocking back and forth.

“Gone,” she said, shaking her head. “They’ve all gone. Just Sister Margrethe and

I left…” She looked up at Annaliese frantically. “I don’t know where Sister

Margrethe is. I… I heard her screaming.”

“She is not in pain anymore,” said Annaliese, and the woman slumped down

against the wall.

“I prayed for her. They are gone?” she said fearfully. “They are truly gone? They

were animals, they attacked us, braying and shouting…”

“Shh,” said Annaliese softly, hugging Tomas. Seeing the boy the woman’s eyes

seemed to clear a little and she smiled through her tears. “And what is your name,

young man?”

“Tomas,” he replied shyly.

“Tomas—a strong name for a strong boy,” the woman replied.

“You don’t need to cry,” said the boy, and the priestess laughed, wiping away her

tears.

“Bless you, boy,” she said. Annaliese stood and offered her arm to the woman,

who took it and allowed herself to be helped to her feet. “The strength of the innocent

is a wondrous thing—here am I, old enough to be his grandmother and I have gone to

pieces, yet a boy not more than five years old can still smile.”

“How far is it?” asked Annaliese to the priestess, whose name was Katrin. With her

face and robes cleaned, Annaliese could see that she was a handsome woman of

middling years, and though her eyes were haunted, she had a way with the child.

“Two days’ walk, no more,” Katrin answered. She turned and smiled at

Annaliese. “You have travelled far—I am grateful that you are escorting me to the

temple. I do not think I could have faced it alone—to be honest I do not think I would

ever have summoned the strength to leave the crypt.”

60

“I am glad that we found you,” she said, staring up at the towering Black

Mountains before them. “Though I am sorry we did not arrive sooner.”

“There would only have been more pain and death had you arrived any sooner,”

said Katrin.

“We might have been able to stop them.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way there would have been more death and violence,

and that is anathema to our order. It would have made the goddess weep.”

“Is not your order dedicated to life? To living?”

“Of course it is, but not at the expense of the life of another, Annaliese,” she

gently chided. She sighed deeply. “I already miss Sister Margrethe greatly—she was

a gentle, simple girl.”

“I’m sorry to remind you, sister,” said Annaliese.

“Pff,” said Katrin, waving away the apology. “Grief and sadness is a part of life,

and not something to hide from,” she said, looking into Annaliese’s eyes. The girl

looked away quickly, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

“The boy is strong and healthy,” said Katrin, judging Annaliese’s mood and

changing the subject. The boy was running ahead, looking back anxiously to see if

they were still following. “Though there is pain hidden away inside him that will take

a lifetime to heal. If it ever does.”

“You are good with children,” said Annaliese.

“As are you. You are what—seventeen years? You have no children of your

own?”

“No. I… never married.”

They walked on in silence. Eldanair was out in front, an indistinct grey shadow a

hundred yards ahead.

“You certainly keep strange company,” commented Katrin, shaking her head.

“An orphan and an elf.”

Annaliese smiled, and nodded.

“Why did your order leave your temple, Katrin? Why was it only you and

Margrethe that were left behind?”

The older woman sighed again.

“The Empire is beset by foes, surrounded on all sides by enemies deadly and

jealous. The head of my order was visited by a vision of the Lady Shallya herself in a

dream. The goddess was weeping, for she knew of the horrors yet to come. When the

head sister awoke, she ordered the others to ready themselves to travel to Black Fire

Pass, to the temple of Sigmar there. That was where we would be needed in the dark

days to come,” Katrin said.

“But why were you chosen to stay behind?” asked Annaliese.

“In truth? I requested it. I am tired, Annaliese, and I have seen much horror in my

life. Though I know the head sister wished for me to be at her side, I asked to be the

one to remain behind, to tend the weeping shrine until the order returned.” She shook

her head with a sigh. “Strange how things turn out, but it is not my place to question

the will of the gods.”

“It must be peaceful, living within the temple,” said Annaliese. She immediately

went red. “Under normal circumstances, I mean,” she hastily added.

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“Peaceful? Yes, I was never more at peace than I have been in the years since

joining the order. Sad? Yes. Difficult? Yes. But you are correct; I am at peace in

myself.”

“You could join the temple, Annaliese,” Katrin said after a pause. “You would

find a home amongst us. And I can see that you have the healing touch within you.”

Annaliese blushed again. Lightning flashed above the Black Mountains.

Katrin sighed to herself. She had spoken the truth, and the girl could find a home

amongst the Sisters of Shallya, but she would never become one of their order.

Another god had already claimed her as his own.

62

CHAPTER EIGHT

The lightning flashing across the skies above the mountains in the distance made the

mood of the camp grim. In Grunwald’s experience, soldiers were a superstitious

bunch, and seeing the flashes in the direction they were travelling could be seen as a

bad omen.

He had no time for omens and he was far from a superstitious man, even when he

had been a regular soldier in the army of Nuln. He had always been devout, and was

careful to pay due respect to the gods—invoking Manann whenever he stepped

aboard a ship, and giving thanks to Verena whenever justice was rightly served—but

he frowned upon the ignorant, uninformed rural practices, oaths and lucky charms

that many claimed warded against bad omens and spirits. Such things had the reek of

infernal practices, and they were a way that one could inadvertently slip towards

damnation.

The state soldiers had picketed in orderly lines, with eight men to each simple

canvas tent, and the air was filled with the smells of cooking and the chatter of men.

Merchants and whores moved around the encampment, selling their wares—camp

hangers-on were common when an army marched, for it provided safety as well as

willing customers with little else to spend their money on. Not that there was much

money to go around—he had learnt that these soldiers had not seen a coin for

months.

In the centre of the camp were the lavish tents of the officers and nobility, flying

pennants and banners high. Each was larger than the house of an average Empire

citizen, and their fabric was decorated with gold and heavily embroidered, as if each

was trying to outdo the other, which was probably the case. It made Grunwald sick.

He had glimpsed the military commander of the state troops, a foppish inbred

noble said to be the second cousin to one of the contenders for the disputed position

of Elector Count of Averland. The noble wore weapons glittering with jewels and

ornamentation, and wore a gold-plated breastplate moulded to represent a heroic,

muscled torso. A limp-wristed fop who played at war, was Grunwald’s assessment.

Averlanders generally had a reputation within the Empire for extroverted displays of

wealth and ornamentation, yet this nobleman took that to a whole new level.

The Knights of the Blazing Sun had no overt political association with the state,

nor with any other, and they were picketed separate from the Averlanders. Grunwald

had learnt that the temple that these knights had come from was within Stirland, and

there was little love lost between Stirlanders and Averlanders. Nonetheless, they had

come at the behest of the Emperor himself, and they were utterly devoted and

honourable servants of the Empire.

“I am still intrigued as to how travelling to Black Fire gets you closer to the

battlefields in the north,” said Grunwald. The preceptor laughed.

63

“The dwarfs have some machine here that will shorten the journey,” he said. “I

will need to see it with my own eyes to believe it, but it is said to be a monstrous

creation of steam and metal,” he shrugged.

A pair of Averlanders, clearly more than a little drunk and with their arms draped

around a trio of women reeking of cheap perfume, staggered past Grunwald’s

campfire, laughing raucously. As they caught sight of the glaring witch hunter they

fell silent and hurried on their way.

“You know, I think your presence is making the state soldiers nervous,” remarked

Karl.

“Only the guilty need fear my presence,” replied Grunwald. Karl smiled from

across the campfire at the grim witch hunter.

“My, you are an uplifting, positive character to have around, aren’t you?” he said,

his eyes full of humour.

“Being uplifting and positive doesn’t really go hand in hand with my

occupation,” said Grunwald, scowling. In truth he liked the young knight—he was

easy company after spending weeks on the road with the dour ironbreaker, Thorrik.

The dwarf lowered his bulk and sat down noisily alongside the pair, and within

moments was puffing on his dragon-headed pipe.

The witch hunter liked the fact that the knight seemed utterly unfazed by him—

he was not cowed in the slightest by his appearance, manner or occupation, and he

found it a refreshing change.

“You should try it sometime though,” continued the knight. “It might put people

more at ease—and when people are at ease, that’s usually when they’ll say

something wrong and implicate themselves.”

“People are pretty good at implicating themselves when they are very much ill at

ease,” said Grunwald in reply, twisting his knife in front of him before eating the

hunk of meat off its tip.

“I’d imagine that is correct,” said Karl. He was a handsome, blue-eyed man,

probably in his early twenties, Grunwald gauged. His wavy hair was fair, and hung to

his shoulders now that he wore neither his chainmail coif nor his black-lacquered

helmet. Vain, thought Grunwald—long hair had a tendency to catch painfully in

chainmail. Long hair, in his opinion, was impractical for warriors at the best of times.

It gave the enemy something else they could use against you. Still, he was certain

that many of the younger women camp followers were besotted with the dashing

young knight, so longer hair clearly had some benefit. He snorted at his own line of

thinking. “What?” asked Karl.

“Nothing. I was just thinking that you make me feel old,” Grunwald said.

“Yes, you are getting a bit long in the tooth, grandfather, and there is more than a

bit of grey in your moustache. You must be pushing, what, thirty?”

Grunwald snorted again. “Thirty-three, and you should learn to respect your

elders—I’m not so old that I couldn’t break that pretty nose of yours.”

“Thirty-three,” guffawed Thorrik. “Ha! I remember thirty-three! Barely past

suckling at a teat!” Karl burst into laughter, and Grunwald smiled.

64

Weary beyond words, Annaliese climbed the high mountain road, the sleeping form

of Tomas clinging around her neck. Night had long fallen, and they travelled in

silence. Eldanair stalked out in front of them, bow in hand, his every movement sharp

and wary. Katrin walked at her side, the hem of the sister’s robes dirtied from days of

travel.

The rough road had been hewn into the side of the mountain, and to her right it

rose steeply, covered in dense fir trees. To her left the ground fell away sharply, the

mountainside rocky and steep.

Far below in the dark valley glinted the lights of the small settlement,

Priesterstadt, and on the far side the mountains rose against the dark sky. The valley

fed into Black Fire Pass itself, and though nothing of it could be seen in the darkness,

merely being in such close proximity to the hallowed place filled her with awe. It was

said that the earth had spewed forth molten rock and fire which had cooled and

hardened and filled the valley with the craggy, black surface that gave the pass its

name. Annaliese was unsure of the truth to the story—rock that ran like water and

burned like wood sounded even more far-fetched than the idea of giant rats that

walked upright like men and lurked beneath the surface of the world.

At Black Fire Pass the mighty Sigmar had stood with the united human tribes and

their dwarfen allies and fought the greatest battle ever to have taken place in the Old

World. A horde of greenskins the likes of which had never before been seen was set

to pass through the valley and into the fertile lands beyond—it would have spelt the

end of human civilisation. Sigmar stood against this force and fought it to a standstill

for days on end. He slew the mighty greenskin warlord and the unity of the orc and

goblin tribes was shattered. It was the most important victory in the history of

mankind, and it heralded the dawning of the Empire itself.

Annaliese had listened as a child at the knee of her father, her mouth agape as he

recounted the tale of Sigmar’s victory. She never grew tired of the story, and would

beg her father each night before bed to retell it. He would embellish it and invent

new, super-human exploits for the blond warrior-god, but the essence of the tale was

always the same. A single man refusing to be beaten that brought about salvation for

all.

A single man was all that stood between victory and defeat, her father had always

said. If just one warrior had turned to flee that day, it would have caused an

unstoppable rout that would have been the end of the Empire before it was even

formed—but none ran, even though most must have believed that their doom had

come. And they held only because of their belief in a single, brave warrior.

All it takes, her father would often say, is one person to stand up against

oppression and overwhelming force for others to stand with them—just one person to

show bravery in the face of death for others to overcome their fear. This, he said, was

the most important lesson he could ever teach her, and he would repeat it often. The

smallest things win battles, he said—a single man turning and running, a single man

standing tall and defying the enemy when all seemed lost.

There was the distant howling of a wolf, and she shivered, glancing back at the

way they had come.

In the far distance, there was a score of tiny flickering lights. More travellers

coming late at night to Black Fire Pass?

65

The vista would have been stunning in daylight, and she wished that she could

see it. Still, it mattered little—she had decided that she would stay at the temple to

aid the Sisters of Shallya in their sacred duty. She would have many days before her

to witness the grandeur of Black Fire Pass.

She felt a sense of calm come over her as she thought about the years that lay

ahead having made the decision. To spend her years dedicated to the goddess of

mercy tending the ill and the wounded would be both heart wrenching and satisfying,

she thought. And it would allow her to remain with Tomas and Katrin, and that in

itself made her pleased.

Her long journey was almost over, and she was glad of it. She felt stronger than

she ever had done, and she had travelled Sigmar knew how many miles across the

Empire, but her journeys had brought her to where she felt in her heart she was meant

to be; a pilgrimage of sorts.

They came upon an impassable, crenelated wall that protected the approach to the

temple. A powerful, squat gatehouse was positioned squarely in the road, its massive

gate barred and a black iron portcullis standing before it.

Sentries stood upon walls lit with burning braziers, and Annaliese saw the glint of

metal from the tips of halberds. One of the sentries gave a shout as the weary-

travellers approached, and crossbows were aimed down at them through the

crenelations. Even this could not dampen Annaliese’s feeling of well-being, and she

felt a shiver of anticipation as she saw the bronze icon above the gate of a twin-tailed

comet, the symbol that was said to herald the coming of Sigmar himself.

Eldanair loosened the tension on his bowstring as more crossbows were aimed

towards them, and he lifted his hands into the air to show his weapon was not

readied.

“Who goes there?” came a shout, and Katrin stepped forwards so that the light of

the braziers fell upon her.

“I am a Sister of Shallya, come to rejoin my order who have come to the temple

to give aid where it is needed,” she said. This was met with a muffled conversation,

and Annaliese could hear the sound of a heavy bar being lifted by several men. A

small door inset into the massive double-doors of the gate was opened and a sleepy

looking warrior appeared. He blinked as he saw Katrin standing before him, and cast

a quick eye over Annaliese and Eldanair, who had drawn his hood over his head. He

nodded, yawning.

“You will have to wait for one of the priests, I am afraid, good sister. None may

pass through here after dark without their express permission.”

Katrin nodded her assent, and the wooden door closed. It was opened a moment

later by the same sentry.

“Can I get you anything, sister? Water? Bread? It’s nothing fancy, I’m afraid.”

“Thank you but no,” she replied. “We will wait until I am rejoined with my

sisters to take refreshment.” The door clicked shut once again.

Ten minutes passed before the sound of turning gears and levers heralded the

lifting of the spiked, iron portcullis. One of the large double-doors opened with a

heavy groan of wood to show a powerful warrior priest waiting for them, leaning on

an immense double-handed hammer. He was thickly set, and dressed in armour of

plate steel beneath his robes. He looked every inch the veteran soldier.

66

“Sister, it is late to be travelling these parts,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft

as he ushered her forwards. “There are dangers abroad.”

“Thank you, brother,” said Katrin. “These are my friends and they seek refuge

within the temple.”

The warrior priest nodded, and his eyes flicked to Eldanair, then to Annaliese and

her young charge, then back to the hooded elf.

“The girl and child we welcome with open arms. But I would see the face of the

warrior before allowing him to pass,” the warrior priest said softly.

As if he understood the words, Eldanair pulled the hood from his face, his bearing

proud and noble as he looked into the priest’s eyes. One of the warriors of Sigmar’s

eyebrows rose slightly, though his expression did not change. He held up a hand

towards the elf, and Annaliese felt a flutter within her, as if something ethereal and

invisible stirred within.

“Your heart is pure and that of a brave warrior,” said the priest. “Nevertheless, I

regret that you may not pass within these gates.”

“What?” said Annaliese sharply. “If it were not for him, we would all have

perished. I was not aware the temple was so unwelcoming.”

The priest turned his gentle eyes towards her, and she felt an aura of strength and

calm descend over her.

“Would we humans be allowed within a temple of elven kind? Would we be

allowed within the ancestral halls of dwarfenkind? It is not through being

unwelcoming that I bar his entrance. It is merely out of respect to the temple.”

Annaliese glared at him, pushing away the feeling of calm that he was exerting.

“Fine,” she snapped, and turned towards Eldanair. With hand signals and

gestures, she quickly made the situation known. She tried to communicate that she

would come back out once Tomas was safe. He shrugged slightly, and looked down

his nose at the Sigmarite priest. Turning swiftly, he pulled the hood down low over

his face, and melted into the fir trees.

“The temple will provide food and firewood should the elf require it, lady,” said

the priest softly. Annaliese flashed him an angry glance.

“He would not accept them,” she said. The priest merely shrugged in response,

and turned to lead them through the gatehouse. Gravel crunched underfoot as they

made their way back onto the road beyond.

It seemed like a dream to Annaliese when they finally rounded a bend and saw

the glory of the temple of Sigmar, and her foul mood evaporated instantly. Braziers

of warming fire welcomed them, and lights could be seen through the small, high

windows that had been constructed with as much thought to defence as to

architectural beauty.

In the dim moonlight, Annaliese could see that at the apex of the domed roof of

the temple glittered a golden statue of man, a mighty hammer in his hands. Her

mouth opened in awe. With the coming of sunrise, the statue would be lit up as if

blazing with divine light.

The doors of the temple creaked open, and warmth and light spilled out.

Annaliese felt a surge of well-being as she entered.

“I am home,” she whispered.

67

Udo Grunwald walked his horse alongside Thorrik, giving the tired beast a rest. It

was skittish, and he could feel it trembling as wolves howled in the distance. It must

have been nearing midnight, but he was determined to press on to the temple. It was

around three hours further on, he estimated—they should reach it an hour or so

before dawn.

Karl Heiden, preceptor of the Knights of the Blazing Sun, was leading the

column, and the night was filled with rhythmic clopping of hooves on the black

rocky ground that gave the pass its name. There was but a score of the knights

accompanying them, the remainder of the order having set up camp just outside the

valley, so as to enter at dawn. Grunwald and Thorrik had both been keen to continue

on, and Karl had requested permission from the Templar Master of his order to escort

them. It was a noble gesture, and Grunwald was thankful for the company. Every

fourth knight carried a burning brand aloft in his armoured hand, letting off a warm,

flickering glow.

The mountains rose up on either side of the valley, and the trees were thick on

their slopes.

“Good road, this,” commented Thorrik, lowering the burning brand he held

towards the ground. Grunwald grunted in response. He hadn’t paid the road much

notice. “Made by my kinsmen before the War of Vengeance.” He stamped one of his

feet solidly onto the stonework, making Grunwald’s horse shy. “Good, solid, dwarf

work,” continued Thorrik. “Will last until the end of the world, when Grimnir

himself will return to us.” The dwarf glanced up at Grunwald. “We must part ways

soon, lad. I must deliver this,” he said, indicating with a thumb to the wrapped item

on his back. “I am oath-bound to one now drinking in the halls of the ancestors,” he

said gruffly, obviously uncomfortable with such talk. He cleared his throat. “I won’t

be around much longer to keep saving your neck.”

The witch hunter smiled. In truth he would miss his dour companion. His horse

shied again, whinnying sharply and tugging at the reins in his hand. “Hush,” he said,

patting it on the neck as Thorrik glared at it hatefully from beneath his helm. The

horse pulled at its reins again, more forcefully, its ears flat against its head.

“What is wrong with that confounded beast?” grumbled the dwarf as Grunwald

tried to calm it.

“Something’s spooked him,” said Grunwald, struggling with the horse. He saw

that the knights’ horses were uneasy as well, though their training kept them from

acting up. He saw Karl raise his hand for the column to halt, and Grunwald held a

hand to his trembling mount’s neck, whispering quietly to it. Its eyes were wide.

There was another howling of wolves, closer this time, and he heard Thorrik hiss

as he swung to stare into the dark fir woods that walled the roadway.

“Have you never heard wolves before, dwarf?” scoffed Grunwald. His grin

slipped when more howling sounded, closer again than before.

“Grobi,” snarled Thorrik, dropping his heavy pack to the ground and hefting his

axe in one hand, the other still holding his burning brand aloft.

“What?” said Grunwald.

“We are being attacked!” roared the dwarf as the first shape streaked from the

darkness of the trees, hurtling towards the column of knights.

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Teeth bared and a feral growl emanating from deep in its chest, the huge wolf

bounded across the uneven ground. A greenskinned creature clung to its back,

grinning broadly to expose a fearsome array of needle-like teeth.

Before the knights could react to Thorrik’s warning, the wolf leapt at the closest

warrior of the Blazing Sun. The wolf was immense, easily the size of a small horse,

and it closed its slavering jaws around the steed’s armoured neck. The horse

screamed in terror and fell beneath the weight of the wolf, as the creature perched

upon its back thrust its crude spear into the chest of the knight, denting but not

piercing his breastplate. Nevertheless, his legs were crushed as the weight of his

panicked, barded steed fell upon him. The hateful green-skinned creature leapt from

its mount onto the knight, ramming the spear tip through the knight’s vision slit, as

the blood-hungry wolf killed his horse.

“Goblins,” snarled Grunwald, as more of the creatures swarmed from the

concealing darkness of the tree line, bounding towards the column. He released his

grip on his horse’s reins, and it reared, hooves flailing, before a hurled spear drove

into its chest. It bolted, its lifeblood pumping from the mortal wound.

At a shout from Karl, the knights wheeled their steeds to face the threat,

maintaining their discipline despite the confusion that was erupting.

Thorrik roared a dwarfen war cry and hurled his burning brand into the face of

one of the charging creatures before hefting his axe in both hands and slamming it

into the side of the head of a wolf that leapt towards him, caving its skull.

Grunwald drew and fired one of his pistols, sending a goblin flying from the

saddle, blood spraying out behind it. He threw himself to the ground as the monstrous

wolf leapt at him.

The knights flailed around them, discarding their lances in favour of their heavy

cavalry blades. They hacked down at the wolf riders, killing several, but other

knights were being knocked from their steeds as more wolves launched themselves at

their warhorses.

As he rose to his feet, Grunwald slipped his mace from its belt, and leapt at a

wolf that was tearing at a fallen knight. It turned as he closed on it, baring its teeth

and its feral eyes filled with animal ferocity and hunger. The mace smashed into the

side of the creature’s head, smashing teeth and bone, and it fell with a whimper.

Grunwald heard Karl trying to organise his knights, barking commands and

orders. He saw a hurled spear slam into the side of Thorrik’s helmet, and his head

jerked, but the blow could not even scratch his gromril armour, nor did it knock him

back a single step. He merely turned, cursing in his own language, and cut down

another leaping wolf, his blade smashing it to the ground.

The witch hunter snarled as a jagged blade cut across his forearm, and he spun,

smashing his attacker from the back of a wolf. The goblin hissed at him as he leapt at

it, its scrawny limbs kicking out at him. Grunwald slammed a boot into the creature’s

head, hearing a satisfying crack as its neck broke.

He saw Karl then, battling like a hero of old, his sword cutting down goblins and

his horse shattering skulls with its flailing hooves. A diminutive greenskin leapt from

the back of its own mount onto the saddle behind Karl, spider-like fingers scrabbling

at the knight’s helmet, a serrated dagger held in its other hand. His warhorse reared;

69

both the knight and the goblin fell to the ground, and Grunwald lost sight of the

preceptor.

He hefted his mace and took a step back to get a better footing as a pair of wolf

riders leapt towards him, tongues lolling from the maws of the massive grey-furred

mounts. One of the goblins tumbled forward off its steed, and the wolf of the second

rider yelped in pain and collapsed to the ground, its back legs giving way beneath it.

The witch hunter saw a metal crossbow bolt protruding from the hindquarters of the

wolf, and the air was suddenly filled with a second flight of bolts fired from the tree

line.

The wolf that had lost its rider leapt at him, huge paws slamming into his chest,

jaws widening as it sought his throat. He was knocked backwards onto the ground,

and he felt the rancid, hot breath of the foul creature on his face. Desperately he held

its jaws at bay with a gloved hand clamped around the beast’s throat, but the strength

and weight of it was immense.

His sight was obscured as hot blood sprayed into his eyes, and he felt the

monstrous creature go limp, collapsing on top of him. With a surge of adrenaline-

fuelled strength he pushed the dead weight from him, and rose unsteadily to his feet,

wiping the thick gruel of viscous gore from his eyes.

A short, stocky figure turned away from him, hefting a double-headed axe.

A throaty war cry sounded all around him, Grunwald saw a host of the stocky

figures trudging forward, hefting axes. Grunwald grunted with exertion as he clubbed

his mace into the head of a goblin half-crushed beneath its dead mount, smashing it

like a piece of fruit, and watched as the dwarfs descended on the goblins, vitriolic

hatred guiding their blows. Their axes carved a bloody swathe through the

greenskins, and the last of the wolf riders were soon fleeing into the darkness, the

sound of their howls growing ever more distant.

Grunwald wiped the blood and brain matter from the ridges of his mace as

Thorrik greeted his kinsmen dourly, speaking in their own rumbling, guttural tongue.

He looked around and caught sight of Karl, swearing profusely as he brushed the

mud from his armour.

“How many?” he asked the preceptor as he drew alongside him. The knight

looked up, his eyes angry.

“Too many. Six knights, and four horses. One more horse will have to be

destroyed.” Even as he said the words, the pained screams of a horse were silenced,

“Damn it, things must be bad if there are goblins raiding the entrance to the pass.”

“Aye,” said Grunwald.

“You alright? Got yourself cut?” asked Karl, seeing the blood dripping from the

witch hunter’s arm. Grunwald glanced down at the wound.

“Nothing much. Should have seen it coming,” he said dismissively.

“I’m glad they turned up,” muttered Karl, nodding his head towards the dwarfs.

The leader of the dwarfs was conversing with Thorrik while the rest of their number

got to work piling up the dead goblins and wolves. It looked like there were over two

dozen of the wretched corpses all told.

They were not as heavily armoured as Thorrik, he noted. Each of them wore a

heavy coat of mail and a thick furred cloak, and carried axes and sturdy crossbows.

70

They moved about their work with diligence and within minutes they had a large

blaze going, and the air was filled with the stench of burning flesh.

The witch hunter and preceptor walked to Thorrik’s side, and the dwarf he was

talking to turned his stony gaze towards them. He looked older than Thorrik, though

it was hard to gauge his age, and his grey-streaked beard would have touched the

ground if it had not been tied up and folded back on itself in a series of intricate

braids. He had a pipe in his mouth, and blue smoke puffed from his nostrils.

“I thank you for your timely arrival, sir dwarf,” said the knight. “I am Karl

Heiden, preceptor of Myrmidia, and this is Udo Grunwald, templar of Sigmar. Had

you not arrived when you did, I fear that my losses would have been considerably

higher.”

The dwarf grunted in reply, and said something in his native language, pipe-

smoke billowing around him.

“It seems that you spoke the truth,” said Thorrik gruffly, addressing Karl, his face

dark. “The hated greenskins are massing in numbers not seen since the time of King

Kurgan himself. They smash against the walls of Kolaz Umgol and the Grimbeard

Station like a living tide, and it is said that even Karaz-a-Karak is threatened. This is

a grim day indeed.”

“But these outriders slipped past the defences of the pass,” said Grunwald,

concerned. “Others may have done so as well. The temple of Sigmar may itself be

under attack.”

“Aye, it may be so, manling,” said the leader of the dwarf rangers, still puffing at

his pipe. His voice sounded like boulders grinding together, stony and hard. “These

stinking grobi,” he said, removing his pipe to spit on the ground at the mention of the

greenskins, “are not the only of their kind moving out there this night. I can smell

their stink on the air.”

Grunwald felt his anger grow. He turned towards Karl, rage and concern in his

eyes.

“I must get to the temple. It must not be defiled by the likes of these foul

creatures,” he said indicating towards the burning pile of goblins. Karl nodded his

head.

“The Knights of the Blazing Sun will ride with you,” said the preceptor, his face

unusually serious.

“Manling,” said Thorrik, and the witch hunter turned towards the dour,

dependable warrior.

“I cannot accompany you this time,” said the dwarf. “My oath binds me. Here our

ways part.” The pair shook arms, hands locked around the other’s forearm in the

dwarfen manner. Then, with no more than a gruff nod in farewell, the dwarf turned

and began marching to the east with his kinsmen. Silently, Grunwald wished the

dwarf well.

“Come,” said Karl. “I will find a steed for you.”

In the distance, wolves howled.

Annaliese lay the sleeping Tomas down on a pallet thick with straw, deep within the

temple of Sigmar and decided to rest alongside him. Just for a moment, she told

71

herself. She felt like a different person having bathed, washing the grime from her

skin. As she washed, she had been pleased to see that the muscles of her legs were

defined and strong, before she laughed at herself for her vanity. She would rest her

head on the pillow for just a moment, she told herself. Instantly she fell into a deep,

restful sleep, her arm protectively round the sleeping boy.

Somewhere close by, wolves were howling, but she ignored them, feeling

blessedly safe deep within the stone fortress. Dimly she registered the pounding of

skin drums, but she pushed these intrusions away, thinking they were a part of her

dreams.

They seemed to fade, and she found herself walking in the sunshine through a

golden field. Strangely, she was dressed in armour of shining brilliance, but she felt

completely comfortable in the war gear. She smiled as the sun beat down upon her,

and she brushed her hands through the crops gently swaying in the light breeze.

A bell sounded close by, sharp and loud, and Annaliese woke with a start.

The room was dimly lit, for someone had turned the lantern down low, though

she had never heard anyone come into the room. The bell tolled urgently, and she

rolled from the pallet and dressed herself quickly. She noticed that Tomas was no

longer asleep on the bed, nor anywhere else in the room.

The bell rang frantically, and she heard the howling of wolves. She had heard that

sound before, in the wilderness hunting with her father. It was the sound of wolves

closing in for the kill.

72

CHAPTER NINE

Eldanair pulled the arrow from the goblin’s neck as he swept past the dead creature,

nocking it to his bowstring. He ran swiftly through the trees, a shadow in the

darkness. He made no sound nor left any mark of his passing bar the corpses of the

slain as he cut between the dense firs, running hard.

He came upon a small clearing on the edge of a cliff face and sprang lightly up a

rocky outcrop, until he stood on its edge, unfazed by the thousand foot drop below

him. From here he could see across to the temple of the human god in the distance.

The sound of the warning bell tolled out across the valley, and with his keen elven

eyes he could see dark shapes swarming towards the temple.

Cursing, he broke into a run again, leaping lightly from his precarious position on

the rock face and striking out towards the building.

Having been denied entrance to the human temple, Eldanair had merely scaled

the walls, unseen and unheard by the sentries. Such dull senses they had! he had

mused. Dropping down to the ground within the compound, he had melted into the

shadows, ghosting after Annaliese.

Despite his ease at circumventing them, he had been impressed with the temple’s

defences. High walls and gates guarded the approach to the temple from the north

and the south, while the east was protected by sheer cliff that dropped away to the

valley far below; the west was guarded by equally impassable cliffs that towered

above.

Distant howling that would have been impossible for a human to discern had

carried to his keen ears, and he caught a whiff of a familiar, hated scent on the wind.

Without pause, he had scaled the north walls and set off into the trees, hunting the

greenskins.

Hearing pounding coming up the road, Eldanair cut to his left, towards the sound,

and he dropped into a crouch beside the bole of an ancient tree. Eldanair let out a

long even breath, waiting for his moment, before he stepped from his concealment

onto the road, and fired.

The arrow slammed into a thick, sloping forehead punching through the bone and

into the brain of the hulking creature. It toppled from the ridged back of a snorting

war boar. The beast swung around to viciously gore its fallen rider with tusks as long

as a man’s forearm. A second arrow punched into the neck of another rider, but it

merely bellowed in rage and yanked its mount brutally in Eldanair’s direction.

His third arrow sank into the orc’s crude wooden shield, and the creature roared

again, its mouth impossibly large and filled with thick tusk-like teeth. It hefted a

cleaver of huge proportions, and Eldanair rolled neatly out of the way as the frenzied

boar charged him. The orc’s weapon slammed into the trunk of the tree, a hair’s

breadth from Eldanair’s back as the elf rolled to his feet and he sent two shafts slicing

73

just behind the boar’s shoulder, seeking the heart. The creature smashed into the

ground, dead, its jaw and furred snout digging a deep furrow in the earth. The

greenskin leapt from its back, turning towards Eldanair.

It might have been of a height equal to the elf had it stood straight up, but it was

stooped, its broad, brutish head buried squarely between its massive shoulders. Its

arms were as thick as tree stumps, and it roared as it leapt towards Eldanair, spittle

dripping from its gaping jaws.

He put two arrows into the creature before it reached him. With its wooden shield

it smashed him to the side, and he staggered to avoid a lethal swing of its massive

weapon. Seeing him off balance, the creature roared again and charged him,

slamming its meaty shoulder into his chest, and he was knocked to the ground,

wincing in pain.

Still, he recovered with inhuman swiftness and grace. His hand flashed out as he

rose to his knee, and a knife embedded itself to the hilt in the orc’s eye socket. It fell

with a groan to the ground, twitched once and was still. Eldanair swiftly retrieved his

knife and broke into a run again.

More greenskins pounded up the road heading towards the temple, and Eldanair

cut to the right, striking out through the fir trees. Keeping off the road, he made good

time, zigzagging through the maze of trees with impossible swiftness.

At last he saw the dark shadow of the wall rising up before him and he broke

from the tree line, throwing his bow over his shoulder as he darted towards the sheer

wall almost fifteen feet high.

He sprang onto the wall, his fingers finding purchase between the rough-hewn

rocks. Praying there was no sentry on this section, he climbed up, his muscles

straining and hissing at the pain in his fingers.

Reaching the top, he threw a leg over the crenelations, and dropped onto the

ramparts in a crouch. Drawing his bow, he glanced along the defensive wall, seeing

the corpses of sentries hacked apart by vicious blows. Crude ladders were leaning up

against the walls, and he saw a goblin cutting the ears from one of the sentries.

Eldanair dispatched the creature with an arrow through the back of the neck.

Eldanair dropped silently to the ground inside the wall, hugging the darkness. He

darted forwards and crouched beside a covered well, hidden in its shadow. From here

he could see that the portcullis of the gatehouse had been raised, and jammed open

with tree-trunks. The heavy wooden door had been shattered, and more greenskins

were streaming through the now open portal.

He heard a dull, rhythmic pounding sound and knew instantly that it was a

battering ram being used on the temple’s entrance.

“Annaliese,” he hissed, and broke from his cover, heading in the direction of the

temple.

“Tomas!” Annaliese shouted, hearing her own voice disappear in the cacophony of

shouts and screams. She ran up the corridor towards the temple proper, passing

beneath severe archways and the cold stare of Sigmarite saints, frantic with panic.

The tolling of the bell continued to resound deafeningly from somewhere high

overhead.

74

Servants of the temple and the devout who had come to the temple on

pilgrimages were bursting from dormitories on either side of the passageway, fear on

their faces. They clutched icons of Sigmar and wailed. Annaliese tried to ask several

of them if they had seen a little boy, but she was buffeted by hurrying people, and no

one wanted to listen to her.

A deep, commanding voice bellowed down the corridor. The milling, scared

people were silenced by the authoritative tone, and they began to shuffle towards the

speaker, a tall warrior priest adorned in armour and robes.

“The temple of our lord is besieged,” the priest said, his voice loud enough to

carry to everyone gathered. “Any man able to fight should remain here to aid in the

defence of the temple. I want all the women and children to come to the front now,

and you will be taken to the undercroft.” The corridor suddenly erupted in a

cacophony of noise, people crying out in fear, and assailing the priest with questions.

“Enough!” he roared, silencing the crowd. “There will be no argument here!

Initiate Alexis here will guide you to the undercroft. I want women and children to go

with him. Now! Take nothing with you, you go with what you are carrying now.”

People began to bustle and push, and the sound level rose quickly once more.

“Be silent!” raged the priest. “You are all children of Sigmar—do not dishonour

him with weakness and tears! Go now, in silence, and Alexis will lead you in prayer

once the undercroft is sealed. Go now!”

Women made hasty farewells to nervous looking husbands and fathers, and an

argument broke out between a boy and his mother.

“You are too young!” the mother said severely, cutting him off mid-sentence. The

tall priest placed a hand on her shoulder, and she turned tearful eyes up at him.

“The boy has Sigmar’s fighting spirit—let him stand alongside us and defy these

enemies,” he said, his voice stern. Tears began to roll down the woman’s face, and

she hugged the boy to her chest, sobbing.

The young initiate Alexis, who could not have been older than eight years old,

took the woman’s hand and led her away with the others.

The tall priest turned his green eyes towards Annaliese, who was craning her

neck, trying to see Tomas in the crowd.

“Go with the others,” he said. She merely shook her head, ignoring him as she

continued to scan the corridor. He gripped her arm firmly, urging her towards the

departing women and children.

“I will not,” she snapped, shaking her arm free. She glared at him fiercely, tears

welling unbidden in her eyes. “I cannot find… there is a boy… Tomas.”

“There is no time for this, girl!” barked the priest. “Your child is probably already

down there, with the gentle sisters.”

“The sisters…” muttered Annaliese. That must be it! Tomas had gone to find

Katrin. “The sisters are already down there?”

“Yes, yes they are,” said the priest, distracted now.

“Now go! Hurry!”

She left the priest who barked at the wide-eyed men to follow him to the

armoury. Running lightly, she headed in the direction that the women had been

75

ushered in. She passed through several corridors, hearing a rhythmic pounding in-

between the ringing of the bell.

She ran out of an archway and came upon the central chapel to Sigmar, lit with

candles and braziers and she gasped in awe.

It had been darkened when they had been bustled through earlier that evening, but

now that it was lit, she gazed around with her mouth wide open.

The room was immense, the walls rising impossibly high and disappearing into

darkness above. Statues of Sigmar’s warrior saints lined the walls, standing within

arched alcoves twenty feet above the ground. They posed heroically, holding mighty

weapons and standing on top of slain enemies. Each statue was the size of a giant,

and candlelight flickered over their forms, giving the illusion of movement.

But the statue of Sigmar himself in the centre of the domed temple, standing on a

plinth and surrounded by statues of fierce horsemen, took her breath away.

Braziers lit the mighty golden statue from beneath, forming deep shadows upon

its heavily muscled torso as the representation of the warrior god lifted his

warhammer Ghal Maraz high into the air. His hair was long and flowing, and upon

his face was an expression of utter determination—it was the expression Annaliese

imagined the man-god had worn when he defied the endless hordes of greenskins in

the blackened pass nearby, and it spoke of awesome strength and nobility.

Clockwork cherubs circled around the statue, metallic feathered wings clicking as

they flapped jerkily and raised trumpets to their pouting lips.

Her attention was distracted from the awe-inspiring statue as a trio of heavily

armoured warrior priests hurried past. One of them was the gentle-spoken priest that

had escorted her to the temple earlier that night, though she almost did not recognise

him wearing his open-faced helm, and he stopped at her side.

“You should be with the others,” he said gently, his eyebrows furrowing in

concern. “Come,” he added and began to hurry her towards the back of the temple.

“I can fight,” she said defiantly, standing her ground, The priest paused and

smiled, transforming his face. He was very handsome, she thought, and felt a blush

coming over her cheeks. The priest placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. The metal

of his gauntlet felt cold.

“Of that I have no doubt,” he said. “Someone needs to guard over the women and

children. Come.”

She knew he was humouring her, and she felt her blush deepen, but she allowed

herself to be led to the entrance leading beneath the temple. It was a narrow staircase

spiralling down into the rock. Light flickered up weakly from below.

There was a resounding boom that echoed through the temple, followed by the

sound of splintering wood.

“We are breached!” came a shout, followed by the sound of weapons clashing. A

blood-curdling, bestial roar resounded across the temple, and a warrior cried out in

pain.

“I must go,” said the priest. He squeezed her shoulder briefly, and turned away,

holding his hammer in both hands, his face grim. She bit her lip as she looked at the

spiralling, stone steps. Seeing her indecision as he glanced back, the priest shouted to

her, all softness gone from his voice. “Go now!” he commanded.

76

She heard a roared prayer to Sigmar, accompanied by a flash of golden light from

across the temple, and the roars and bellows of inhuman foes. A man cried out in

pain as Annaliese began the descent beneath the temple.

Down and down the staircase spiralled. She passed a landing where a burning

torch burnt in its brazier. She touched an ancient shield emblazoned with the twin-

tailed comet that hung on the wall, and continued further down in near darkness,

feeling the way along the smooth walls with her hands. Sounds of battle filtered

down from above, and her breath was heavy—it felt like the walls were closing in on

her, and she imagined herself tripping and falling headlong down the treacherous

steps into the darkness.

At last she began to be able to see again, and she stepped onto a wide landing

carved out of the rock. Torches burnt on the walls, and she began to dash down the

wide corridor towards the heavy door at the other end, passing by numerous shrine-

alcoves holding the bones of saints.

She paused at one of the shrines as she passed, seeing a skeleton in highly

polished, ancient armour lying on a plinth carved into the wall. A gleaming shield

hung above the long dead warrior’s resting place, and a hammer was clasped in

skeletal hands over his chest. Faded parchment hung upon the walls, doubtlessly

speaking of the deeds of the warrior priest, and strips of velum hung beneath sconces

of candles, covered in intricate writings. She turned away as a horrible death scream

echoed down from above, and ran to the door at the far end of the corridor.

It was a heavy door of oak, reinforced with iron strips and spikes. She hammered

on its surface. “Please,” she cried. “Please open the door.” She realised then that she

was not wearing the sword blade that Eldanair had given her, and she cursed herself.

If the enemy did manage to slaughter the warrior priests above, how was she going to

defend the women and children down here?

Still cursing herself, she spun on her heel, eyes flashing around for a weapon. She

noticed a dull light emanating from one of the alcoves, and she stepped warily

towards it.

She barely noticed the sound of a heavy bar being lifted, for she was certain that

something was drawing her towards the resting place of this ancient warrior.

“Annaliese!” hissed a voice as the door behind her was opened, and dimly she

registered the voice of the Sister of Shallya, Katrin. “Annaliese, come inside,

quickly! Tomas is with me here!”

In a daze, Annaliese ignored the woman, and stepped into the alcove.

Where all the other shrines had been painstakingly maintained, the armour and

weapons of the deceased being highly shined and free from dust, this warrior was

covered in cobwebs, his ornate platemail rusted and tarnished.

Shadows seemed to play at the corner of her vision, and Annaliese thought she

heard a gentle whispering, like a voice carried on a breeze. Spiders scuttled away

from her as she approached what she guessed could only be a revered warrior priest

of another era, and the whispering seemed to get stronger, though she could not make

out any words.

A deathly chill descended, but still she drew closer to the skeleton as if it were

calling to her. She knelt in dust undisturbed for centuries at the venerable warrior’s

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side, and looked at its face. The flesh had long wasted away from the bones, and the

lower jaw hung half loose from the skull, but she was not horrified or scared.

Dimly she heard a voice frantically calling her name, but it seemed like it was

coming from a long way away, and she ignored it.

The skeleton wore a circlet of tarnished metal around the crown of its head, and

tufts of hair remained on the skull. She glanced down at the warrior’s hands. Clasped

in each hand was a hammer covered in dust and cobwebs, crossed over a plain, long-

rusted breastplate. The hammers were of simple, functional design—a short, plain

metal haft that ended in a solid twin-head. The only ornamentation upon them was

the twin-tailed comet relief set into the sides of the hammer head, but even these

were far from ostentatious.

Driven more by instinct than rational thought, her hand closed around the haft of

one of the hammers. A finger bone snapped as she lifted the brittle hand and slid the

hammer from the grasp of the long dead warrior priest. Carefully she replaced the

hand upon the chest and marvelled at the weapon clasped in her hands. She wiped

away the dust and spiderwebs, feeling the strength within the killing weapon.

Leaning forward, she planted a kiss upon the forehead of the skeletal warrior

priest.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and rose to her feet.

Sound crashed in on her. A woman was screaming in her ear, and pulling upon

her arm. The stamp of heavy feet echoed through the passageway, accompanied by

the scrape of metal on stone and monstrous growls and guttural words barked in

some crude, brutish language.

As if waking from a dream, Annaliese saw Katrin’s tearful face close to hers,

begging her to go with her.

The sound of pounding feet came from the stairway, and she realised then that the

enemy had arrived. She stared with wide eyes at the hammer held in her hands.

Feeling a sense of peace and calm come over her, Annaliese lifted her head and

smiled at Katrin.

“Go inside and seal the door behind you,” she said to the frantic woman. Katrin

shook her head, tears running down her face, and tried to pull her bodily towards the

safety of the doorway. Beyond the open portal Annaliese saw the frightened faces of

women, and the young priest initiate wearing an expression of astonishment.

“Go, Katrin,” said Annaliese firmly, love and strength in her voice. Katrin

stopped her sobbing and looked deep into the teenage girl’s eyes, seeing the resolve

there, but seeing something else as well. Somewhat reluctantly she released her grip

on the girl, and with a last forlorn kiss on the cheek, she ran back through the

doorway.

“Seal it,” Annaliese heard the sister order, and she registered the door slamming

shut as she turned calmly away from it. Bolts were slid into place, and the heavy bar

behind the door was locked into position.

Walking slowly up the corridor, testing the weight of the hammer in her hands,

Annaliese stared grimly at the spiralling stone stairs.

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She felt the presence of the long dead saints of Sigmar alongside her, and as the

first of the enemies appeared, she let out a furious shout. With hammer raised high,

she attacked.

Surrounded by shards of coloured glass, Eldanair knelt on the tall windowsill,

surveying the carnage in the temple below. The window was some ten feet above the

tiled floor, and the stained glass set within it had depicted the human god, Sigmar,

until it had recently been smashed by a hurled spear.

The main expanse within the lofty, domed temple was seething with combatants.

A knot of heavily armoured humans fought back to back against the horde of

greenskins rushing in against them. The enemy smashed against them like a raging

torrent, and though they stood firm, they could not hold back the living tide, and orcs

and goblins were running rampant through the temple, smashing statues and kicking

over tall candelabras, whooping and roaring.

An arrow shattered as it struck the old stonework of the arched windowsill not

more than a foot from Eldanair’s head, and he saw a sharp-featured goblin frantically

nocking another barbed arrow to its short bow. He sent a shaft through the creature’s

chest, knocking it to the ground, and leaped from his vantage point, landing lightly

on the stone slabs flooring the temple.

He fired another arrow that slammed into the shoulder of an orc towering over

one of the humans. It was knocked off balance from the blow, and the human stepped

forward and clubbed it to the ground with a powerful blow of his double-handed

hammer.

“Annaliese!” shouted Eldanair as he felled another orc with an arrow in the lower

back. “Annaliese,” he called again, and darted through the melee, dodging spear

thrusts and wild slashes from broad cleavers.

He had no idea where the girl could be, but he was desperate to find and protect

her. On the blood of his fallen kin he had sworn to see her safe, and he would die

before he failed once more in his duty.

He rounded a towering pillar of white stone, the string of his bow pulled back and

an arrow readied. He came face to face with a green-eyed warrior, his face splattered

with blood, and fired. The arrow sliced through the air past the warrior’s ear and

slammed into the orc looming behind him, the shaft flying into the greenskin’s wide

mouth and punching through the back of its neck.

The human caught his own blow before he crushed the elf with his massive war

hammer, his eyes wide is surprise. Eldanair was past him then, flitting across the

temple floor.

“Annaliese,” he shouted again, and he turned as the warrior priest called out. The

human shouted something that he could not understand, but he made out the name

Annaliese within the garbled stream of words, pointing towards the rear of the

temple.

Eldanair gave a shout of warning, but it was too late, and a roaring orc slammed a

pair of giant cleavers into the back of the human. With a grimace of pain, the warrior

slammed forwards to the ground, the victorious orc whooping like a frenzied beast,

blood dripping from his weapons.

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He sent an arrow slamming into the creature’s neck, but it ignored the blow in its

bloodlust, and leapt away towards the other human warriors.

The elf darted towards the rear of the temple, coming up short as he reached the

back wall. Mouthing an obscenity, he turned around on the spot, wondering if he had

mistaken the meaning of the human’s words.

He heard a muffled roar and his eyes snapped towards a thin set of stairs

spiralling into darkness, half obscured behind a pillar.

“Annaliese,” he called out once more. There was no response, though the sounds

of battle were filtering up from below.

Throwing his bow over his shoulders and drawing his long elven blade, Eldanair

launched himself down the stairs.

The knights charged through the breached guardhouse with lances lowered, the

thunder of their mighty warhorses deafening. At their head rode Karl Heiden, the

preceptor urging his warriors urgently onwards.

The past hours had been a blur, as the knights rode hard up the winding mountain

road towards the temple. The blare of horns and the howling of wolves had become

more frantic and loud as they had neared their destination and Grunwald had prayed

they were not too late. A single bell tolled frantically, a desperate warning that pealed

out across the valley.

Goblins screamed as they scurried out of the path of knights pounding up the

road. Several of them were impaled on the end of lances, and Grunwald saw one

piteous creature lifted high into the air, spitted on Karl’s masterfully guided lance.

The witch hunter was not trained to fight from horseback, and his estimation of

the knights of Myrmidia rose. They engaged the enemy with lance and shield,

forsaking the use of reins now that battle had commenced, guiding their warhorses

expertly with their knees.

The wedge of knights thundered up the road, smashing aside all resistance. Once

lances had snapped or become embedded in the bodies of the greenskins they were

discarded, and the templars fought with cavalry sabres and blades, slashing down

onto the skulls of the foes as they pounded past.

Grunwald was unused to riding a fully trained warhorse bedecked in armour, but

he found the steed instantly responsive to his commands. It snorted and lashed out at

fallen orcs, trampling them beneath its hooves.

With the black and gold banner of Myrmidia flying high, the knights kept their

momentum, charging up the tree-lined road, foam flecking the mouths of their steeds.

The temple of Sigmar suddenly loomed large before them, imposing and martial, and

Grunwald swore to see its great doors smashed asunder, and greenskins piling

through the hallowed archway.

With a shouted command, the knights split into two groups, the smaller of the

two heading towards the temple itself while the other galloped hard towards the

largest cluster of orcs running towards the besieged structure.

Seeing the greenskins milling within the wide entrance to the temple, Karl guided

his splinter group of knights straight up the broad steps, ploughing into the rear of the

enemy.

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Swords rose and fell, carving bloody arcs through the air. Grunwald brought a

pistol to bear, it boomed loudly as the lead shot punched through the iron helmet of

an orc, dropping the creature instantly.

The knights’ charge took them into the main nave of the temple, the horses’

hooves slipping on the smooth stone. One of the steeds screamed and fell as it ran

onto a planted spear, the shaft snapping off as it embedded deep in its chest. Another

knight fell as a hurled cleaver slammed into his chest, and Grunwald struggled to stay

in the saddle as his steed reared, kicking out at anything nearby. He saw Karl reel

back in his saddle as an arrow thudded into his shoulder, but the preceptor did not

fall.

“Sigmar lend me strength!” came a shout, and the witch hunter’s eyes locked

onto a handful of warriors battling against insurmountable odds. He saw a tall, white-

haired figure in the midst of the priests, wielding twin blades, one short and wide for

defence, and he recognised his fierce superior. Thanking Sigmar that he was still

alive, Grunwald kicked his warhorse sharply, urging it on into the press of green

bodies.

A huge orc wrapped its massive arms around the neck of his warhorse, which

began thrashing around madly, bucking and kicking. Another orc leaped forwards

and hacked its blade into one of the horse’s exposed rear legs and the whole

armoured beast fell to the ground with a resounding crash.

Lucky not to have had his leg crushed, Grunwald staggered to his feet, and

deflected a wild swing with his mace, smashing the orc in the face with the weighted

butt of his pistol. Before the greenskin could recover, a pair of hooves connected

squarely with its forehead, killing it instantly.

He saw Karl rip his dented helmet from his head, before he led his steed deeper

into the press of bodies, his sword blade hacking left and right as he carved a path

towards the beleaguered warrior priests. Another knight was dragged down, and

Grunwald smashed his mace into the bony head of an orc that leapt towards the

knight. The impact cracked the orc’s skull, but sent a shudder up the handle of the

mace that jarred the witch hunter’s arm.

He fought his way to the warrior priests.

“You took your time getting here, Grunwald,” snarled the witchfinder general as

he reached the knot of warriors, smashing a goblin down from behind.

“Something ate my horse,” grunted Udo in response, falling in beside the taller,

older witch hunter.

With Karl and his knights hacking down the greenskins, the tide was turning, and

some of the orcs turned to flee. The preceptor dismounted so as not to further risk his

mount slipping fatally on the smooth stones. Deftly he turned aside a brutal swinging

blade and sent a deadly riposte that tore out an orc’s throat.

“My humblest apologies for entering your temple on horseback,” he said with a

roguish smile.

“Under the circumstances, I think we can forgive it,” snarled one of the priests, a

powerful figure hefting a pair of gore-covered hammers as he stepped forwards and

smashed both weapons into the face of another greenskin.

“The women… and children,” groaned a fallen priest from the ground, his

lifeblood leaking out onto the stone slabs from numerous wounds.

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“What?” said Grunwald.

“Some of the desecrators got past us…” He paused for breath, wincing in pain.

The witchfinder general cursed.

“Where are they?” he asked.

“The undercoft,” said another of the priests as he dispatched another of the

enemy.

“Hold them here,” Grunwald said, and turned towards the back of the temple.

Karl ran at his side, clanking in his armour. Grunwald knew the temple well, and he

paused at the top of the descending spiral stairs.

“The way is steep and narrow,” he said. “Be careful.” He had visions of the

heavily armoured preceptor slipping and falling headlong down into the undercroft.

“Maybe you had better remain up here.”

“There are women down there, are there not?” he said, flashing a smile at the

witch hunter. “I’m sure I will manage it.”

Grunwald snorted in response, and descended the stairway, taking the steps three

at a time. He almost tripped over several bodies on the stairs, orcs that had been

killed by some neat blade work from behind—it looked as though the orcs had not

even turned towards their attacker, as if they were unaware of him until it was too

late.

He leaped the last steps and burst into the wide tomb corridor. The stench of the

orcs was great here, and the stink of death hung heavily in the air.

There were bodies on the ground, but half a dozen orcs remained standing,

arrayed in a half circle around a pair of warriors.

Grunwald blinked, as if his eyes were deceiving him.

An elf, and a girl with a Sigmarite hammer.

As he hesitated, he saw the elf cut down one of the brutish greenskins with a

lightning riposte. Karl almost crashed into Grunwald as he half-ran, half-fell down

the stairs. His eyes widened as he surveyed the bloody battle ensuing in the corridor,

and he stared in unabashed admiration at the hammer-wielding girl.

She lifted the hammer up before her with a defiant shout, and it seemed that the

orcs covered their eyes and shied back from her. She leapt forwards and slammed the

hammer into the head of one of the creatures, pulverising it in a spray of blood.

Together, the witch hunter and the preceptor surged forwards, roaring wordless

war cries. The rearmost orcs swung towards them, but Grunwald saw a pair of the

creatures launch themselves at the girl.

As fast as the elf was, he was not quick enough to block the blades that swung

towards the girl from left and right, though he threw himself in the path of one of the

orcs, turning its attack aside smoothly and nearly decapitating the greenskin with his

return swing. The other cleaver hacked into the side of the girl with a wet crunching

sound.

The girl was knocked back against a wall, and slumped lifelessly to the ground.

The elf knelt instantly at her side, uncaring of the danger, his long, angular features

twisted with despair.

“She was amazing,” breathed Karl as he cut down the last orc.

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“Yes,” said the witch hunter, looking at the motionless girl bleeding on the floor.

“She was.”

83

CHAPTER TEN

Thorrik waited in the stone antechamber, his thoughts grim, despite being back

amongst his people and within a proper, dwarf-made stronghold. Shields on the walls

bore the faces of ancestor gods: Grimnir, Valaya and Grungni amongst them. He

marvelled at the stonework—it was wonderfully, lovingly crafted and, put shoddy

human workmanship to shame—but even that could not shake free his dark musings.

The dwarf holds were once again besieged, he had learnt. Karaz-a-Karak itself

was assailed by the hated greenskins—indeed, it looked as though the grim times of

the goblin wars long past had reasserted themselves, and the long war had begun

once more.

He grumbled to himself and shuffled his feet, his gauntleted hands gripping the

carved stone armrests of his chair tightly.

A pair of hammerers stood to either side of the thick, engraved steel doors, helms

bearing tall feathered wings of hammered bronze on their heads. They stood

motionless with gloved hands resting on the hafts of their mighty hammers,

motionless sentinels that guarded the entrance to their thane’s audience chamber.

At last the ornate, solid doors were opened, and an ancient greybeard nodded for

him to enter.

With his helm held under one arm, Thorrik entered the audience chamber. Grim

statues lined the long room, stylised dwarfen warriors bearing axes and hammers,

helms carved with runes upon their heads. Thorrik clomped across the stone flooring,

following the ancient dwarf whose beard trailed behind him, his eyes fixed on the

dwarf seated behind a carved stone table ahead of him. The thane’s head was

lowered, and his desk was strewn with parchments, maps, stone tablets and thick,

steel-bound books.

The thane did not raise his head even when Thorrik came to a halt before him.

The greybeard moved around the table to his lord’s side, and cleared his throat

loudly.

“Thorrik Lokrison, Ironbreaker of Clan Barad of Karaz-a-Karak, guardian of the

Ungdrin seeks audience, my thane.”

The thane grunted and looked up from his study, a deep frown upon his face and

his eyes narrowed in concentration. His beard was as black as pitch, except for a

streak of white growing from scar tissue on the left of his face, and ringed with bands

of gold and gromril. He nodded in greeting to Thorrik, who nodded respectfully back.

“Ironbreaker of Karaz-a-Karak,” he said, his voice deep. “I bid you welcome to

Grimbeard. You come at a dark time. We could use an additional ironbreaker here—

we are hard pressed.”

“So I understand, thane,” said Thorrik. “And if I were not oath-bound I would

gladly fight alongside the clans here.”

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The thane grunted. “Oathbound, eh. What is it you need?”

“I come to deliver an heirloom to a warrior stationed here. It is from his father,

who dwells now in the great halls beyond.”

“There are many stationed here,” said the thane bluntly. “Though far fewer after

the past two months of fighting. What is his name and clan?”

“His name is Kraggi Ranulfson, of Clan Bruzgrond of Zhufbar.”

The thane looked over at the greybeard with his eyebrows raised, and Thorrik

realised he must have been the loremaster. The old dwarf turned a lock upon a

massive book, and the wheels and cogs of the book’s cover clicked and turned,

allowing the tome to be opened. The greybeard began leafing through the pages.

“Of Clan Bruzgrond, you say?” he muttered.

“Aye,” replied Thorrik.

Finding the correct section of the tome, the dwarf lodged a magnifying monocle

in his left eye and began squinting at the tiny rune-script on the pages, tracing down

with his finger.

“Ah,” he said at last in triumph. “Here he is. Kraggi Ranulfson of Clan

Bruzgrond of Zhufbar.” The greybeard squinted up at him with a grin, the monocle,

making his left eye seem of alarming size, before he lowered his head once more.

“Right where is he… oh,” the dwarf’s words trailed off and he popped his monocle

from his eye-socket, his face grim.

“What is it, loremaster?” said the thane. “No need to be so dramatic.”

“It is just that… well,” began the greybeard.

“Spit it out,” said the thane.

“He has taken up the slayer oath,” said the loremaster, and Thorrik lowered his

head, covering his face with one of his gromril-encased hands, groaning in despair

and sadness. Out of respect neither the thane nor the greybeard spoke, leaving

Thorrik to his grief.

Deeply proud individuals, dwarfs who suffered some terrible tragedy, loss or

deep blow to their honour would become inconsolable and take up the slayer oath.

With great lamentation they would throw off their armour and dye their hair so that

all might recognise their shame, seeking out battle wherever it could be found. Their

honour could only be restored upon their death in battle, and so the slayer would hunt

out the most dangerous of foes to combat to ensure his oath was met.

At last Thorrik gave a deep sigh, and raised his gaze to the greybeard, his eyes

profoundly sad.

“And has he succeeded in his oath? Has be passed into the halls of his fathers?”

asked Thorrik grimly, his voice thick with emotion.

If Kraggi had already died in battle, then if he had a son, the heirloom Thorrik

bore would be passed on to him. But as far as he knew, the young slayer had no

son—he was the last of his bloodline. If he had already passed into the halls of his

ancestors then there would be no way for Thorrik to achieve his oath.

“He is not with us any longer,” said the old greybeard solemnly, reading from his

weighty tome, having wedged his eyeglass back in place. Thorrik felt the bite of

shame deep in his belly. Hurriedly, the ancient dwarf continued. “By that, I do not

85

mean he has succeeded in his oath, though he may yet have done so,” he said,

making Thorrik look at him with narrowed eyes, not understanding.

“Oh, spit it out, you wattock,” snapped the thane.

The loremaster cleared his throat, and glared at the thane before squinting back

down at the tiny rune-script. “Beardling,” he muttered under his breath. “Ah, here we

are. It seems that Kraggi has left Black Fire Pass, journeying north through the

mountains towards Karak Kadrin, there to join with others of the slayer cult beneath

the flames of Grimnir. He left here forty-three days past. There is no further record of

him.”

Thorrik gave a long sigh. “It would seem that I will be making the journey to

Kadrin then,” he grunted.

“The way through the mountains by foot is blocked,” said the loremaster,

squinting over the table at Thorrik. “The greenskins of Karak Varn and Mount

Gunbad have arisen once more in force, and are laying siege to Zhufbar. The way

past Black Water is cut off, and we have had no communication from Zhufbar for a

month.”

The once proud dwarf halls of Karak Varn and Mount Gunbad had long ago

fallen to the greenskins after earthquakes shattered them over three and half thousand

years earlier. The dwarfs of the remaining holds still lamented the fates of these

ancient halls, and long had been the oaths sworn to reclaim them from the hated

hands of the grobi. But in the past three thousand years, the wars against the many

enemies assailing the last remaining dwarf holds had been such that no reclamation

expedition had yet been successful.

“Thankfully,” said the thane, “Grimgrandel still runs. It leaves on the morn—that

would be your most direct path to Kadrin, ironbreaker.”

Thorrik nodded his head, his heart as heavy as stone in his chest. “If such is the

way I must go, then so it is.”

The thane stared at him wearily from across the desk. “The war here is

escalating—never in my lifespan, nor that of my father or grandfather, have the

greenskins massed in such numbers. It is as though some dire power binds them

together and keeps them from their usual infighting. I am disheartened to see that you

will not stay to fight here, ironbreaker, but an oath is an oath. I wish you well with

your task.”

“I thank you, thane,” said Thorrik, and nodded again to the two dwarfs before

turning and marching from the room. The door shut solidly behind him.

The witchfinder general Albrecht Horscht passed back and forth before the open fire.

There was a fresh wound on the side of his face that ran from his ear to the side of his

mouth, red-raw and stitched closed. Still, blood and pus wept from the painful

wound. If anything, Udo thought, the pain of the injury merely made the witchfinder

general more irritable and caustic than usual. He was a tall, white-haired individual,

and his ruthless ways made him both feared and respected throughout the church of

Sigmar and beyond. Thousands of heretics had been burnt at the stake at his

command, and with spike and maul he had received the confession of hundreds of

witches before executing them in cleansing fire.

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“So, what do you think, revered Sigmund?” he said, speaking out of one side of

his mouth to avoid reopening his wound further. “Is she truthful, or is she an agent-

pretender of the enemy? Will she bring ruin down upon us if she lives?”

Sigmund, the holy patriarch of the temple of Sigmar at Black Fire, furrowed his

brow and scratched at the whiskers on his chin. He was an elderly man, yet was still a

powerfully built warrior priest. He lay on his pallet, with bandages wrapped tightly

around his chest. There was a slight hint of blood on these wrappings, and a pair of

gentle Sisters of Shallya fussed over him. He had come very close to death during the

battle against the greenskins, and they tutted and glared at the two witch hunters for

disturbing their patient, unfazed by their grim reputations.

“Leave me, please, sisters,” said the elderly priest, his voice strained and ragged.

With a reproachful expression upon her face, one of the women opened her mouth to

protest. “Please, Sister Katrin,” he repeated, wincing under her withering gaze. In any

other circumstances Udo would have found it almost comical that this powerful

priest, a veteran of hundreds of holy battles, could be told what to do by a woman.

The priestess, her raven hair streaked with silver, swung towards Grunwald and

his superior and levelled a finger towards them. “I’ll give you ten minutes,” she

snapped. “No longer. He needs his rest.” With that, the two Sisters of Shallya left the

room. Sigmund gave a long sigh.

“I am not sure,” he admitted finally. “The girl—Annaliese, is it not? I am yet to

be convinced either way. I need more time for communion with Sigmar, to ask his

guidance.”

“I saw her myself, wielding a hammer of the saints against the foe,” said

Grunwald. “I felt the light of Sigmar was with her.”

“It could have been a trick of the enemy,” hissed the witchfinder general. “If she

recovers, which is doubtful, I say that we submit her to trial.”

“That will be the end of her, whatever the outcome,” said the old priest.

“And if she is innocent, then she will go to be with holy Sigmar, her name

honoured and cleared of wrong-doing,” said Horscht, shrugging. “A truly devout

woman of the temple could hope for no more.”

“To subject her to trial now will be demoralising,” said Sigmund. “Initiate Alexis

is not the only one to be convinced of her saintliness—half the temple believes that

she is a holy warrior of Sigmar. If you subject her to trial, they will lose faith. They

will lose hope.”

“Then they are not truly devout,” snarled Horscht.

The old priest sighed, closing his eyes. “Many of my warrior priests believe in

her,” he said with a tired voice. “You would suggest that they are not truly devout?”

Horscht spun on his heel and began pacing back and forth once more.

“The histories tell of the Sisters of Sigmar of the cursed city that Sigmar smote

beneath his hammer. They tell us that he grew angry with their temple and did strike

it down with his twin-tailed, fiery comet of vengeance.”

Grunwald frowned and shifted his feet. He had read that the temple of the Sisters

of Sigmar had been the only thing to remain untouched by the comet, but he had no

wish to contradict his superior.

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“If we let her live without trial,” continued Horscht, “do we not risk harkening

our own doom? Might Sigmar not be displeased to let her be proclaimed as a warrior

sister of his church?”

“I have no intention of proclaiming her anything,” wheezed Sigmund, his eyes

angry. “I merely suggest that you stay your hand for now. If she lives, then you can

watch over her like a hawk—if you see anything that could make her claim doubtful,

then she can be put to trial.”

“To be fair to the girl, I do not believe she has claimed anything,” said Grunwald.

Horscht scowled at him.

“It matters not if she verbally claims it!” he said. “The fact that by her actions

others claim it is enough.”

Grunwald nodded slowly, conceding the point.

“It is true that she fought with the hammer of saintly Brother Trenkner, long

thought lost to us,” said Sigmund. “For five hundred years it has remained little more

than a myth—it had long been said that brother Trenkner’s body lies entombed

beneath the temple, but none have ever discovered its whereabouts. The fact that she

fought with one of our ancient Brother’s weapons in her hand counts in her favour.”

“But how did she find it when none other, not even you, revered one, had been

able to?” said Horscht, his voice accusing.

“She could have been guided to it by devilry, or by the restless dead.”

Sigmund scoffed at the remark. “Come, Brother Albrecht, such things could not

come to pass within the walls of the temple.”

“The enemy had breached the temple when the initiate claims she discovered the

hammer,” said Grunwald. “They smashed statues and breached the sanctity of our

temple—could that not have allowed such witchcraft to be performed within its

walls?”

Sigmund frowned, making the lines of his face deepen. “That is a possibility,” he

admitted.

“Anyway,” said Horscht. “She is unlikely to survive the night, so this

conversation may prove to be of little consequence. It may be that all we will need to

decide is the manner of her burial—that of a saint, or as a devil.”

“We shall cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Sigmund.

On that note, the witch hunters took their leave, allowing the wounded patriarch

to rest.

“How is she?” asked Katrin as she entered the small room. Annaliese lay beneath

sheets heavy with perspiration. A young sister of the healing goddess of mercy knelt

over the girl, cooling her forehead with a damp cloth. The hammer the girl had used

to fight the greenskins lay upon the bedside table next to her. So she took up the path

of the warrior, Katrin thought sadly.

“She is stable,” said the sister. “But I cannot yet say if she will live or not.”

Katrin smiled at the elf standing sentinel over Annaliese’s bed. He inclined his

head slightly in response, and she shivered. He made her nervous with his cold

demeanour and otherworldly distance. She knew that he made the other Sisters of

Shallya uneasy as well, yet he had stood watching over the girl without sleep since

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she had been struck down. It was impossible to gauge his emotion, for his pale, thin

face gave away nothing.

There was another in the room as well, a tall, powerfully built knight whose face

was filled with concern.

“You should rest, sister,” he said to her. He was handsome, she saw. His face was

strong, and his eyes clear and green. His hair was sandy blond and hung to his

heavily armoured shoulders. Oh to be twenty years younger, she thought fleetingly.

“I will rest when there is none that need my care,” she said in reply.

“Then you will not be resting for a long time to come,” he noted.

Annaliese walked through a field of gold, the sun beating down on her skin, and she

smiled. It was a radiant day, and she felt utterly content despite the roiling black

clouds that were clawing across the sky to the north. Red lightning flashed in the

gathering darkness, crackling across the sky.

The warmth began to seep from her body, and she shivered with a sudden chill.

The sun had disappeared. Overhead, the writhing clouds were thickening. Annaliese

hugged herself tightly as her bones were chilled. She felt pain then, and cried out.

She looked at the hammer held in her hands. It glowed with warm light, but it

was nothing more than a spark in the overwhelming darkness swallowing the sky.

Annaliese opened her eyes with a shuddering gasp, and the pain of her wound

crashed in on her. She saw concerned faces crowded around her, but she looked past

them all at a figure standing apart from the others, and she smiled.

“She is delirious,” said a voice.

“I must go,” she said suddenly, struggling to rise. “The darkness is rising in the

north! My place is there! It is His will!”

“Hush,” said a gentle voice, and she felt a cool hand on her forehead. She sank

back into the bed sheets, feeling as though there were heavy weights that pulled her

eyelids down.

“My place is in the north,” she muttered. “The griffon aflame. That is where I am

bound.”

She felt the presence of Sigmar with her then, and warmth flowed through her.

Annaliese sank into a deep and dreamless sleep, a smile upon her face.

She had a purpose.

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BOOK TWO

The Northlands are in ruin. Ostland is overrun and will fall any day. Its lands are

rife with enemy forces, and they have taken control of the north bank of the

Talabec River. They push into Talabecland, though our defences are holding there

thus far.

I have received little word from Elector Hertwig of the Ostermark, besieged as

he is in Bechafen. If the Ostermark falls, then the Empire is wide open and

vulnerable—the enemy will be able to strike at the rear of the armies defending the

Talabec, overwhelming them for they cannot hold against two fronts. Once they

fall, the enemy will march into the very heart of the Empire, and will be within

striking range of Altdorf itself. I dread the day that such news is brought to me. I

pray to Sigmar that the Ostermark holds.

The plague has claimed great swathes of the Empire, entire towns and villages

fallen beneath its spell. These places are overrun with blood-frenzied degenerate

beings—the enemy is turning our own people against each other with its sorcery. It

is certain now that this sickness has been spread by agents of Chaos. The Order of

the Griffon is vigilant, and is hunting down the perpetrators—but the damage has

already been done.

Word has come from the High King of the dwarfs that the Everpeak itself is

besieged, a disastrous turn of events for we can expect no aid against the despoilers

of the north from our mountainous allies while their own kingdom is so beset.

A feeling of dread has descended on the populace and our armies, and many of

the electors have succumbed to hopelessness. This cannot be allowed to continue,

for all the Empire has is the resolve of its people.

This is indeed a dark era. I pray that I have the strength to maintain control.

K.F.

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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Udo Grunwald had seen many strange and terrifying sights in his years as a soldier

and a witch hunter. He had borne witness to scenes of madness and bloodshed, had

seen foul magick performed that twisted the essence of reality, and had seen men

possessed by daemons. But nothing prepared him for the sight of the hissing,

steaming monstrosity that rolled inexorably forward as it passed through the arched

entrance into the massive stronghold that was the Grimbeard Station.

“Lady of mercy,” swore Grunwald. Annaliese was equally awed by the beast that

approached.

As they marched through Black Fire Pass en route to Grimbeard, across earth on

which Sigmar himself had walked, he had begun to assess the girl. She seemed pure

enough on first impressions, though he knew that such things were often carefully

feigned masks. These thoughts slipped away as he gaped at the monstrous machine

before them.

Only the elf, who Grunwald had learnt was named Eldanair, seemed

unimpressed—he watched the proceedings with a look of distaste on his long, pale

face, and held a section of his cloak over his mouth and nose to block out the acrid

smoke. Though Grunwald knew that Eldanair had no knowledge of the long

argument that had taken place for the dwarfs to even consider allowing the elf within

Grimbeard, he was irritated by his reaction to this wonder of the dwarfs.

The trio stood with their backs up against the smooth stone wall as the steaming

behemoth came closer. The platform was a hive of activity, as dwarf engineers and

workers bustled to and fro, but the witch hunter’s eyes were fixed on the colossal

machine as it drew to a halt, steam and smoke billowing from its iron-encased belly.

Borne upon dozens of steel wheels, guided upon massive metal tracks fixed to the

ground, the steam-powered machine was a riot of deafening noise and motion.

Pistons hissed super-heated steam as they rose and fell, and huge gears and levers

rotated and clicked as they moved. Smoke, black and sooty, spewed from the four

chimney stacks on the top of the ironclad body of the beast. Whistles blew painful

blasts as they vented steam, and bells rang as mechanical hammers struck them.

The circular front of the mechanical engine was dominated by a metal-bearded

ancestor face taller than a man, the image painstakingly inlaid with criss-crossing

lines of gold and bronze. Each turning of the massive machine’s wheels was

accompanied by a deep rhythmic sound like the breathing of some ancient forge-god,

and dozens of coupling rods hissed and screamed as they rose and fell.

With a screech of protesting metal, the giant beast slowed, and Grunwald was

enveloped in a cloud of black smoke. He coughed, blinking tears away as ash and

soot assailed his eyes. The laboured breathing of the machine stopped altogether,

replaced by a deep exhalation of venting steam. When the smoke cleared, he saw that

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there were soot-covered dwarfs swarming all over the cabin of the engine, oiling

levers and gears and ensuring everything was in correct, working order.

Huge crane-structures swung above the snaking carriage behind the engine that

was still exhaling steam, and a huge quantity of what looked like coal was dropped

into an open tray. A flexible hose the width of a man’s body was manoeuvred into

position, its metal clamps fixed onto the curving body of the engine, as water began

to pump into the belly of the beast. Steam rose into the air, and the beast seemed to

hiss in contentment as its thirst was quenched.

Grunwald had of course heard of the wonders created by the School of Engineers

in Nuln, but according to Thorrik, the skills of the Empire’s finest engineers paled in

comparison to those of even the lowliest dwarf apprentice. Seeing this monstrous

machine, he could well believe the dwarf’s claim.

There were engines powered by steam and fire within the lands of men—twelve

mighty steam tanks protected by thick sheets of metal and kitted out with dangerous

experimental technologies, steam powered cannons and such—but even they were no

comparison to this behemoth, for it dwarfed them in size. This titanic creation that

was able to journey through the heart of the mountains to link the dwarf holds was

truly immense. It was easily the height of a two-storey building, and the engine-

carriage itself was over fifty yards in length. Hitched behind this hissing engine were

six carriages—it was a long caravan train made of metal, pulled by a fire-breathing

beast of burden of immense power and strength.

“Behold the wonder of Grimgrandel,” said the young apprentice engineer who

had been assigned as the humans’ guide and chaperone, pride in his thickly accented

voice. He was clearly pleased at the open-mouthed astonishment that the humans

were showing.

“I have never seen anything like it,” said Grunwald eventually. The apprentice

snorted.

“And nor would you have,” he said. “There is nothing in the world that compares

to Grimgrandel—and certainly not in the lands of men!”

The elf had a dark look of distaste and loathing on his face and he brushed at the

soot on his clothes and long black hair, in a futile effort to remove the black marks.

The dwarfs bustling around the group gave the elf dark looks, muttering under their

breath.

The elf seemed to have adopted an air of superiority and he looked around with

his delicate nose turned up in repugnance to the goings on. He stuck close to

Annaliese, and his eyes flicked around warily towards any who approached too close

to her. A strange girl, he thought, to inspire loyalty in such a disparate group.

The elf was clearly protective of her, even though he was unable to speak

Reikspiel, and the folk in the Temple of Sigmar had clearly adopted her as their

own—they had showered her with gifts that they could ill afford upon her departure

from the temple. She had blushed and refused many of the gifts as impractical for

travel—but the clothes she now wore were gifts that she had been grateful to accept.

She barely resembled the rural serving girl that she had been—it was as though she

had thrown away her past and reforged her image after her near-fatal injuries.

She had shorn away her flowing blonde hair and she now wore it at a more

practical shoulder-length. Outfitted from the armoury of the temple itself on the

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instruction of the old patriarch, Sigmund, she wore a long dress of chainmail beneath

a heavy robe of red and cream. This armour was heavy, but provided good

protection, while still allowing great freedom of movement, and the girl was stronger

than she looked. Her shoulders and neck were protected by a high gorget of stiffened

leather and thick leather also protected her forearms. A twin-tailed comet medallion

hung around her neck over her chainmail and robes, and the girl’s smooth-skinned

face shone with devotion.

If she was false, then she was a damn fine actor, he would give her that. She

spoke of Sigmar with believable reverence, and though it was clear her knowledge of

the great deeds of the deity were limited, she was eager to learn.

“I am to come with you upon your pilgrimage to the north—to guard over you

and to school you in the ways of our lord Sigmar,” he had lied, watching closely for

any sign of fear or displeasure. She had beamed with joy at his proclamation.

Still, Grunwald knew that the external veneer that people wore was only that—an

image, surface-deep, that could hide foulness within. How many servants of the

Ruinous Powers wore the guise of nobility and servitude to the Emperor? How many

foul witches and mutants paraded themselves within Empire society as devout

adherents to Sigmar’s ways? The enemy within was the most dangerous and cunning

enemy of all and it was the duty of the witch hunters to root out and unveil these

hated foes wherever they were to be found.

“Do not let her know that you suspect her,” the witchfinder general Horscht had

instructed him. “For that would be to alert her to your motive, and she would only

become more careful and conniving in her ways. Be a friend to her—be her guardian

and her confidant. But always beware the guiles of the enemy, and watch for signs of

corruption. And once there is valid proof expose her for what she truly is and enact

Sigmar’s vengeance upon her with the full power vested in you.”

“I will be ever vigilant in my duty,” Grunwald had vowed. In truth he hated such

a duplicitous approach—he had been embraced as a witch hunter due to his brutal,

forthright and direct approach, not for his subtlety. While others of his order

specialised in infiltrating and unearthing covens of dark worship from the inside,

with admirable success, Grunwald had always frowned upon such practice.

Descending on the foe with all the brutal power his position could muster, to force a

confession from the lips of his suspects—that was his preferred way. And he had

been lauded for the success he had already had in his young career. This task left a

sour taste in his mouth.

“Come,” said the dwarf apprentice, ushering the trio towards the steaming beast.

Udo felt distinctly uncomfortable with the idea of travelling over the mountains

hundreds of miles to the north within the belly of this giant metal serpent. He would

have been much more comfortable riding the distance on horseback, or even walking,

but this was certainly the quickest mode of transport available and Annaliese had

been insistent. A vision drove her onwards, she said—Sigmar wished for her to travel

to the north with all haste. Grunwald found such claims doubtful, he had been a

servant of the warrior god for some years now and had never received a vision. He

knew that some in the order had received such visitations, but they were usually

priests of particularly high standing—not an untrained peasant.

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They followed the young apprentice as he marched up the platform that was

raised some ten feet above the ground, passing the hissing steam engine of the giant

machine he had called Grimgrandel. Dozens of engineers, many with long beards

that would have been white if they were not blackened with soot, stood arguing

loudly near the cabin of the machine. The group ducked out of the way of two master

engineers stalking towards them. The engineers were engrossed in heated

conversation, and they carried huge spanners upon which were fixed arrays of steam-

powered tools of arcane design. One of them lost the flow of his diatribe when he

caught sight of Eldanair, and he spluttered in outrage, his face reddening. Swiftly, the

apprentice ushered the trio past the revered engineers, blushing a deep red. He was

clearly uncomfortable being a chaperone, Grunwald realised.

Tons of coal were being dropped into the vast tender behind the lead engine.

Grunwald found himself gaping, and almost bowled an aged dwarf over as he looked

around the frantic activity around the platform. The dwarf huffed and barked an

insult, as the witch hunter was hurried on his way by the shame-faced apprentice,

who apologised profusely to the old dwarf.

Warning whistles blew loud and shrill, and with a hissing of steam and the

clanking of levers, sections of the carriages began to unfold. Gears and cogs ground

as the sides collapsed outwards onto the platform with a resounding crash amidst

venting smoke and steam.

Hundreds of dwarf warriors bustled from the carriages, their weapons and armour

clanking, their heavy steps pounding rhythmically upon the unfolded metal carriage

sides. Mule-sized spluttering engines were fired up, belching choking smoke, and

they dragged behind them lines of war machines—cannons, organ guns and other

more esoteric devices that Grunwald did not recognise. Sweating engineers guided

these steam-powered hauling engines as they puttered out from inside the carriages,

directing them down ramps leading into the main stronghold of Grimbeard.

Reinforcements from other dwarf holds, Grunwald figured.

Scores of grim dwarfs marched past, who were ignored completely or regarded

with looks of scorn. Most were cloaked in heavy green fabric, and they marched

resolutely behind bronze standards depicting horned ancestor-heads. Wonderfully

crafted guns were carried over the broad shoulders of many.

“Clan warriors from Karak Hirn,” said the young engineer apprentice, ushering

Grunwald to the side so as not to block the way.

Legions of dwarf warriors waited in the wings of the Grimbeard platform

alongside the monstrous engine, and they nodded their heads to the warriors filing

past them. When the last warriors had marched from the carriages, and the final war

machines had been disembarked, horns were blown, making Eldanair wince.

“You will be travelling in the third carriage of Grimgrandel, quite separate to the

clan warriors,” the apprentice informed them as he began leading them through the

press once more. “Much care must be taken to ensure rival clans do not embark

within the same carriage, I might add.”

They neared the third carriage, and the apprentice halted. “Here you are,” he said.

He nodded to Grunwald and Annaliese, studiously ignoring Eldanair, and without

further ado he turned and hurried away from them. Grunwald shrugged, and stepped

inside the metal hull of the carriage.

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Thorrik muttered to himself as the sides of Grimgrandel slammed shut with a burst of

steam and a belch of smoke. He tutted to himself at the delay of leaving Grimbeard.

Had he not been waiting for Grimgrandel, he could have been two days ahead on his

journey—but that journey would have taken many weeks, and by all accounts this

journey would take but days. But still, he didn’t trust this new-fangled creation of the

Engineering Guilds.

The inside of the carriage was not unlike a dwarf hold, he thought, though on a

far smaller scale. The ceiling of the carriage was almost hidden in darkness overhead,

and lanterns built into the curving rib-like support beams blazed with warm light. The

enclosed air was filled with pipe-smoke and small groups of dwarfs drank ale from

ornate metal flagons. A rowdy group of warriors further up the carriage stamped their

metal-shod boots against the steel floor in time to their chanting, while the scrape of

metal sounded as other dwarfs sharpened already flawless axe-blades with

whetstones.

There was a riot of bustling movement within the carriage as dwarfs stowed

weapons and equipment in heavy steel lockers located within the backrests of the

benches, but the area around Thorrik was an island of calm. Ironbreakers were highly

respected warriors, and none would wish to give offence to the veteran.

A contingent of thunderers holding their beloved black-powder weapons

protectively across their laps sat nearby, talking in low tones amongst themselves. He

recognised from the uniform metal discs each wore around his neck that they were

holdless clan warriors whose ancestors had come from Karak Varn—a hold lost by

natural disaster and subsequent skaven and grobi attacks over four thousand years

earlier. Though generations of the survivors lived within the other dwarf holds, they

could never truly be at home or fully accepted in any of them. Most of these grim

thunderers were meticulously cleaning the mechanisms of their priceless guns, oiling

cogs and shining their barrels.

There were even a few slayers within the carriage, lost in their own misery. They

were instantly recognisable; they wore little in the way of clothing and forsake any

form of armour. Their bare skin was covered in spiralling blue tattoos, and the sides

of their heads shaved. Their hair, stiffened with lime and grease, was spiked up in

large crests and both hair and beard were dyed a bright orange so that none may

mistake the oaths of death they had sworn.

No dwarf approached these grim figures, and they in turn kept their eyes

downcast, chuntering away to themselves, fingering the hafts of their axes. The fire

of disgrace burnt fiercely within them, and it could only be doused with their own

honourable death in battle.

Thorrik’s face darkened as looked upon the doomed slayers. He sighed deeply

and thought of the heirloom he carried wrapped within oilskin. The only remaining

member of the family, the rightful owner of the artefact, had taken up the slayer oath.

Thorrik’s heart was heavy.

He looked up from his position seated on one of the three aisles running the

length of the carriage to see a tall, dark-clad shape leading a pair of other tall figures

through the press of dwarfs. He recognised the broad-rimmed black hat worn by the

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witch hunter Udo Grunwald, and he nodded in greeting as he caught the human’s

eye.

“Thorrik Lokrison,” said the witch hunter once he had picked his way through the

press.

“Didn’t expect to see you here, manling,” said Thorrik gruffly. The witch hunter

gave a curt shake of the head.

“Didn’t expect to be here,” he replied. “You are heading back to the north?”

“Aye, to Karak Kadrin,” said Thorrik, squinting up at the big man. He couldn’t

quite see the two behind the witch hunter. “Sit yourself down, manling, I am getting a

crick in my neck from looking up at you.”

Thorrik nodded in thanks as the thunderers made room for the new arrivals.

“This is Annaliese,” introduced Grunwald, gesturing towards the human girl

dressed like one of their warrior priests of Sigmar. “And this is her… companion.”

“Eldanair,” said the girl, introducing the third figure, who was cloaked and

hooded. Thorrik stiffened at the name, and peered into the gloom beneath the figure’s

hood.

“Elf,” he spat. Several dwarfs nearby glanced around sharply, scowling. Thorrik’s

face hardened, and he turned back to Grunwald. “You keep unwelcome company,

manling.”

“He can handle himself in a fight,” shrugged the witch hunter.

“Doesn’t mean he fights on our side though. An elf fights only for himself—they

have no concept of honour or oaths of friendship.”

“Eldanair has been a devoted protector and friend to me,” said the human girl, her

face reddening in anger. “I will not have you or anyone else speak ill of him.”

Thorrik gave the girl a withering look, but to her credit she did not baulk beneath

his stony gaze. “Remember your words, lass, when he deserts you and flees from

danger in the dead of night.”

“He would never…” started the girl, her voice rising, and the elf touched her on

the shoulder, shaking his head.

“Oathbreakers, all of them,” declared Thorrik loudly turning away from the girl

and the elf. “Never trust an elf.”

“Glad to see you have mellowed in our time apart,” commented Grunwald.

Thorrik swore in Khazalid as he saw another tall figure moving though the crowd

down the aisle towards him. This human was wearing plate armour, and had a broad

grin on his face.

“Another friend of yours?” said Thorrik. The witch hunter looked up in surprise.

“Karl Heiden!” he said, standing and gripping the man’s armoured forearm in

greeting.

“I heard that there were other humans on board this marvel. If I’d known they

were quite so pretty, I would have dressed up,” the knight proclaimed, winking at

Annaliese, who blushed.

A whistle blared, and Grimgrandel shuddered into movement, almost knocking

the human knight off his feet.

Grimgrandel pulled out from Grimbeard, the massive engine steaming and

smoking as the pressure within the boiler grew. Pistons began to rise and fall, and

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searing pipes and valves began to shudder. With a final whistle, the massive steam-

powered engine began to pick up speed. Within the hour, it entered a massive tunnel

that bored straight into the side of the mountains, and began hurtling through the

darkness, cutting straight through the heart of the Worlds Edge Mountains.

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CHAPTER TWELVE

The carriage jerked suddenly, shaking Grunwald awake with a start. It was dark and

his ears where filled with ungodly, unfamiliar sounds and the air was hot and stifling.

For a moment he imagined that he had died, and was on his way to Morr’s

underworld realm, but he shook off these maddening thoughts as he regained his

bearings.

With bleary eyes he glanced around the gloomy interior. Lanterns rattled and

shook as the carriage shuddered through the darkness far beneath the mountains. In

the dim light he could see that many of the dwarfs were sleeping, their loud snoring

all but drowned out by the rattling carriage, the relentless hissing and pounding of

pistons and coupling rods, and the screech of the metal wheels upon steel tracks.

The heat within the carriage was almost unbearable, the air thick with smoke,

both from the massive coal stacks at the front of the hauling engine and from pipes.

The stink of coal and oil filled his nostrils, and his breathing was laboured. His eyes

stung from ash, and he blinked heavily.

It truly was an infernal machine, this steam engine, he thought. It seemed that it

ploughed down into the heart of the world. This was not a place for man, he decided.

Just the idea that there were hundreds of thousands of tons of rock hanging over their

heads, ready to collapse and crush them at any moment, made his breathing quicken

and sweat trickle down the back of his neck.

Thorrik was sleeping, his head tipped back and his mouth wide open. Annaliese

slept as well, her legs tucked up underneath her and her head lolling on the elf’s

shoulder, though he could not tell if the elf was awake. He wore a strip of cloth tied

around his mouth and nose, and had his hood pulled down low, concealing his eyes

and pointed ears, and though he made no reaction to Grunwald, that was not to say

that he was asleep.

Karl Heiden was nowhere to be seen—soon after the steam engine had begun its

journey he had returned to his men, who were travelling within the carriage behind

theirs. He had told the witch hunter that the dwarfs had kicked up quite a fuss when

he had tried to board the warhorses of the knightly order, and the thoroughbred steeds

had whinnied in fear, stamping their hooves despite their training. But such was the

agreement that the humans had with the dwarfs—they were travelling to the northern

battle zones of the Empire, and the quickest route was by this steaming

monstrosity—and the dwarf High King had pledged its availability to the Emperor

himself.

Half of Karl’s order was travelling northwards on board. Though there were

rumours of armies of darkness massing beyond the Peak Pass, which Karak Kadrin

guarded, from latest correspondences the way from the dwarf hold into the Empire

was clear. How long it would remain so, however, was another matter.

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Feeling a need to stretch his aching back, the witch hunter stood warily holding

onto the side-bench for stability. The dwarfs certainly eschewed comfort, and he

winced as his back clicked alarmingly. The travelling benches were cold and hard,

leather over steel; no wonder the dwarfs were such a taciturn race if this was how

they lived.

Seating himself once more, Grunwald stared at Annaliese, as if trying to penetrate

her sleeping thoughts. Was she true, or did the touch of Chaos itself, linger within?

Even if she did not yet realise it, she could still be tainted and thus deserving of

death. Usually such a taint would eventually manifest itself physically, through

mutation however slight—webbed toes, knobbly growths protruding from the spine,

additional fingers—but these might not necessarily have yet had time to develop in

one so young. Or, he thought darkly she was able to control the powers of Chaos to

such an extent that she was able to restrain such outward markers of her sin.

Once again he felt his frustration grow. This was not his way—he was a man of

action and directness. If there was suspicion of witchery and Chaos taint, then there

would be a trial. If the individual proved to be innocent, then their death cleared

them—for all who were tried received death, guilty or no. There was no remorse, and

Grunwald felt no guilt for the innocent dead—better to die with your purity ensured

than to linger with doubt.

He flicked his gaze from the girl to the elf. He felt with certainty that Eldanair

was not asleep, but rather was watching over the girl. Perhaps he was her familiar,

thought Grunwald darkly. He shuffled in his seat. He must test her, he knew, but he

must also do as the witchfinder general commanded—he must determine her

innocence or guilt without her knowing his motive.

The train lurched, and Annaliese awoke with a gasp, her eyes wide and fearful.

She looked around and caught the witch hunter’s gaze—she smiled sleepily to him.

Grunwald fingered a water bottle at his belt, thinking. Then he unscrewed its cap, and

took a small swig. He offered the girl the bottle.

“It’s just water,” he assured her. Nodding her thanks, she unfurled her long legs

from beneath her, stretching herself like a cat. Grunwald stood up and stepped over to

her. The train rocked again and he stumbled. A small amount of water splashed over

Eldanair and Grunwald felt the elf’s dark eyes boring into him. Apologising, he

handed the girl the bottle. She gratefully took a long swig, and smiled her thanks.

Re-seated, Grunwald sealed the bottle of sanctified holy water once more. It was

precious—certainly not drinking water—but it should have been like acid to a

devotee of the Ruinous Powers. But then, that meant nothing. The enemy was

cunning.

There was a screech of metal on metal as the wheels of the steam engine locked.

Those few dwarfs who had been standing were knocked from their feet and fell to the

floor of the aisle heavily, cursing. Equipment and rucksacks fell from overhead

shelves, crashing down upon those still seated, who slid along the bench seats

towards the front of the carriage. Grunwald caught hold of the bench as he began to

slide, but lost his grip when Thorrik’s immense armoured weight slammed into him,

and was almost crushed against an ornately crafted bronze armrest in the shape of a

rearing dragon, Annaliese half fell from her seat and would have flown up the

carriage if Eldanair hadn’t grabbed her arm with preternatural speed and pulled her to

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safety. Grunwald winced as the weight of Thorrik pressed against him, and he was

sure that his ribs were going to break. With a final grinding screech, the engine

halted.

Muttering, the dwarf picked himself off Grunwald and stood, brushing his beard

with his hand. Grunwald just glared at him, shaking his head, his ribs aching.

“You alright?” he asked Annaliese, and the girl nodded back at him. The elf was

speaking to himself, his voice scathing, as he looked through the slats upon the side

of the carriage into the darkness beyond. The dwarfs through the carriage were

huffing and stomping their feet, their voices rising in tones of anger and accusation.

Many looked half asleep as they straightened helmets knocked to the side and

retrieved fallen stowage.

“Why in the name of the gods did this thing stop?” he asked Thorrik, who glared

back at him with humourless eyes. He coughed something in his crude language.

“How should I know, manling?” snapped the dwarf in Reikspiel.

“I wonder where we are,” said Grunwald, joining Eldanair in peering out of the

metal slats. “And what time of day it is. Such notions as day and night mean nothing

down here.”

“Well I would say it is around midday on the surface,” said Thorrik as he began

to load his pipe from a pouch. Grunwald gave a snort and looked at the dwarf

incredulously. Not a sliver of light penetrated this far beneath the mountains—it was

like some hateful, Stygian abyss.

“And how could you know that?” he said derisively.

“I’m a dwarf, manling,” snarled Thorrik, his eyes blazing in the flickering lantern

flame. “You wouldn’t understand such things.”

Grunwald snorted again, and turned back to peer out into the darkness. Now that

the engine had halted, there was no movement of air, making it feel even more heavy

and oppressive.

“Judging by the time that has passed and the speed of Grimgrandel, I would

guess we are almost half way. Somewhere between Zhufbar and Mount Gunbad.

Possibly beneath Black Water.”

“Beneath what?”

“Black Water—the inland sea of the mountains.”

“So you are saying that above us is not only miles of rock, but also a sea?”

“Aye, lad. No need to get so worked up. This is dwarf engineering—built to last.”

Great, thought Grunwald, shaking his head. He looked back out through the slats,

squinting his eyes to see something, anything outside. Nothing. It was as if the world

ended a foot beyond the carriage. He turned his head to say something to Thorrik, but

as he opened his mouth to speak, a black arrow hissed past his head. It struck the

metal roof of the carriage and ricocheted down into the press of dwarfs milling

around on the next aisle over.

More arrows slipped through the slats of the carriage, clattering loudly, and

dozens more shattered on the outside of the carriage. One of the arrows slammed into

the leather backrest a hair’s-breadth from Thorrik’s face. The dwarf pulled the arrow

from the leather, his face furious as he looked at the crude black dart—its tip was of

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sharp stone, bound to the wooden shaft with sinew, and the flight was stringy and

frayed raven feather. Thorrik’s face reddened.

“Grobi!” he bellowed in a thunderous voice. He slammed his helmet down over

his head, and leapt to his feet, scrabbling for his shield and axe. “Grobi!” he yelled

again.

The dwarf handgunners primed and readied their weapons, and within seconds

they took up places at the side of the carriage. Though Grunwald had been unable to

see anything in the gloom beyond, the dwarfs clearly were more adept and within

seconds the air was filled with the deafening booms of the guns firing. Smoke filled

the carriage. Eldanair fired his longbow out into darkness, and Grunwald, hunkering

down away from the slats through which arrows still penetrated, dragged free his

heavy crossbow.

Annaliese was beside him, crouching down away from the windows, her eyes

fearful.

“Stay down,” ordered Grunwald. He then hefted his crossbow pointing it out

through the slats. Lanterns had been turned out into the darkness, and he could see

the reflection of hundreds of eyes out there. He could hear them now too, their

cackling and their screeches. He fired, sending the crossbow bolt slamming between

two of the glimmering reflections, which disappeared instantly.

A sharp whistle rang out along the line of carriages, and venting steam hissed out

of dragon-headed vents along the top of the carriage. The angled metal shutters

running the length of the carriage began to close, and the sound of arrows striking

them from the outside echoed dully within. Gears and heavy metal cogs ground, and

the sides of the carriages began to unfold outwards, like mechanical drawbridges

being lowered. Dwarfs stepped forwards side-by-side, locking their shields together

as the carriage-walls were lowered. The arrows of the enemy shattered against shield

and helmet, and Grunwald ducked down behind the armoured wall of dwarfs, re-

loading his crossbow.

Eldanair was standing on the bench beside him, firing arrows over the heads of

the dwarfs into the darkness. He swayed to the side as an arrow streaked towards his

head, his face impassive, and sent an arrow back in response.

The heavy stabilising columns of the carriage sides boomed as they hit the

ground, and with the grinding of gears and the hiss of steam, the slats rotated from

their closed position, forming broad sets of stairs onto the ground of the tunnel.

There was a deep bellowing war-cry and Grunwald saw one of the unarmoured

dwarfs with bright red spiked hair step forward, elbowing his way through the shield

wall to stand alone and defiant. He raised his axe up over his head and roared

incoherently. An arrow slammed into the meat of one of his powerful, thick upper

arms, driving through the flesh to protrude out the other side a good six inches.

He grabbed it in one meaty fist and pulled the length of the arrow through the

bloody wound, teeth clenched and hissing against the pain, before tossing it

dismissively to the ground. With another roar, he hefted his axe and thundered down

the metal stairs, lumbering at the enemy now revealing itself as it stepped forwards

into the light blaring from focused lanterns on the engine.

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Another red-haired berserker warrior launched himself towards the foe creeping

forwards, and as the line of dwarfs stepped down the stairs to meet them, each

pounding footstep in unison, Grunwald got his first look at them.

They were small, shorter even than the dwarfs advancing towards them, and their

greenskinned frames were weak and spindly, all but hidden beneath black robes and

pointed hoods. They held a veritable wall of barbed spears out in front of them, and

they hissed and screamed at the dwarfs.

Grunwald stepped alongside the dwarf handgunners, who stood still within the

carriage, laying down a wall of fire over the heads of their advancing kin. Dozens of

the deep-dwelling goblins were ripped apart by each volley, but their bodies were

trampled uncaring beneath the feet of the others pushing forward. Hefting his now

loaded crossbow to his shoulder, he fired. The bolt slammed into the forehead of a

wildly screaming goblin whose black robe was rimmed with yellow stitched dags,

and who had been waving a leg bone over his head from which dangled all manner of

teeth, hair and a strange likeness of a grinning moon. The goblin fell without a sound,

and was lost amongst the leering crowd of goblins.

The red-haired dwarf berserkers reached the line of the enemy, and they

splintered the spears angled towards them with wild swings of their axes before

ploughing into the midst of the foe, cutting and rending. Their weapons traced bloody

arcs through the air, and they cut down dozens of foes before they were overcome,

falling to their knees and bleeding from a score of wounds. They were lost from sight

as the black-robed goblins swarmed over them, jabbing with blades and spears.

A moment later a goblin pushed to the front, a severed dwarf head held up above

his head. He screamed incoherently and hurled the head towards the dwarf line. As

the goblins advanced, one of them kicked the bloody head across the floor, and others

bustled against one another to continue the game.

Grunwald heard a rumble of outrage rise from the dwarf ranks, and they closed

towards the goblins with renewed determination.

“Ware the beasts!” roared Thorrik as the advancing rank of night goblins before them

parted. A group of powerful creatures, little more than gaping mouths on legs, were

pulling their diminutive retainers forwards, who were trying to maintain some control

over them with chains and spiked goads. As he watched, one of the creatures broke

away from its master and turned on it, ripping an arm from its socket with one

crunching bite.

The other creatures had their cold, black eyes focused on the dwarfs, and needed

no encouragement. Their handlers released them, and they came bounding across the

stone floor of the tunnel towards the dwarfs.

“Hold the line!” roared a voice as the dwarf warriors continued their relentless

advance, stepping shoulder to shoulder, their overlapping shields creating a near

impenetrable wall of steel.

Thorrik was in the front rank, and he focused on one of the beasts leaping

towards him, its gaping mouth exposing thousands of crooked, serrated teeth. Little

more than a reddish ball of muscle, the creature was all mouth, and it barrelled

towards him at a great speed. Thorrik had fought these war beasts of the grobi many

times in the tunnels he and his kin guarded, and knew they were dangerous foes.

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Still, he had learnt a thing or two about them in his years as an ironbreaker, and

as it launched itself at him, he waited until he saw the large black irises of its eyes

roll backwards, a moment before impact. Then he took a quick step forward, and

smashed the boss of his gromril shield into its face, shattering teeth and halting it in

its tracks. It felt like he had slammed the shield into solid rock, and Thorrik was

forced back a step. His axe sang out, and he sank the blade into its bulbous head,

killing it instantly.

Others were not so experienced, and the reddish creatures chomped down upon

shields, ripping them away with brutal shakes of the head, severing more than one

arm in the process as their jaws snapped viciously.

Arrows flashed in as shields were ripped down low, and several dwarfs groaned

in pain as the shafts sank into exposed necks, and pierced mailed chests. An arrow

struck Thorrik in the forehead, but no goblin weapon could hope to pierce the

precious gromril that protected him.

The dwarf to his left was struggling with one of the beasts, pulling his shield

down, shearing through the metal with its powerful jaws. Blood began to flow as

teeth bit into the arm strapped behind the shield, and the creature began shaking its

head to and fro furiously as it tasted it. Thorrik smashed the creature between the

eyes twice before it went limp, but even in death it did not release its grip. The dwarf,

gritting his teeth against the pain, hacked at it until it was cut nearly in half before he

was able to rip his arm free.

Seeing a flash of movement above, Thorrik yelled a warning as one of the beasts

descended from above, a screaming goblin clutching its back. A white-fletched arrow

thudded into it as it fell, but it slammed down amongst the dwarf line, its

overextended jaws engulfing a warrior to the knees. Blows rained down on it, scoring

deep wounds in its side and cutting its rider down, but it bunched its powerful legs

and leaped up into the air once more, dwarfen legs and boots protruding from its

mouth.

But then the lines of dwarfs and goblins struck, and the killing began in earnest.

Thorrik hacked left and right with his axe, scything down goblins, carving through

the flesh of the diminutive creatures. They snarled hatefully, baring sharp teeth and

their eyes flashing, as they stabbed at him over their shields with spears. Barbed

blades jabbed at him and he was struck a dozen times, but not one of the blows was

able to pierce his armour.

His axe smashed into one of the goblin’s wooden shields, splintering the wood

and shattering the arm behind. With his return blow, he drove his axe blade into the

goblin’s leering face, and dark blood splashed out as its skull was caved in. The

dwarfs to either side stepped forward with him, pushing into the goblin masses and

hacking with their weapons. The dwarfs were heavily outnumbered, but the goblins

died in droves before them.

Setting their shields against their shoulders, the dwarfs began to physically push

the goblins back, heaving forwards to the beat of a metal drum that started up. With

each solid step, the dwarfs stamped their feet into the ground and grunted heavily,

creating a deep pounding echo through the cavern. Goblins were cut down and

trampled beneath the heavy boots of the dwarfs as they pushed forwards.

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The dwarfs were as unrelenting as rock itself, and the goblins were being

crushed, trampling each other to death in the press of bodies. Thorrik ground

forward, pushing with his shield and his shoulder. He stamped down on the neck of a

goblin, and pushed forwards, stepping over the bodies of the slain.

Crushed between the dwarfs pushing forward and the weight of other goblins

behind them, the enemy panicked, and tried to flee. Still, there was nowhere to run,

and the axes of the dwarfs rose and fell repetitively, killing and maiming. There was

no skill needed here, now—it was like chopping wood. Thorrik hacked into the

terrified, hated goblins, his weapon covered in gore. The slaughter was immense—

hundreds of bodies lay crushed behind the advancing dwarf line.

Grunwald fired a last bolt into the fleeing masses and lowered the crossbow from his

shoulder. The dwarf casualties had been few—it was an impressive display of

strength and order. He had been a soldier for long enough to know that if the dwarf

line had been breached, then the goblins would have pushed into the gap and

surrounded the dwarfs. And in such a fight, their sheer numbers would have swayed

the battle—every last dwarf would have been cut down in the resulting chaos.

But the dwarfs had not faltered and Grunwald was impressed with their

unfaltering resolve. They fought as one, and it seemed that there was not a hint of

doubt within them, not a thought of retreat, or even of the possibility of losing.

They seemed incapable of fear and failure was something that seemed

unacceptable. Grudgingly, he had to admit that he felt more secure now in the

knowledge that these grim warriors were the ones who guarded the mountain passes

of the Empire—but if a foe could best these hard fighters, then surely the Empire was

doomed.

He saw Karl Heiden walking towards him, the visor of his helm raised, and a

smile upon his face. A trio of knights marched behind him. Blood was splattered over

their platemail, and the broken tips of several arrows were embedded in their shields.

The witch hunter nodded to the knight as he strode up the stairs.

“Not much of a fight,” said the knight. Grunwald grunted in reply. It could have

gone much worse, he thought.

Karl’s gaze flicked past the witch hunter towards Annaliese, and he smiled at her.

“Survived the battle then, lady?” he said.

“As you said, it wasn’t much of a fight,” the girl replied, holding her head high.

“True, and I am glad to see that you are unharmed,” he said. He looked around, at

the darkness of the cavern. “This truly is a marvel of engineering,” he said, shaking

his head. “To think the dwarfs carved this tunnel out of solid rock, all the way

through the mountains. It’s an astounding feat.”

Grunwald grunted. The dwarf warriors were returning to the steam engine,

cleaning their axes of goblin blood. There was a sharp whistle, and the warriors

began climbing the stairs into the carriages once more. There was no song or

boasting amongst their number—the dwarfs remained grim and dour, even in victory.

“Makes you wonder what stopped this engine,” remarked Karl.

“The cursed grobi caused a cave-in up ahead,” said Thorrik, climbing the stairs

into the carriage with heavy metallic steps. “Grimgrandel would have been derailed

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had it not halted. The engineers are clearing the way.” His words were followed by

the sound of detonations—the sound of the dwarfs blasting the way clear.

“You and your kinsmen fought well,” said Annaliese, looking at the ironbreaker.

The dwarf huffed in reply, deflecting the praise.

“The grobi have no fight in them. Take the battle to them, hard. Kill a bunch of

them. The rest will run,” he said, shrugging. “It is in their nature.” The dwarf eyed

the weapon held in the girl’s hands, and his eyes gleamed greedily.

“That is a fine hammer you wield, lass,” he said.

“It is a holy weapon of Sigmar,” she said, holding it up before her. Her eyes were

bright with passion and fervour. A blush spread over her face. “I fear I am unworthy

to wield it.”

“Certainly not,” said Karl smoothly. “You are a vision, lady. Like a warrior-

woman of old.”

“You are kind,” Annaliese replied, looking down demurely. She gripped the

hammer more tightly in her hand, and her eyes rose looking into Karl’s, who stared at

her appraisingly still. “Many would say that a woman has no place in war.”

“They are fools,” said Karl earnestly. “A woman is capable of far greater strength

than any man. Men are filled with unbridled aggression, a need to destroy, to assert

themselves over the land and each other—women are creators and fight for purer

ideals—to protect that which they love: their children, their future, their home. And

in such a fight, she is stronger than a man—for she has more to lose.”

Thorrik snorted and turned away. Karl threw his retreating figure a dark look.

Annaliese was looking at him with wide eyes, and he flicked his earnest gaze back to

hers, and continued. “The goddess of my order, Myrmidia, is wise, strong and fierce.

Her enemies fear her skill in battle, and her friends are awed by her discipline, her

mercy and compassion. She is an inspiration, an ideal, that no man can hope to

match.”

The whistle blew once more, and the steam engines hissed. Karl lowered his head

in a half-bow to Annaliese, nodded to Grunwald, and hurried down through the press

of dwarfs to rejoin the trio of knights awaiting him on the tunnel floor.

Grunwald saw Annaliese’s eyes follow the handsome knight as he led his

comrades back towards their own carriage, and he shook his head slightly.

An explosion of steam burst from valves and cylinders, and with the turning of

gears and levers the sides of the carriage began to close.

Within the hour, Grimgrandel was moving once more, plunging through the

darkness beneath the mountains, grinding its way inexorably towards Karak Kadrin.

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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The carriage rocked back and forth as it continued through the darkness. Annaliese

unconsciously toyed with the symbol of Sigmar around her neck, biting her lip. She

stared blankly at the slatted side of the carriage, her mind filled with doubt.

“You are troubled,” said a deep voice, making her start. She looked around to see

the Sigmarite witch hunter, Udo, staring at her. His eyes were dark, his face serious.

She smiled lightly at him.

“I’m sorry, I was miles away. What did you say?”

“I said you are troubled,” he repeated, his dark eyes intense. “What are you

thinking of?”

Annaliese sighed. “A week ago, after I had awoken in the temple, I felt like my

purpose was clear. My vision had been so strong. But now? I am doubting myself.

What purpose could Sigmar have for me? I’m no warrior—I don’t know anything of

real battle. I don’t know… I don’t know what good I can do.”

The witch hunter frowned. He looked like a warrior, Annaliese thought. Big,

strong, brutal. Scarred.

“Describe your vision to me.”

“I saw a griffon—powerful, majestic and dangerous. It was beset on all sides by

enemies—savage dark men dressed in furs and black metal. It tore and ripped at

them, cutting them down—they couldn’t touch it. Their swords bounced off its body,

and their axes were blunted against its hide. But then the proud beast caught fire—its

fur and its feathers were ablaze, and its wings were flaming. It screamed in pain.”

Annaliese shuddered with the memory. She could smell the stink of burning feathers,

could hear the painful cry of the creature tearing at her heart. “The blades of the

enemy could hurt it then, and they plunged lances, spears and swords into the body of

the griffon. It fell beneath the dark tide surrounding it, and I cried out.”

“I ran forwards, and the sea of enemies parted before me. I was surrounded by

blinding light, and they recoiled from me, clearing a path. I knelt beside the dying

creature. I cradled its heavy head in my arms and stared into its unblinking, piercing

eyes. The flames died, and the griffon grew strong. It reared up, its wounds healed,

and the enemy fled before it.”

Annaliese shivered, and looked up at Grunwald with a frown. “I… I can’t

remember the rest of it. It’s fading with every passing day. But I know that I have to

find the griffon—and I know that it lies in the north. A week ago I knew this was my

destiny, but now—I doubt myself. What if it was nothing more than a meaningless

dream brought on by my injuries? What if I go north only to find death, destruction

and war? What good can I do? I am but a girl. I cannot affect anything.”

The witch hunter was silent, his face thoughtful. “I don’t know if it was a vision

from Sigmar or not,” he said eventually. “But a single person can make all the

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difference. Sigmar himself was a single man, and yet he united the scattered tribes

and defied the enemy. Magnus the Pious was a single man, and yet he defied Chaos

at Praag. The Emperor himself is but one man, and he holds the Empire together.”

Annaliese gave a cold laugh. “These are the great and mighty, witch hunter.

Individuals yes, but not individuals like me.”

“They were not always great and mighty. They each were born as helpless babes,

crying and suckling at their mothers—by their actions they were made great and

mighty. The actions of a single man—or woman—may yet determine the fate of all

of us.”

“Forgive me, witch hunter, but I cannot see how the actions of a simple girl of

seventeen summers could affect the outcome of the war.”

“I’ll put it another way,” said Grunwald. “Battles are won and lost by the

decisions of single men. Often these are the decisions of the so called ‘great and

mighty’—generals, commanders and elector counts. But more often it is the

decisions of the average soldier that determine the outcome of the battle. An

individual decides to stand and fight. Others are inspired by his resolve, or driven by

shame not to run when this man stands defiant. And so the army stands. On the other

side, amongst the enemy, a single individual chooses to run. His fears overcome

him—he is thinking of his wife, his child, his mistress or his fortune—he doesn’t

want to die, and so he flees. Others see him fleeing, and they are filled with doubt.

Was there a call to retreat that they did not hear? Did this soldier know something

that they did not? By that one soldier’s decision to run, he has doomed his entire

army. Others turn and run with him—and if everyone is running, where is the sense

in standing alone, or the loss of honour if they too flee? There is none. And so the

day is lost. That first man to run is like a single rock falling from a mountainside—

soon others join it, until there is an unstoppable avalanche. But if that first man held,

if that first rock did not fall—would they have been victorious? Would the

mountainside have collapsed anyway? Perhaps. Perhaps not.” The witch hunter

shrugged.

“You sound like an orator,” said Annaliese.

“Ha!” scoffed Grunwald. “Far from it. It is a speech I heard once, when I was a

soldier, and my retelling is a far poorer version. But it is true nonetheless. One man

choosing to hold against the enemy, one man choosing to run—that is the difference

between victory and defeat. Good commanders know this—they make sure that there

are strong, heroic warriors scattered throughout the ranks who will stand defiant and

who will either shame or inspire their soldiers to do the same.”

“My father used to say something similar,” said Annaliese.

“A wise man then,” said Grunwald. He stared at her for a moment, and she felt a

shiver run through her. His eyes were intense, and there was violence within them.

Still, he was a templar of Sigmar.

“I am honoured that you are coming with me,” she said. “Though in truth why

you are accompanying me is a mystery.”

The carriage jerked, and Thorrik’s snoring was interrupted. Grunwald saw the

elf’s eyes flick towards the slumbering dwarf, his face unreadable. Thorrik began

snoring again a moment later.

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“You are… unusual,” said Grunwald, picking his words carefully. “The young

acolyte at the temple claimed to see an aura around you when you somehow retrieved

that hammer of yours—a hammer said to have been lost for centuries. And it is

claimed that you healed the boy you brought to the temple with your touch. Such

claims are rare, and are in need of investigation.”

“I never claimed to have healed Tomas,” said Annaliese quickly. “And there was

nothing mystical about me retrieving the hammer. It was just there, and there were

enemies that needed to be faced.”

“You do realise that there was no mortuary alcove where you claimed to have

retrieved the hammer,” said Grunwald softly.

“What?” said Annaliese, alarmed. Hearing the tone of her voice, Eldanair looked

at the girl then at Grunwald, his face cold. “That is not possible.”

“No matter,” said Grunwald. “And the boy? You say that you healed him—how

did you manage such a feat with no training?”

“I never claimed to have healed him. I thought he had suffered a mortal wound,

but when I held him I realised that he had not.”

“So you say.”

Annaliese smiled ruefully. “You think I am a witch, Grunwald?”

“If I thought that you would already have been burnt alive at the stake,” he

replied. “You wear the symbol of Sigmar around your neck, and you wield a weapon

of a long dead priest. Yet you have had no religious training—it is in the best interest

of the church for you to be accompanied by a member of temple. To instruct you, to

guide you and to protect you should your… talents be true.”

Annaliese stared hard into the witch hunter’s eyes. “I have never claimed to be

anything, witch hunter.”

Grunwald smiled, which if anything made him seem more dangerous. “And I am

not claiming you are anything, Annaliese. Think of me just as… someone watching

over you. Helping you make the right choices. In Sigmar’s name, of course.”

She heard the threat in his words, but felt suddenly calm. She smiled. For all his

words and his occupation, she felt that there was little guile within Udo Grunwald.

“I like you, witch hunter,” she said, as surprised by the truth in her words as he

was, judging by the look on his face.

“Why?” he said simply, looking at her as if she were mad.

“I think I know where I stand with you,” she replied. “Which is something.”

The carriage ground to a halt, amid blasts of venting steam and the groan of metal.

“What’s this?” growled Grunwald, the sudden lack of vibration waking him.

“We are at Karak Kadrin,” said Thorrik dourly.

Grunwald glanced out the slats in the carriage walls—it was still dark out there

and he wondered for a moment if night had fallen—he had completely lost track of

time beneath the ground.

“Is it night?” he said out loud, voicing his thoughts. The dwarf snorted.

“Manlings,” he scoffed. “It nears mid-afternoon. We are still below ground—we

travel the last distance to Kadrin Keep by foot—we shall not see the surface until we

leave Kadrin.”

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“We?”

“Aye, we. I’ll deliver this,” he said, patting the oil skin wrapped object that had

barely left his side the entire journey, “and then I’ll be on my way back to rejoin my

clan—in the state of Ostermark.”

“What does he keep so well hidden, wrapped in leather?” asked Annaliese later,

as they walked down the metal steps away from the hissing steam engine of

Grimgrandel.

“I’m not sure,” said Grunwald. “Some kind of heirloom, he says. Something that

he is oath-bound to deliver.” He gave the girl a look. Her face was bright, and she

looked rested and curious of the goings on around her. The resilience of youth, he

thought. He felt sore, tired and irritable. “The dwarfs seem to take their oaths

particularly seriously.”

“Maybe it’s some magical relic of old,” said Annaliese, her blue-grey eyes

lighting up, making her look even younger than she was.

“Perhaps,” said the witch hunter noncommittally.

They waited for Karl and his thirty knights, who led their snorting warhorses

from their carriage. The young preceptor smiled broadly at them as he approached.

His steed stood a massive twenty hands tall at the shoulder—a purebred Averland

destrier. Its eyes were wide, and its ears were pulled back—it was a fierce beast, but

it clearly did not like the unnatural hissing of the steam train, nor being underneath

the ground.

“Well that was a much shorter, if more uncomfortable, journey than by

horseback. Over five hundred miles! That would have taken weeks—but here it only

took what—three days? Truly a marvel this steam engine. Imagine if these were

constructed all across the Old World! Our troops could be transported from Altdorf

to Kislev within days. Much faster than by ship even.”

“All the coffers of your Emperor would be emptied a thousand times over to fund

such an undertaking,” growled Thorrik, who had turned back to them to hurry them

up. “But come, enough of such foolish talk. We must make haste. There is grim

news—the keep is besieged. Peak Pass is contested.”

Peak Pass was one of only two ways through the towering mountains that formed the

nigh-on impenetrable eastern border of the Empire. Over five hundred miles to the

south lay Black Fire Pass. The only other clear route through the Worlds Edge

Mountains lay almost six hundred miles further north, in the uppermost reaches of

the inhospitable lands of Kislev, the Empire’s northern neighbours. There lay the

High Pass, through which the Chaos forces spilled during the titanic Great War two

hundred and fifty years earlier.

The three passes were the key to the defence of the Empire. Thus was the

message hammered home into would-be military commanders and their subordinates.

The passes meant life or death, and if they fell, so would the Empire.

But if even one of the passes fell to the enemy, then it spelled disaster. The

Empire was almost destroyed during the Great War, and in that time both Black Fire

Pass and the Peak Pass had held strong—through the High Pass the bloodthirsty

hordes of Chaos erupted, overtaking northern Praag and spilling southwards.

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If two passes fell, or Sigmar forbid all three, then there could be no hope for the

Empire of man. Grunwald’s thoughts were dark as he marched along the cavernous

dwarf under-road leading into Kadrin Keep.

It was a marvel of old fashioned dwarf engineering, and Thorrik pointed out the

details of the massive expanse with pride in his voice. The way was lit with

thousands of torches and oil-burning lanterns, and massive arches rose hundreds of

feet above them. The scale of the place was beyond comprehension—indeed the

highest building within any of the great cities of the Empire, even Altdorf, would be

able to sit within the archways with hundreds of feet to spare above the highest

parapet.

Bearded, horn-helmed faces glared down at them, totem-heads that rose as high

as a castle tower. Beneath arched, braided moustaches gaped open mouths broad

enough to allow ten carriages to pass side-by-side. Columns perfectly square, each

side easily a hundred feet in width, rose into the darkness overhead. Square-cut

balconies and platforms were hewn into their sides, betraying the fact that they were

riddled with rooms and stone chambers.

They passed beneath arched bridges, vast passageways that led to other parts of

the hold. Everywhere there were titanic statues and pillars, all intricately carved with

spiralling patterns and weaving lines that formed depictions of battles, warriors and

the dwarf ancestor-gods.

The sheer scale of the place stunned Grunwald, and Annaliese stared with her

mouth wide in astonishment and awe. Thorrik seemed pleased by their reactions. For

nearly a mile they walked along the underway, towards one towering statue that rose

even higher above them than anything else they had seen so far. Filling the arched

expanse, hundreds of feet high and hundreds of feet wide was a giant carved likeness

of a fierce dwarf warrior, his deep eye sockets hidden in shadow. Stone braids hung

down from his face, curling around themselves and falling to the ground. They hit the

ground and extended out before the grand statue to form high-sided walls that

reached hundreds of feet before the statue. The statue seemed to grow larger as they

approached it, rising into the air above them. Indeed, it seemed as though the arched

roof far above was supported on the shoulders of this mighty king—that he bore the

weight of Kadrin Keep itself.

The statue’s chest and legs were heavily armoured with overlapping plates of

rune-inscribed armour, though his muscular arms were bare except for powerful

bracers that encircled his forearms and coiling dragon-torcs that wrapped around his

massive upper arms. The stone that was carved to form this armour had veins of gold

running through it, so that the statue glittered and shone in the torchlight. Over his

shoulders he wore a cloak of dragon scales and fur.

In one hand the behemoth held a stone helmet. Giant scaled stone wings extended

up from it, merging into the ceiling almost a thousand feet above, forming pillars and

supports. The front of the helmet was carved in the likeness of a dragon’s roaring

visage. The dragon’s wide jaws would frame the warrior’s face, and there were

dozens of sharp teeth carved of pure white stone that protruded from the monster’s

gums. In his other angular, thick-fingered hand the king held a hammer of giant

proportions, engraved with blocky dwarf runes lit up from within, glowing with

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orange light. Similar runes blazed upon the warrior’s helmet, as if the fury of a

furnace burnt inside it.

Scores of dwarf warriors bowed their heads and ran their hands over thick strands

of stone hair that formed the giant braids that hit the ground, intoning oaths and

sacred words of greeting or praise. The passageway continued beneath this mighty

statue. Grunwald saw that the dwarfs walking beneath the statue struck their fists

upon their chests, above their hearts, and began chanting as they walked, a deep

throated, mournful drone.

“Behold mighty Grimnir, ancestor-god of courage and mighty deeds,” spoke

Thorrik, his voice solemn and reverential. “Karak Kadrin guards the Shrine of

Grimnir. It is a place of great reverence, and thousands of dawi-kind travel from their

holds to pay homage to the ancestor-god here every year.”

“How do those runes glow with light?” asked Annaliese, her voice full of

wonder. “Is it magic?”

“Magic? Pfah!” snorted Thorrik. “The dawi—dwarfs as you know us—have no

use for magic in the way you mean. No, it is something more mundane, yet no less

impressive for that. The most skilled stonemasons of Karak Kadrin carved them but

the stone of those runes of courage, kingship and battle is as thin as parchment. There

is fire behind them that will never grow dim until the dawi are no more, and it is the

light of those flames that you see through the stone.”

Annaliese raised her eyebrows, clearly impressed. “Stone as thin as parchment…

Surely it would shatter?”

Thorrik chuckled. “Aye lass, if carved by any but dwarf hands, it would. None in

all the world can match a dwarf in craftsmanship.”

“I can believe that looking upon this,” said Annaliese softly.

“For such short folk, you certainly build tall,” said Karl “Almost as if you were

making up for your lack of height.”

Grunwald smirked involuntarily but was amazed at the knight’s lack of tact for

daring to say such a thing, however apt, in the presence of Thorrik and his kinsmen,

before such an awe-inspiring statue of one of their great gods. It was clear that the

knight had little experience of dwarfs.

Thorrik rounded on the knight glowering with rage. Karl was forced to halt, and

the giant steed he led snorted and stamped its hooves. Though the preceptor towered

over the dwarf who came barely to his chest, Annaliese and Grunwald breathed in a

little and backed off a step from the simmering rage that threatened to overwhelm the

warrior.

“Utter such a remark again, beardling, and as Grimnir is my witness I swear that I

will cut the legs from under you so that you will look at the world from the same

height as I,” growled the ironbreaker, his hand closing on the haft of his axe

threateningly.

Several of Karl’s knights frowned and their hands reached for their own swords,

but Karl raised his hand to stop them. His eyes still glimmered with humour, but his

face was serious.

“I apologise—to you and your gods—brave warrior. I mean no disrespect. This

place is… beyond words, and I fear my mouth ran away with me. My deepest

apologies, once more, Thorrik Lokrison,” he said earnestly.

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Thorrik grunted, pleased by the human’s words but his face still burning with

rage. He cleared his throat. “Kadrin is not a place for what might pass amongst you

humans as humour. I warn you now, once. So much as think such a disrespectful

thought, and the Slayer King will have you gutted and left upon the mountainside for

the crows to pick at. Kadrin is not the place for levity, and you had best remember

that.”

With a final glare, Thorrik swung back around and continued to lead them down

the broad passageway. Grunwald shook his head incredulously at Karl as he caught

the knight’s eye, and the preceptor gave him a quick shrug of the shoulders, a look of

mock grievance upon his face. “You are an idiot,” Grunwald said softly, before

turning to follow Thorrik.

“I didn’t know he would be quite so touchy,” said Karl to himself.

Annaliese shook her head slightly, her eyebrows raised in reproach, though there

was a hint of a smile on her lips. She patted Karl on his armoured shoulder as she

passed.

The knight watched the girl walk away from him, her short-cropped blonde hair

seeming to glow with a light of its own. He had at first been disappointed when he

had seen that she had cut her flowing, wavy hair, but he had to admit that her shorter

style was growing on him—it showed her face better, and made her seem a little

older. His eyes lingered on her slight figure, the sway of her hips beneath her robe

and chainmail that fell almost to the ground.

He whistled softly through his teeth, and shook his head at himself. Then he led

his thirty Knights of the Blazing Sun on, passing beneath the statue of Grimnir and

into the mighty, besieged, Kadrin Keep.

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

For five days they had been stuck inside the keep as the enemy attacked it night and

day, and Grunwald’s patience was frayed to the point of breaking.

“We should never have come by the damn steam engine,” Karl snarled. “By now

I could have been more than half way to the Ostermark. But here we are trapped like

mice inside this accursed dwarf fortress, with no chance of breaking out.”

“I thought you liked the journey,” remarked Grunwald.

Karl glowered at him. “I am ordered to bolster the ranks of my order in Bechafen.

They are dying out there fighting against the damn forces of Chaos, and here we are

locked inside a castle in foreign lands.”

“Yes, I know, Karl! You haven’t let any of us forget it in the last three days.”

“I am sick of the sight of you, witch hunter. But there isn’t really any way that I

can avoid it.”

Grunwald rose to his feet, his face dark. Karl remained seated, his face bitter and

resentful.

“What are you doing here anyway, Grunwald?” snapped Karl. “Following the girl

around like some lovesick fool? Giving her Sigmar’s guidance, my arse. Not really a

job befitting a witch hunter, is it? She’s hardly some evil sorceress. What is it? You

want to rut with the girl or something?”

Grunwald’s fist cracked against Karl’s cheek, throwing him backwards off the

barrel he was sat on. He scrambled to his feet, his face angry.

“What, is that it? Hit a nerve, did I?” he spat. “You are old enough to be her

father, and ugly enough to scare off a dwarf maiden. You think she would ever dream

of bedding one such as you?”

“Quiet! I have no such intentions or delusions. I have no such interest in the girl.”

Grunwald glared at the knight for a moment, before sitting back down, rubbing

his bruised knuckles.

The knight remained standing, glowering in anger.

“I am not trying to seduce the girl,” said the witch hunter. He sighed. “I was

married once, you know. A beautiful girl, with the sweetest nature a man could ever

dream of.” He snorted. “Never knew what she saw in me.”

“What happened to her?” said Karl, still standing.

“She died in childbirth. The babe was lost, too. It was a girl. Would have been

about Annaliese’s age by now.”

“Ah,” said Karl, sitting down, rubbing his cheek where the witch hunter had

struck him.

“It’s not like that,” said Grunwald.

“Like what?”

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“I know what you are thinking. That I lost my wife and daughter, and that

Annaliese lost her parents. You think I am adopting the girl—a surrogate daughter to

replace the one I lost.”

Karl frowned. “You could do worse.”

“Perhaps.”

“What do you mean by that?” said Karl, his voice sharpening once more. His

eyes narrowed. “What are you doing here, Udo?”

“Watching out for the girl. Ensuring she is no danger. To the Empire… to

herself.”

“A danger?” Karl huffed in derision. “What possible danger could she be? You

think she is what… a heretic? You templars of Sigmar see much where there is

nothing.” His voice was heavy with scorn.

“No,” said Grunwald forcefully. “I don’t. But that does not mean she could not be

dangerous.”

“Explain.”

Grunwald sighed. “The girl had a vision. True or not, it doesn’t matter to me, but

others believed her. The temple of Sigmar is placed in a tricky situation—either it

refuses her, and risks causing dissent at a time when unification is needed, or it

accepts her claims and allows her to go north to fulfill her vision.”

“I fail to see the danger in that…”

“Think about it, man. What is the purpose of the devotees of Sigmar? His warrior

priests? They are to inspire strength, unification, resilience and courage in the

soldiery. A man who might flee will not do so in the presence of his warrior god—it

would be an act of shaming cowardice. Thus, the priests of our order are trained from

childhood—to ensure that they will not run in the face of the enemy, to make them

hard, able and fearless warriors.”

“I understand—it is similar with Myrmidia in the realms south of the Empire. But

how does that relate to Annaliese? She is no warrior priest.”

“No, she is not, but that is the point. The church does not allow the average

Empire citizen to wield the weapons of a priest or carry forth the word of Sigmar.”

Karl leant back, understanding dawning on him. “I see. So, she is a special case—

soldiers would not see her any differently than any other priest—indeed she would

probably be the focus of more attention, what with her being a woman. A man would

be even less likely to run in panic in front of a woman representing his god. That

would be shameful indeed. So, you are here to make sure that she doesn’t do

something that would weaken the resolve of the soldiers—that she herself does not

baulk in the face of danger.”

“Something like that,” said Grunwald. He was still unconvinced of the girl’s

purity, but letting the knight know that would be utmost foolishness.

“Seems like a strange job to give you,” remarked Karl. “Surely you would be

better placed rooting out necromancers and cultists.”

“Aye,” said Grunwald. “But I am not here by choice—this is a task I have been

ordered to perform.”

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Karl sat rubbing his cheek thoughtfully for a moment. “If a woman priest would

be more inspirational to soldiers than a man, then why does the church of Sigmar not

promote more female priests? I cannot recall seeing a single one.”

“There is a very good reason for that,” said Grunwald. “Because they have in the

past been hunted down by witch hunters such as I and burnt as heretics and witches.”

Karl’s jaw dropped. “What? Why?”

“Hundreds of years ago, there was an order of female priests. But Sigmar smote

the city that housed their temple, levelling it with a flaming comet that fell from the

heavens. It is believed that their existence angered him. There is fear amongst the

church that to allow women to become priests would encourage Sigmar’s rage once

more.”

“So, why let Annaliese live then, wearing the garb of a priest?”

“Why indeed?” said Grunwald darkly. He thought of the witchfinder general’s

last words before he left the temple in Black Fire Pass.

“It would be for the best, Grunwald, if the girl had an accident. Out on the road

somewhere, away from prying eyes. She would be forgotten, and the church would

continue as it always has.”

Grunwald had nodded, uneasy with this task that seemed far from noble, but

trusting his superior.

Now, he was not so sure.

Kadrin Keep, which Thorrik would often refer to as Slayer Keep, was a grand,

powerful bulwark—the kind of structure that seemed to Grunwald to be impossible to

destroy. It would have been easier, he thought, to destroy the mountains themselves.

Indeed the keep was more mountain than fortress, or perhaps more correctly it was

both.

Carved from the hard rock of the craggy peaks, the keep rose high above Kadrin

valley, just to the south of the Peak Pass itself. The passages and halls of the fortress-

hold riddled the mountain. Vast hall upon vast hall, the hold was larger than any city

of the Empire. It delved deep below the earth and rose to the peak’s highest point.

It was an immense city beneath the surface, and all the necessary components

were housed within it.

Thousands upon thousands of dwarfs dwelled within, split amongst their various

clans, and there were vast areas dedicated to breweries, smithies, stores, eating and

drinking halls, barracks, mine-workings, libraries of ancient lore, storehouses and

anything else that the hold could ever possibly have need of for survival. The witch

hunter realised that a dwarf growing up within the hold need never step outside, need

never glimpse the grey skies overhead or feel the icy bite of the wind upon the

mountainside.

He never saw more than a tiny fraction of the hold, yet was in awe at its scale, its

majesty and the sheer care the dwarfs took in their craftsmanship, wherever it was to

be found. Even the smallest, least-used passages had intricate knot-work carved upon

their sides, leering faces of ancestors jutting from walls and painstakingly chiselled

runes arching around the groined support arches overhead.

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And it was not a dark place either, as he had expected. The hold was filled with

light, though there were invariably many areas of menacing shadow. Lanterns and

thick, greasy candles burnt at all hours of the day. Ingenious lamps fuelled by strong

alcohol pumped through intricate arrays of pipes and valves ensured that they never

burnt low. In the larger halls giant hollow wheels of steel hung from mighty chains,

their circumferences pitted with holes through which tongues of flame lit the area.

The sounds and smells of industry pervaded every vast chamber within the hold,

and the pounding of hammers, the mechanical turning of vast gears and toothed-

wheels, and the hiss of venting steam pressure—all were a constant hubbub of

productive noise.

Grunwald had seen the forges of Karak Kadrin, and had been awed at their scale.

Giant hammers the size of a castle tower pounding at great sheets of super-heated

metal, driven by pistons and hissing boilers, and thousands of sweating smiths

worked tirelessly through night and day to provide armour for the armies of the

Slayer King.

“It is a tragic tale,” said Thorrik to Annaliese when she asked about the strange

title for the monarch of Karak Kadrin. “Generations past a mighty king, Baragor the

Proud, suffered a terrible loss that drove him to take up the slayer oath—only in

death would his shame be annulled. But the king faced a terrible dilemma, for if he

were to seek his death, as a slayer must, then he would be abandoning his oath of

kingship, his oath to oversee and protect his hold, and to do such a thing would be a

dishonour far worse than death. It was an impossible dilemma, and one that haunted

him until his dying day—indeed one that continues to haunt his line, and will do until

the day of reckoning comes, when Grimnir comes back to us.”

“What did he do?” asked Annaliese, her eyes wide. Grunwald and Karl leaned in

to listen to the dwarf’s grief stricken words.

“His oath to his hold was stronger than his slayer oath. And so, he became the

first of the Slayer Kings, and the shame of being unable to fulfil his slayer oath

would carry down to his heir. In turn, his heir became the next Slayer King, and his

after that. King Baragor built the Shrine of Grimnir, and Kadrin became the centre of

the slayer cult. Slayers from all across the dwarf holds would make the pilgrimage

here, to mourn and lament before the grand statue of the ancestor-god, who is their

patron. He grants them the strength and the fearlessness to go to their end with their

heads held high, never to take a backwards step in the face of the enemy.”

“The statue that we saw beneath the mountain?” asked Karl.

The dwarf gave the knight a pitying look. “No. That is but a pale shadow in

comparison to the great shrine, out in Kadrin valley, near Kazad Gromar.” He let the

impact of this statement sink in.

“The Slayer King who rules today is Baragor’s descendant of blood, King

Ungrim Ironfist, and he too bears the shame of his forefather.”

“The slayers, they… scare me,” admitted Annaliese.

“As well they should, lass,” said Thorrik. “They make even the most doughty

dwarfen warrior uneasy, for a broken oath or a personal tragedy could come to us

all—leaving us hungering for battle, lamenting life in all its forms and forever

seeking the final relief of death.”

116

Grunwald saw Annaliese shiver, and indeed he felt a chill at the dwarf’s words

himself.

“And now, Karak Kadrin itself is besieged,” continued Thorrik, his face subtly

changing, his mournful expression changing to one of anger. “The enemies arrayed

against it are many. The Bloody Sun tribe, they are called. Greenskins arrayed in

such force that they make the mountains tremble beneath their step, and are like a

carpet of foulness from horizon to horizon. It is said that this is the self-same tribe of

greenskins,” he said, spitting onto the ground, “that assail Black Fire Pass. And far

off Karaz-a-Karak, the seat of the High King himself.”

“How is that possible?” said Grunwald. “Orc tribes ally uneasily—how is it that

one tribe holds dominance over all the others?”

“It is something that I have learnt is troubling the greybeards much,” replied

Thorrik. “They suspect some foul sorcery, some trickery is at play—some power that

binds the orc and goblin tribes together. Whatever it is,” he added, “if it is not

broken, the lands of the dwarfs will be overrun. Not this year, probably not next—but

if the greenskin hordes do not fracture, I cannot see how the dwarfen holds can

withstand such hateful, protracted attack. We live in the shadow times—the end of

the dwarf nation draws close.”

“Your people cannot falter!” said Karl fiercely. “If the holds are lost, then the

Empire is lost with them.”

“Aye, I would guess as much,” said Thorrik.

The companions sat in silence for a moment, their mood dark. The sounds of

industry rang out around them, and dwarf warriors marched past them, tucked away

in the corner of the vast hall where they had made their camp.

“I am going to check on the horses,” said Karl at last, breaking the silence.

“Would you care for a stroll on this most fine evening, young lady?” he asked of

Annaliese, bending his knee theatrically and extending his hand. “Or morning? Or

whatever time it is in this… place?”

“I would be most honoured, noble sir,” said Annaliese with a laugh and a curtsy.

Eldanair too rose up silently from where he sat cross-legged on the stone floor.

“He doesn’t need to come,” said Karl.

“Oh hush, leave him be,” said Annaliese.

With her hand resting lightly on his armoured forearm, the pair strode off,

ghosted by Eldanair.

“Good girl, that,” said Thorrik gruffly.

“You are troubled, my friend,” said the witch hunter. He had been trying to get

some time alone with the ironbreaker for days now. When they had first arrived at

Karak Kadrin, Thorrik had been full of energy, for his task was almost complete. He

had rushed off to try to discover the whereabouts of the young slayer, so as to deliver

unto him the ancient heirloom he bore. But when he had returned, his mood was

dark, and Grunwald saw that he still carried the leather-bound relic.

“It’s nothing,” said the dwarf. “You would not understand.”

“Try me,” suggested Grunwald.

“It is this siege. The orcs rising. It portents of bad times to come,” said the dwarf

gruffly.

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“Undoubtedly. But they have done so before, and together man and dwarf has

defeated them. It is something else, is it not? Something to do with your… oath.”

Thorrik sighed and pulled out his dragon-headed pipe. Grunwald did not say

anything as the ironbreaker lit up and began puffing away. Tendrils of blue-grey

smoke rose from the fanged maw and nostrils of the snarling serpent pipe.

“Aye, you are right, manling,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I am unable to

complete my oath.”

“Unable…” said Grunwald, frowning. “Ah,” he said finally. “The young slayer

completed his oath, then?”

“Aye,” said Thorrik gruffly. “He feasts now in the halls of the ancestors, his pride

restored. He fell against a stone troll—a mighty foe to be bested by, indeed. He

slaughtered more than a dozen greenskins before the fell beast cut him down, so it is

said. A good death.”

The witch hunter could see that the dwarf was in pain, but had not the depth of

understanding of dwarf culture to fully comprehend the importance of what he said.

Thorrik’s oath could not be fulfilled. What happened to a dwarf who was unable to

complete an oath? Grunwald watched as a painted slayer walked past, gnashing his

teeth and pulling at his spiked, orange hair in lamentation. He looked sharply back at

the proud ironbreaker, concern on his face.

“What happens now?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Just as kings have sworn oaths of duty to their hold, an ironbreaker swears oaths

to his clan. They cannot be lightly set aside. I must head back to my clan, in the

Ostermark,” said Thorrik, his eyes weary. “And once there, I must request from my

clan-thane that I might be allowed to take up the slayer oath.”

Days passed within Karak Kadrin. Thorrik was gone much of that time, and

Grunwald’s mood was heavy. Even Annaliese was growing restless and short

tempered, eager to be on her way. She snapped at Eldanair one day, frustrated with

his silence and his ghostly presence. Indeed he did seem even more distant and cold

since being here within the hold of the dwarfs, but then that was understandable—the

looks of loathing, mistrust and often outright hatred directed at him from the dwarfs

was relentless. To his credit, he never lowered his gaze from the challenging stares,

though he never did anything that could have provoked a reaction, for which

Grunwald was thankful. The last thing they needed was to have bloodshed within the

group. When the girl snapped at him, he merely regarded her coldly, making no

reaction to her at all. When she stalked away from him, he merely continued to

follow her, much to her frustration.

Still, whenever Annaliese rested, Eldanair sat watching over her. Her sleep was

plagued with dreams and nightmares—he heard her cry out often, and the elf would

place a hand on her forehead, speaking soothingly in his singsong voice. She would

invariably fall back into restful sleep.

Grunwald couldn’t work out the elf, and that concerned him. He was deeply

intuitive with people—he had a knack for feeling when someone was lying, or

concealing something—though he was generally quite happy to let those around him

see him merely as a brute. It served his purpose well, for people often lowered their

guard around him. But the elf was blank to him, and he never left the girl’s side.

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When the time came for Grunwald to ensure the girl suffered her accident, it would

be more than likely that he would have to deal with Eldanair as well.

Finally Thorrik returned.

“There is a way out,” he said, and everyone’s attention snapped onto him. “But it

will not be without risks.”

“Finally,” said Karl. “Why has it taken so long for you to find this information?”

Grunwald raised a hand to forestall any argument, glaring at Karl.

“And you will not be able to take your precious horses,” said Thorrik, staring the

knight squarely in the eye.

“What? Preposterous! We are knights, and we will not leave our destriers here in

this dark hole.”

“Then you will stay here in this dark hole as well then,” said Thorrik.

“Tell us more about this way out,” said Grunwald.

“There is a final mineshaft that has yet to be sealed. It leads into the mines of

Baradum, which have long been abandoned to the enemy. They crawl through the

darkness like vermin, seeking an entrance into the slayer keep from below, since their

armies are smashing uselessly against its walls. This way is to be sealed tomorrow at

midday. At the same time King Ungrim Ironfist’s son, the war-mourner Garagrim,

will lead forth an army of slayers, to clear the Great Bridge and push back the enemy.

It seems that orc and goblin hordes are erecting their crude war machines with which

to pound the keep. Kadrin lacks the cannons to effectively pummel these

emplacements, and so Garagrim has tasked himself with destroying these threats.”

Thorrik stared around at the humans, ignoring the elf.

“When the war-mourner and his slayer army sallies forth, the enemy will be

drawn to them like moths to a flame. That is when we will enter the mines of

Baradum. We make our way through them—one of its exits is some distance down

the valley, and all being well, we will be able to make a clear run through to the

Empire.”

“All being well?” snapped Karl. “What if the armies of the greenskins are not all

drawn away? What if they are waiting out there in the valley for us?”

Thorrik looked at the knight, his eyes heavy but his face expressionless.

“Then we die,” he said.

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CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Curving horns fashioned in the likeness of mighty serpents and wyrms boomed, their

resounding blare echoing through Kadrin Keep and out into the valley beyond.

Dozens of horns sounded, deep and monotonous, deafeningly loud. Each instrument

was the size of a tree, and fixed to the stone walls of the massive gathering chamber

with giant bands of iron. Those dwarfs who blew them stood in sunken alcoves built

high into the walls, and Grunwald could feel his ear-rums reverberate at the colossal

din that made the rock beneath his feet shudder in response.

He stood at the side of Karl Heiden, the preceptor knight fully decked out in his

ornate armour. He wore his plumed helm and his thirty knights were arrayed behind

him, their armour freshly shined and glimmering brightly in the firelight of thousands

of torches and lanterns. Their standard was unfurled and resplendent, and each knight

stood to attention, motionless, powerful and silent.

Grunwald wore his full uniform of office. His breastplate was freshly covered in

new black lacquer, and he had affixed several passages from the books of Sigmar to

it, thin parchment scrolls held in place with wax seals bearing the twin-tailed comet

impression of the large bronze signet ring he wore on his left hand, on top of his

elbow-length black gloves. On his broad-rimmed black hat he wore a large, freshly

shined wreathed-skull badge, and twin baldrics crossed his torso upon which were

strapped the tools of his trade—silver-tipped stakes, vials of holy water, powder-

horns and a small, padlocked book of Sigmarite holy passages. His pistols were

holstered on his belt, and an array of knives and bladed “confession tools” were

sheathed about his body—at his side, strapped to his knee-high black boots, on his

forearms. His trusty flanged mace hung loosely at his side. Over his shoulders he had

drawn his heavy black coat.

Next to him was Annaliese, who looked for all the world like a true acolyte priest

of Sigmar in her robes of cream and deep red that were worn over her floor-length

robe of chainmail. She held her head high, an expression of pride and strength on her

face. Her holy Sigmarite hammer hung at her side, and the symbol of Sigmar was

prominent on her breast.

Standing before them was Thorrik, the ironbreaker, stone-still and radiating

strength and resilience. His reddish beard was freshly braided with copper wire, and

his gromril armour was shined to perfection.

It was a great honour, he had told them, to be allowed to witness the official

muster and blessing of the Slayer King upon the army that would within hours push

out to meet the enemy head on. Only Eldanair had been barred from the official

ceremony.

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The humans, accompanied by Thorrik Lokrison, had been escorted to a high

balcony to oversee the proceedings below, and the sheer scale of the gathering had

stunned Grunwald.

The cavern was immense, even greater than any he had yet seen within the dwarf

hold, and behind it rose the colossal doors that formed the gateway out of the mighty

hold.

Those doors were hundreds of feet high, and giant clockwork wheels and cogs

were constructed into their design. Giant idle pistons, levered arms and immense

anvil-like counter-weights were built into the grand pillars astride the doors, and

Grunwald guessed that it was these mechanics that would open the doors when the

time came for this mighty dwarf army to sally forth.

Grunwald had been surprised that he and the other humans had been allowed to

bear weapons to such an august ceremony, but he saw now that they could pose no

threat to the dwarf king, armed or not.

Spread out on the terraced chamber floor was the army that Garagrim was soon to

lead through those great doors, and it made Grunwald’s mind boggle to see such

numbers arrayed below him.

Thousands of clan warriors of Karak Kadrin had been mustered, and they stood in

serried ranks behind their thanes and chieftains. Banners of beaten metal and

beautifully crafted icons were held aloft on steel poles, the standards bearing clan

symbols and runes.

But these dwarf warriors were outnumbered easily five to one by the garishly

painted slayers, who stood with hands resting on the heads of the axes, their silence

unnerving. A sea of orange, spiked hair and painted faces, the slayers stared solemnly

towards the arched entranceway through which their patron king would emerge.

Grunwald studied the faces of the closest slayers—they had been daubed with

blue and black inks and dyes, and intricate coiling patterns and runes covered their

flesh. Eye sockets had been smeared with ash, making the slayers’ menacing eyes

appear to peer out of darkness. Some held aloft the heads of mighty enemies that had

been bested in battle—trolls, massive greenskins, scaled beasts and furred creatures

that defied name. Many of the slayers towards the front of the mass array of force

were covered in scars and old, healed wounds, and these ancient warriors bore

weapons gleaming with jewels, gold and throbbing runes of power.

“Those unable to achieve death,” whispered Thorrik. “For while all slayers seek

to attain their honourable end, a slayer must fight with all his strength and ability in

battle, else he will not be allowed within the drinking halls of our ancestors. So it is

that the mightiest slayer warriors find their deaths hard to achieve, and they seek out

the most powerful foes on the field of battle, striving to one day meet the enemy that

they could not overcome. They are truly tragic figures. Giant slayers, dragon slayers,

daemon slayers—tragically, for some the quest for death is never ending.”

Grunwald estimated that there must have been in the region of eight thousand

slayers gathered below, each warrior utterly fearless, as hard as stone and eager for

battle. It would have been terrifying to face such a foe, and yet it was said that the

armies battering upon the fortress from the valley beyond was numberless.

The deafening horns sounded again, deep and reverberating, and the alcove doors

below were thrown open. The Slayer King and his son marched forth. They were

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closely followed by an entourage of doughty warriors bearing huge two-handed

hammers and wearing armour inlaid with gold, and by dozens of dwarfs holding tall

banners and icons aloft, but it was the king who drew Grunwald’s eye.

As broad as he was tall, the Slayer King was borne upon a broad round shield of

gold, carried by four powerfully built warriors. His fierce head was lifted, and a

deafening roar rose from the gathered dwarf warriors, accompanied by ten thousand

feet stamping in unison. The booming resounded through the chamber, and the Slayer

King was carried onwards through the din. A long cloak of gleaming dragon scales

was fixed to his shoulders and hung down over the shield bearing him to trail onto

the flagstones behind. He wore a glittering horned crown of gold studded with

precious stones, and his mighty beard, dyed bright orange, was tied in intricate braids

that looped back upon themselves, such was its length. Above his crown rose a tall

crest of spiked orange hair, worn in the same manner as the thousands of slayers

before him. Unlike them, however, he wore heavy and ornate armour—the armour of

his office as king of Karak Kadrin—and it glowed dully with hundreds of runes.

Before the king walked an honoured white-bearded dwarf, his face lined with age

and his beard trailing in his wake. Despite his age, this revered ancient one had arms

as thick as tree-stumps, and he held above his head a large golden platter draped in

rich cloth, upon which lay the kingly weapon of his lord—a giant double-bladed axe

that seemed to shimmer and vibrate with barely restrained power.

Walking steadily beside the shield-bearers that bore the Slayer King was the

king’s heir and son, Garagrim Ironfist. War-mourner was his title, Thorrik had told

Grunwald, though the full import of this title was lost on him. This fearsome warrior

stalked forwards, arrayed for battle in the manner of the slayers, eschewing armour

and treading across the stone floor barefoot. His orange beard was hung with icons of

Grimnir, and his heavily muscled forearms were wrapped in chain. These chains

were fixed to a pair of axes he carried, perhaps to ensure that he was never rendered

weaponless in the heat of battle. His face was streaked with ash and his arms covered

in coiling blue ink.

The kingly entourage drew to a halt, and the shield-bearers lowered their liege

gently to the ground. He stepped forward, off the golden shield, and stood at the top

of a raised stone tier looking over the steps across the host of Karak Kadrin, and

silence descended.

Then the king spoke, his deep-throated voice carrying across the entire gathered

force thanks to the acoustics of the architecture. None stirred, not a single warrior or

slayer shuffled, and his words were met with stony silence. Though the humans could

not understand Khazalid, the guttural, harsh language of the dwarfs, they picked up

on the spirit of the speech, and it was filled with pride, strength, doom and anger.

It was not a long, drawn out speech as it would have been in the Empire—rather

it was curt, short and to the point. Garagrim knelt before his king and the mighty

Slayer King of Kadrin lifted him to his feet and placed his forehead against that of his

son’s, uttering an oath of clearly great importance. A pair of brimming steins of ale

were brought forth, and the king and his heir drank deep before throwing the vessels

to the ground and crushing them beneath their feet. Grunwald winced as the bare foot

of Garagrim bent the metal stein out of shape.

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With a final nod to his father, the War-mourner walked down the steps towards

his army, and a great clamour of chanting, stamping of feet and the blare of horns

sounded out.

“And so the throng of Karak Kadrin goes to war,” said Thorrik, turning away

from the spectacle. With the grinding of gears and the venting of steam, the giant

doors of the slayer keep opened, and daylight bright and sharp speared inside the

hold, bringing with it ungodly screams and the smell of fire. Thousands of crude

drums beat from the valley outside—the pounding of the enemy.

A flight of single-manned, steam-powered flying machines lifted from the

chamber floor, their rotary blades spinning in a blur of motion, setting the hair and

beards of those below flapping with the wind they generated. The gyrocopters flew

out through the slowly opening portal, up into the grey skies that were almost

blinding after so long without seeing sunlight.

With a roar, the army of Karak Kadrin readied itself for battle, turning towards

the ever-expanding archway of light.

“Come,” said Thorrik, his voice gruff. “It is time.”

They descended into darkness, travelling deeper and deeper into the heart of the

mountain and the mine-workings that created a labyrinth of passageways far beneath

the surface. The sound of chains running out was deafening, as was the heavy

repetitive clunk and pounding of the steam engine that lowered the steel platform

down into the abyssal darkness below.

Karl was clearly still angered at having to leave his beloved warhorse back in the

dwarf hold. The faces of his knights were similarly grim. Eldanair looked directly

upwards, his long, emotionless face turned towards the distant light at the top of the

mining shaft that was getting ever smaller with every passing minute.

The air was hot and stifling the deeper they went, and Grunwald found himself

sweating profusely beneath his breastplate and he took his hat off to wipe his brow.

Apart from Thorrik and the miner-turned-slayer Abrek Snorrison who was to act as

their guide, the only one that seemed to remain calm as they descended deeper

beneath the ground was Annaliese. Her fist was clasped tightly around her symbol of

Sigmar, and she spoke the simple prayers that Grunwald had taught her like a mantra.

Her face was serene and tranquil. The shuttered lanterns seemed to create a halo-like

glow around her, her blonde hair shining in the darkness, luminous and golden.

It seemed to Grunwald that their descent was never-ending, and he would not

have been at all surprised to have found themselves transported to the fiery

underworld at journey’s end.

Finally, the platform hit solid ground, and the boom of it striking rock echoed up

the sheer shaft that led into Karak Kadrin.

The grim slayer Abrek indicated forward with his bearded chin, and barked

something in Khazalid to Thorrik. The slayer hefted a massive mining pickaxe in one

hand, while in the other he held a lantern, its light blinding, focused with polished

metal and shutters to project its light in a single beam.

“This is it,” said the ironbreaker, his voice muffled behind his gromril helm.

“Abrek and I take the lead. The rest of you follow, two abreast. We move now. This

last mine entrance will be sealed within the hour.”

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Karl organised his men, his orders crisp and brooking no argument. He took up

position with one of his knights as the rear guard. They all held their swords drawn,

and all but those holding dwarf-made alcohol-fuelled lanterns wore their shields

strapped to their arms.

“Daughter of Verena, let your light be our guide in the darkness,” said Karl,

invoking Myrmidia, the goddess of the Blazing Sun. Grunwald walked at the side of

Annaliese in the middle of the party, with Eldanair ghosting their footsteps a pace

behind, an arrow nocked to his bow, his face alert and tense. The witch hunter had

loaded and primed his wheel-lock pistols, and he walked with one of them held in his

left hand—his brutal mace in the other. Annaliese, radiating calm, walked with her

hammer held in both hands.

Into the labyrinth of abandoned mining passages they went, lanterns lighting the

way. Through twisting corridors hewn of solid rock they marched, the humans

pointing their lanterns down dark passages criss-crossing their route, their eyes

straining. Some of the corridors they passed were broad, and steel tracks like those of

the steam engine were laid on the stone floor.

Within minutes, Grunwald had lost his bearings, utterly and completely. If

Thorrik and Abrek fell, then they would have little chance of ever making their way

out. It was a veritable maze, with passages leading everywhere. They passed shafts

that rose higher into the mountain and others that sank still deeper. The concept of

time had no meaning down here.

The ground began to shudder, and Thorrik halted the column of marching

warriors. There came an echoing boom reverberating up the passageway, and rocks

and dust fell from the ceiling onto the column. Grunwald shielded his head with his

arm. A heavy rock fell onto Thorrik’s helmet, but it cracked as it struck him, and the

pieces fell around him. The dwarf made no reaction. Exactly which direction the

sound came from was impossible to discern, as was its distance. Rumbling crashes

boomed and rocked the earth beneath their feet. More rock and debris fell, cracking

sharply against the knights’ armour, they all looked fearfully around them, feeling the

weight of the mountain pressing down upon them.

“What is it?” Grunwald hissed, voicing the thoughts of all the humans.

Thorrik’s voice ghosted back to his ears, sounding distant and faint.

“Earthquake?”

“The shaft is being sealed by engineers behind us. What you hear are controlled

blasting charges closing off the mines so that the enemy may not find a way into the

keep.”

“No way back then,” muttered one of the knights behind Grunwald darkly.

“We shall make it through,” said Annaliese, her voice calm and strong. “Sigmar

is with us.”

The last detonations died away, rocks settled and they were surrounded once

more by an oppressive silence. Dust continued to fall for several minutes, until that

too ceased. Grunwald took off his broad hat, and brushed the stone dust from its rim.

They began to march once more, through twisting passageways and climbing up

and down steps hewn from the rock.

“Annaliese,” said Eldanair, making Grunwald jump with shock at the voice at his

ear. He had heard the elf speak only a handful of times, and he was not used to the

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strangely alien, singsong voice of the warrior. Annaliese turned towards the elf, who

was as tense as a taut bowstring. The elf gestured sharply to his ear.

“Thorrik,” said Annaliese, understanding Eldanair instantly. “Stop the column.

Can you hear anything?”

The column drew to a halt, and Karl barked sharply at his knights to silence the

sound of their clanking armour.

At first they could hear nothing. But then, very faintly they too could hear what it

was that had alerted Eldanair.

Very distant, very faint, there was the sound of drumming. A dull roar echoed

from afar, and the sound of metal striking metal, in time with the drumming—the

sound of blades being rhythmically crashed against metal shield-rims.

Abrek snarled something in the dwarfen tongue, and seemed ready to begin

running straight towards the sound. Thorrik nodded his head but said something in an

authoritative tone, holding the slayer at bay.

“The greenskins are near,” said Thorrik, his voice filled with anger, but perhaps

also a hint of eagerness, Grunwald thought. “Drawn to the sound of the detonations.”

Several of the knights swore, and Karl barked once more, silencing them.

“If they come, then we fight them,” said the preceptor.

“Oh, they come,” said Thorrik, his voice menacing and full of growing

enthusiasm. “And we will face them.”

“Our main aim is to get out of these mines—to get to the Empire,” said

Grunwald, his voice containing a warning. “We fight if we must—but we do not seek

battle here.”

Abrek began speaking, harshly and quickly, his voice rising in anger, punching

the air with his pickaxe to make his point. Though Grunwald could not see Thorrik’s

face, hidden as it was in darkness, he could feel the tension in the dwarf, the

conflicting desires. At last he said a single word in his language. When the slayer

raised his voice to argue, Thorrik barked this one word again, more forcefully.

“Aye,” said the ironbreaker, turning towards Grunwald. “It is as you say,

manling.”

The column began moving once more. In the distance, the sound of the

greenskins grew louder.

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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

They travelled through the stygian darkness for what seemed like days in the

claustrophobic tunnels, trusting that the dwarf slayer Abrek knew where he was

leading them. It was not a clear, direct route they took, but rather it meandered left

and right, up and down, and Grunwald lost count of the number of intersections and

cross-passages they passed.

They halted several times to rest and eat, chewing the dried, salty meat that

Thorrik had acquired from Kadrin Keep. They ate in silence and in darkness. Strange

sounds seemed to come at them from all angles, the sounds of metal on stone, odd

scraping sounds, dull roars and the sound of falling rocks.

The drumming had faded, and Grunwald hoped that they had managed to bypass

the greenskins moving somewhere within the abandoned mines, though in truth he

found that being unable to hear the passage of the hateful creatures was even more

worrying. The humans jumped and started at the odd reverberations that echoed up to

them from the depths of lower passages, the scuttling sounds of creatures scratching

just beyond the lantern-light, and at the strange winds that seeped from cracks and

fissures in the passage walls.

Hot air was exhaled from the deep, blasts of steaming, wet breath that wafted up

from below. Small rocks tumbled down from the darkness above them as they passed

through vast caverns carved, Thorrik said, thousands of years earlier by the writhing

of monstrous beasts of the underworld that the ancient ancestor gods had wrestled.

Giant stalagmite columns rose from the uneven ground, climbing high into the

darkness, glistening with moisture and gleaming with a cold light of their own.

Clusters of glowing pinpricks of light speckled overhead, numbered in their tens

of thousands, an imitation of the stars that pierced the heavens at night.

In some places there were oddly glowing patches of foul-smelling fungus.

Swearing, Thorrik and Abrek angrily kicked and stamped the bloated, palid growths

into nothingness and great clouds of spores rose from them as they deflated. The

humans and the elf covered their mouths and noses so as not to breathe in any of the

foetid spores.

There was much evidence of mining activity in the passages and corridors, and in

many places the roof and ceiling was supported with great iron beams. The rock

faces were rough and broken, and the passages twisting and convoluted as they

followed seams of precious metals.

There was no warning when the first attack came. They were passing through an

open area that might have once been a dwarf encampment, and there were numerous

entrances and side-passages that opened into the room. An arrow streaked out of the

darkness and took one of the knights, who had raised his visor against the heat,

squarely in the face. An instant later there was a braying sound of a horn, seeming to

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come at them from all sides. Other arrows whistled in at the column, striking the

shields that the knights raised defensively, and clattering off the stone floor. More

distant horns and the sound of heavy feet pounding on stone began echoing all

around them.

And then the enemy was upon them, bursting from side corridors, roaring and

beating their weapons against their shields. Some carried crude torches of dripping,

stinking pitch, and the flames lit up their brutish, savage faces starkly. There was no

time for thought as frantic combat erupted on all sides. Grunwald fired his pistol into

the face of a hulking orc that launched itself at him with a pair of massive cleavers

and fire burst from the barrel of the gun. The orc fell to the ground, but others leapt

over the corpse, their gaping maws filled with thick tusks, roaring as they set upon

the column.

Karl yelled orders, and the Knights of the Blazing Sun met the charging enemies

with shield and sword. They stepped forward, their broad-bladed swords cutting and

stabbing frantically. Steel sang through the air as blades sliced into thick-muscled

green bodies, cutting through limbs and hacking into necks as thick as a man’s body.

The savagery and suddenness of the attack was staggering. Blood began to flow

freely, and the sound of roars and screams echoed deafeningly over the din of

clashing swords and shields.

A monstrous figure stalked out of the darkness towards Grunwald, a massive orc

warrior, encased head to toe in crude, heavy armour. Its helmet was all-

encompassing, fashioned to house its massive, protruding jaw, and curving tusks

emerged from square, steel mandibles. It bore a jagged, steel shield and swung a

heavy, thick bladed cleaver at Grunwald as it stepped forwards.

The witch hunter swayed back and the lethal blow whistled past his face.

Drawing his second pistol, he fired it at close range into the chest of the hulking

greenskin, the sound painful to the ear. The lead shot smashed though the steel plates

of the beast and deep into its body, knocking it back a pace. Stepping forward

quickly, Grunwald smashed his mace into the head of the creature. With a sickening

crunch of metal and bone, the beast took the blow, its heavy head knocked to the

side, but it recovered quickly, slamming its shield into Grunwald’s face, making him

stumble backwards, his head ringing.

A knight plunged his sword deep into the beast’s side and it roared, backhanding

the knight to the ground before turning towards Grunwald. The witch hunter smashed

his mace into the orc’s cheek, crushing metal and fracturing bone.

Ignoring the injuries that would have dropped any man, the armoured orc drove

its knee up into Grunwald’s stomach, and he doubled over, the air forced from his

lungs. The orc followed up the attack with a brutal elbow that struck him on the side

of the head, and the next thing he knew he was flat out on his back, his vision hazy,

and with the creature looming over him.

A white-fletched arrow thudded into its eye socket and it roared. Then a golden

hammer smashed into its head, knocking the creature to its knees. A second hammer

blow crushed its skull and it sank finally to the ground, dark blood welling from the

mortal wound.

White dots of light shimmered before Grunwald’s eyes, but he pushed himself to

his feet, his head ringing.

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“We have to move!” shouted Karl. There was just too many of the enemy

attacking from too many sides for the knights to be able to mount an effective

defence.

“Back!” roared Thorrik from the head of the column. “Back to the tunnel!”

Step by painful step, the column retreated from where it had come, swords

flashing and blood spraying. Wounded knights gritting their teeth against the pain

were half-carried half-dragged back by their comrades, while other knights and the

pair of dwarfs formed a protective arc around them.

Eldanair launched arrows through gaps between the tight packed warriors, each

fired with deadly accuracy. Karl fought like a man possessed, his broadsword carving

a bloody swathe through the orcs launching themselves at him. He turned their heavy

blows with his battered shield, and sent lightning ripostes that ripped throats open

and severed vital arteries. Grunwald, his head buzzing, repacked his pistols with shot

and powder, and they boomed loudly in the enclosed space as the knights backed into

the corridor.

With only one route of attack coming against them now, the numbers of the orcs

meant nothing, and Thorrik and Abrek stood side by side in the narrow entranceway

cutting down every enemy that surged against them.

Abrek was bleeding from dozens of cuts, and he snarled like a beast as he fought.

Blood was splattered all over his face, chest and arms, giving him a daemonic

appearance, and he fought with the wild frenzy of a berserker. The slayer gave no

thought to defence, merely intent on attack. His pickaxe was covered in gore, and he

swung it murderously, slamming its spikes through skulls and puncturing chests with

brutal rage.

Thorrik was as resilient as the mountainside itself, and though dozens of blows

rained down on him, few made more than a scratch on his powerful gromril armour.

With every blow that struck against him he seemed to grow more powerful, his axe-

blows falling with greater strength and speed. Nothing seemed able to breach his

defence, and the orcs began to fall back, demoralised and frustrated.

The greenskins pulled back, and a flight of arrows whistled through the air

towards the pair of dwarfs. Though they clattered off Thorrik’s armour and shield,

they sank deep into Abrek’s muscled flesh, and he snarled against the pain, drool and

blood dripping down over his beard. Two arrows protruded from his chest, one from

his thigh and another from his shoulder. Another arrow sliced into the bunched

muscles joining his shoulder and his neck, passing cleanly through and out the other

side. Uncaring of his wounds, he seemed ready to throw himself back into the fray,

but a sharp word from Thorrik held him back.

Drums and howls from the greenskins seemed to announce the arrival of some

new terror, and there was a blood-curdling roar that erupted from the darkness.

Abrek’s gaze snapped up, his eyes mad and eager, and Thorrik spoke to him again,

quickly and loudly.

The slayer seemed to ignore him, and only a heavy hand on his shoulder

restrained him from hurling himself back into the abandoned arena of battle. He

turned then and spoke quickly and forcefully, and Grunwald saw Thorrik’s armoured

head nod in response. Eldanair sent shafts streaking into the room, and there were

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muffled roars as they struck home. The bellow of something far larger than an orc

reverberated once more, and a monstrous, hulking shape loped into the firelight.

Standing almost eleven feet in height, the creature was hunched and long limbed,

its gangly, powerful arms hanging almost to the ground. Its head was large and its

features exaggerated, a large bulbous nose sprouting from beneath a pair of malicious

yellow eyes. Big flaps of skin hung to either side of its face, overgrown ears studded

with crude bone decorations, and its mouth was a wide slash with thick, slab-like

teeth.

It was naked but for a loincloth of matted fur, and its flesh was the colour of foul

water. In each taloned hand it carried a long bone ending in a bulbous lump, and as it

saw the dwarfs standing in the passage entrance it roared once again, thick ropes of

spittle splattering from its gaping maw. It broke into a loping run, and Abrek said

some final words to Thorrik, before the ironbreaker slapped the slayer on one meaty,

bloody shoulder and turned away.

“Come! We must be quick!” shouted the heavily armoured dwarf as Abrek

screamed incoherently and threw himself towards the troll closing towards him.

His pickaxe was raised high over his head as he ran to his death.

Quickly Thorrik led them down a series of twisting corridors and side-passages,

and Grunwald pushed past the knights to his side.

“He will surely die,” said the witch hunter.

“Aye, if Grimnir favours him,” replied Thorrik curtly.

“You know the way out?” he asked.

“Aye,” replied Thorrik, though he ventured nothing more. The witch hunter

dropped back to Annaliese’s side. It seemed the elf had fallen back as a rear guard,

for he was nowhere to be seen.

In the distance they heard the roar of the troll, though whether they were bellows

of pain or victory was impossible to discern.

“May you find peace at last, Abrek,” intoned Thorrik.

For another day and a half the column wound through the endless twisting corridors.

They encountered few enemies, though the sounds of them were all around. Thorrik

led them relentlessly, his stamina seeming boundless. Eight of the knights had been

killed in the battle against the orcs, and another had died on the flight through the

darkness, slipping and falling hundreds of feet from a sheer precipice. Karl was angry

and sullen, and he travelled in silence, nursing his own brooding thoughts.

They should be nearing the exit of the accursed mines, Thorrik had said. Two

hours, perhaps three, he estimated. How the dwarf navigated through the maze he

didn’t know, but he was thankful he was with them still.

Thorrik drew the column to halt with a raised hand, and after a few minutes of

silence all could make out the dim flickering of torchlight and hear the scuffling of

many feet. The light came from the passageway ahead, and Grunwald thought back,

trying to picture how far back the last intersection had been—over an hour, he

thought.

“We must go around,” hissed Grunwald.

“This is the only way,” replied Thorrik.

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“Then we go through them,” said Karl, having made his way to the front of the

column.

The ironbreaker nodded, and Karl ordered his men to be ready. Lanterns were

dimmed, and Thorrik led them forward to a dogleg turn in the passageway. There

they waited in darkness, hearing the stamp of feet and the brutal laughter of the

enemy drawing ever nearer.

In the dim, flickering light of the nearing torches, Grunwald saw Annaliese

leaning against the cold stone wall. A multi-legged insect as long as man’s forearm

crawled down off the wall and onto her shoulder but she managed to catch her

scream before anyone heard her. Hundreds of barbed legs worked in unison, moving

like a series of rolling waves, and the creature crawled down over torso, over her left

leg and onto the ground. Breathing out slowly, she regained her composure.

As the scuffing of approaching feet seemed to be almost on top of them, Thorrik

and Karl stepped out around the corner, sword and axe cutting down the lead

greenskins whose eyes opened wide in surprise as they died.

Grunwald was a step behind them. “Sigmar smite you!” he shouted as he gunned

down a pair of the enemy with his booming pistols. They were goblins, diminutive

and easily overcome, but the witch hunter could see the larger, more menacing forms

of orcs behind them.

The Knights of the Blazing Sun surged forwards to support their preceptor, and

they smashed into the press of greenskins like a battering ram, crushing limbs and

trampling over the fallen. Thorrik and Karl led the push, hacking at the frantic

goblins, severing limbs and splitting skulls.

There came a strange tingling sensation that Grunwald recognised well,

accompanied by a repulsive metallic sensation on the tongue. Even as he heard the

ghoulish chanting, the hairs on his arms pricked up, and he roared a warning.

“Sorcery!” he shouted, as the first incantation was completed. There was a sharp

sucking sound, as all the air in the crowded corridor was suddenly removed, as if by

the inhalation of some infernal beast. Then it was exhaled sharply, and a force of

extreme power surged down the passageway. Goblins were crushed, their bodies

hurled aside and it struck the knights. Ornate breastplates and shields were crumpled

by the ghostly green energy, and Grunwald felt something like a rock-hard fist slam

him into the wall.

Knights fell, their helmets bent out of shape by the nigh-on invisible, pummelling

blows, and he saw Thorrik stagger back. Whooping and cackling madly, the goblins

redoubled their attack, and pushed forwards against the knights, uncaring that they

stamped upon their own fallen comrades.

Orcs, big brutes in thick iron armour and wielding heavy cleavers, pushed

through the press to lend their weight to the attack, and even Thorrik was pushed

back by this sudden surge, his feet sliding through the thick layer of rock-dust upon

the floor.

The knight before the witch hunter fell as a cleaver slammed down into his head,

hacking though metal and bone. Hefting his mace in both hands, Grunwald smashed

the weapon onto the orc’s arm, shattering it, and stepped in to deliver a return blow

that crushed the orc’s face.

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It fell, but the greenskins pushed forward relentlessly, and another knight was cut

down by a brutal hacking blow that cut his arm off at the shoulder. Malicious goblins

jabbed at the fatally wounded knight with spears, and he fell amongst them. They

cackled gleefully as they ripped his helmet free and clawed his eyes from his sockets.

The cries of the knight were sickening, and still the greenskins pushed them back.

“There must be another way!” the witch hunter shouted.

“There is none!” came Thorrik’s bellowed reply, as he smashed his axe into the

back of a fallen orc, severing its spine. “This is the only way!”

Bodies were piling up on the floor, and more friends and foes alike were falling

with every passing second. Karl drove the point of his sword through the face of a

leering orc, though the blade got stuck and he could not immediately dislodge it. A

cleaver slammed into the pauldron protecting his shoulder and he staggered, losing

his grip on his weapon. An armoured fist cannoned into the face of Thorrik’s helm,

and the dwarf staggered back a step, losing his footing on the corpses underfoot.

With a curse, the dwarf toppled backwards, and the greenskins surged forwards.

He heard the chanting of the greenskin shaman, and he tensed himself for

whatever horror would be unleashed. They needed a miracle to win through these

foes, or even to survive, Grunwald saw.

“Sigmar, lend me strength!” came the cry and Annaliese stepped over the prone

figure of Thorrik, her hammer held high in her hands. The voice of the shaman

stumbled, and petered out into a garbled curse. Annaliese smashed her weapon into

the first orc before her, driving it back with a strangled cry. Bones were shattered and

a smell like burning flesh rose from the mortal wound. Grunwald thought he saw a

glowing halo of light surrounding the warrior-woman for a moment, but he blinked

and it was gone.

The orcs backed away in a semi circle from this fury of battle, and with a cry she

was amongst them, wielding the hammer two-handed. It hissed through the air, and

smashed aside a crude wooden shield, breaking the arm holding it.

The Knights of the Blazing Sun pushed to her side, their blades slashing out,

clearly inspired and awed by her fearless attack. Karl was at their fore, having picked

up a fallen weapon, and he skilfully deflected blows aimed at the girl, protecting her

from harm. Eldanair stood at her other side, a long, thin blade of elven design in his

hand, the point darting back and forth in a blur.

With skilful swordsmen protecting her from both sides, Annaliese pushed on, her

hammer rising and falling, crushing bones and shattering swords.

“For Sigmar!” she roared as she shattered the skull of a goblin that turned to flee,

its head crushed like a ripe fruit, splattering blood and brain-matter. Gore dripped

from the head of her weapon, and speckled her cheeks and brow. Where before the

expression upon her face had been serene, now she was vision of righteous anger.

The fury and aggression soon drained out of Annaliese and she slumped,

exhausted and weary, but the damage had been done. The greenskins were falling

away from the vengeful knights, and Karl and Eldanair stood protectively over the

girl as she knelt on the ground, her eyes closed and her cheeks wan.

The orcs and goblins were cut down mercilessly, and it was Grunwald who

clubbed the life out of the small, hunchbacked goblin sorcerer, breaking first its limbs

and then its neck with a last, savage blow. He cut the pallid, purplish tongue from the

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creature’s rancid mouth so that even in death it could not utter any of its vile magic,

and set its corpse ablaze so that nothing but ashes would remain of its passing.

Three hours later the battle-weary warriors stumbled from the mine, out into the cold,

clear night. The gibbous silver moon of Mannslieb shone brightly in the heavens

above, overlapped by the smaller, green-hued moon of ill omen, Morrslieb. That

glowing green orb seemed surrounded by distant flames of viridian, and Grunwald

made the sign of Sigmar as protection against its malevolent effects.

There were only a score of Karl’s knights remaining, the others having been lost

in the nightmare darkness of the abandoned dwarf mine. Of those, all sported injuries

and wounds of varying seriousness. Indeed, none had escaped unharmed. Annaliese

was bleeding from several cuts, including one deep wound upon her left cheek.

Eldanair’s left arm was strapped where a crooked blade had pierced his bicep, and

Karl’s shoulder was bleeding profusely beneath the twisted gash in his pauldron.

Even Thorrik had suffered wounds where the enemy had found gaps in the nigh on

impenetrable suit of armour he wore. Grunwald’s head was still ringing, and his legs

were shaky beneath him as he walked out into the night.

They walked over the snow-covered ground, an icy wind whipping at them as it

roared across the immense Kadrin valley spreading out before them.

Tens of thousands of fires blazed in the night—an army of greenskins that was

beyond comprehension. And yet, if the dwarfs’ information was correct, and

Grunwald had no reason to doubt them, this was but a fraction of the immense army

of destruction that was pushing ever nearer to the Empire.

In the distance, battle raged, even though it was long past the witching hour of

midnight, and the moons were sinking towards the horizon. The immense bridge

leading to the mighty gates of Kadrin Keep that spanned a vast chasm was heaving

with bodies, tiny figures moving in the distance. Fire burst from cannons high in the

cliff face, and giant winged beasts armoured in green scales turned in the skies. As

they watched in silence, a giant wooden siege engine, the crude carved representation

of a greenskin deity’s head at its top, toppled from the bridge to fall into the darkness

of the chasm beneath, flames blazing up its side. Hundreds of dark figures fell with it

into the gloom, and a distant cheer went up from the dwarfen defenders.

Thousands of warriors fought against each other, the lines surging, and hundreds

would be dying with every passing minute. Had they been fighting without rest since

they had descended into the mines? Grunwald presumed that this was so.

The arms of trebuchets of immense scale flicked forward, driven by giant counter

weights of carved stone, hurling rocks lit with sorcerous green fire towards the dwarf

keep. They shattered against the mountainside, showering those below with burning

shards.

A pocket of perhaps a thousand dwarfs could be seen fighting in a large square

formation on the far side of the bridge. As they watched they saw the formation

inching towards the enemy war machines.

But the foe arranged against them seemed utterly limitless in number. As the

knights turned away from the epic battle zone, Grunwald could not fathom how the

dwarfs could hold such an enemy at bay. Karak Kadrin would fall, and the Peak Pass

would be held by the greenskin hordes. And without the dwarfs blocking their

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progress, the savage tribes would descend on the Empire, slaughtering and

butchering everything in their path. They did not come for land, or for food, nor even

for the spoils of war. They came to destroy, driven by the urge to kill and to maim, to

rip down the cities and towns of the civilised and to wipe mankind from the face of

the world.

The witch hunter could sense the tension and anger in Thorrik, and he placed a

hand upon the ironbreaker’s heavily armoured shoulder.

“Come,” he said at last. “We must move with swiftness into the Empire.”

“Kadrin will not fall, manling,” said Thorrik, as if he had been reading the witch

hunter’s mind. Still, his voice did not sound convinced, and Grunwald was shocked

to hear the doubt in the resolute dwarfs voice.

“I pray that it will not, for all our sakes,” said Grunwald.

“If Kadrin falls, it heralds the end of the dwarfs,” continued Thorrik.

“The end of us all,” added Grunwald.

The pair turned their backs on the war being waged within Kadrin valley. To the

east they marched, towards the rising dawn and the lands of the Empire.

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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Three hours into the march away from Kadrin Keep, Eldanair sighted the first of their

pursuers. The elf stood tall on a rocky bluff, a silent and brooding sentinel staring to

the west. Dawn had risen, bathing the land in cold light, and a freezing wind howled

up the mountainous slopes, blowing his long ebony hair around him like a dark halo.

Little grew on the sharp crags of the valley save for low, hardy grasses and thorny

bushes—there were few places to hide. With narrowed eyes Eldanair watched as the

greenskins picked their way down a slippery slope of shale, a path treacherously

close to a sheer drop that they themselves had descended but an hour earlier.

The elf cursed as he saw the greenskins were gaining on them, and that there

were too many to be able to face in battle. There was a spindly goblin leading the

group as a scout, a pair of bulbous beasts straining at chains wrapped around its hand.

They were similar to the massive-jawed creatures that had been unleashed against the

dwarf steam engine far beneath the ground, being little more than balls of muscle

dominated by massive slavering jaws, with a pair of powerful, short legs that carried

them forward. These appeared to have large, overdeveloped slits for nostrils, and

they snuffled on the ground, no doubt following the scent of those they pursued.

Behind this goblin and its pets came other greenskins, a motley array of goblins

and orcs—Eldanair could see over fifty figures picking their way down the

treacherous slope. Even as he watched, one of them, a bare-armed, hulking giant of

an orc wearing a furred hat, lost its footing on the loose shale and slid over the

precipice. It caught itself before it fell, gripping a sharp outcrop of rock while its legs

swung over the thousand foot drop below.

None of the other creatures went to its aid, but it seemed as though they found the

incident highly amusing, slapping their legs and their bodies shaking with crude

laughter. The orc managed to pull itself over the edge back to safety and it clobbered

a smaller orc over the head with one meaty fist before launching one still giggling

goblin off the edge of the precipice. The flailing figure disappeared into the fog

hugging the mountainside.

Black carrion birds circled and weaved lazily in the air above the greenskins,

riding the winds pushed up by the sheer cliffs. Clearly they followed the orcs,

knowing that they would supply them with a feast of death. Eldanair regarded these

birds with cold eyes, and for a moment he could hear their raucous cries carried to his

sensitive ears on the winds.

He leapt easily down from the rocky escarpment, stepping lightly on the snow,

his bow held in his hands.

With hand movements and silent actions the elf conveyed the number of the foe

pursuing them to Annaliese, and managed with some difficulty and increasing

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frustration to communicate the idea that they were an hour behind. The girl nodded

and passed on the information to the others.

“I say we stand and fight,” growled Thorrik, and though Eldanair could not

understand his crude words, he understood their meaning. “I will not run like an elf

away from battle.”

An argument developed, and strong words were spoken amongst the humans, the

dwarf speaking sullenly in short, curt sentences. At last the group began moving once

more, the dwarf looking angry and unhappy about the situation. Eldanair glared at the

short warrior, the disdain clear upon his face.

The dwarf said something sharp and crude as he stomped past the elf, his eyes

glittering from beneath his full-faced helmet. Eldanair snapped back a retort in his

own language, the words scathing and arrogant, making the dwarf round on him,

hefting his axe. Eldanair stared down at the glowering warrior, an arrow nocked to

his bowstring. The dwarf took a step towards him and the bow came up, the

bowstring taut.

There may well have been—blood spilt then, but Annaliese stepped in between

the pair, speaking swiftly, her words laced with anger. The dwarf turned away with a

snarl, and stomped away from the elf. Annaliese gave Eldanair a reproachful look,

and she too turned away and continued along the path.

The elf’s eyes narrowed as he watched the departing figure of Thorrik marching

heavily through the snow. He lifted his head high, and began walking back in the

direction of the orcs and goblins that were nearing the base of the shale trail behind.

“Where is he going now?” voiced Karl as he watched the tall figure of the elf

moving away and Grunwald shrugged his shoulders.

“Probably covering our tracks, or some such thing,” he replied.

“Makes my blood run cold, that one,” said the preceptor. “The way he haunts the

girl’s steps. It’s not natural.”

Again Grunwald shrugged. The knight was watching the figure of Annaliese as

she picked her way across the rough ground up ahead. Her hair shone brightly in the

rising sun.

“She is a beauty though, isn’t she?” said Karl, his eyes locked on the figure of the

girl.

Grunwald merely grunted in response.

The knight smiled broadly, his features handsome and unmarked. How unlike his

own, Grunwald thought, scratching idly at his heavy, stubbled and scarred jaw.

“The mountain air, a beautiful woman at my side… Under different

circumstances this might have been a pleasant journey,” said the knight.

“She’s not your woman, Karl,” Grunwald pointed out.

“Not yet,” said the knight with a lascivious wink that made the witch hunter

snort.

“Good luck with that,” said Grunwald. “It will come to nothing.”

“You underestimate me, my friend. Women the length and breadth of the Empire

rejoice when I come to their towns and cities and cry rivers of tears when I leave. My

skills in the bedchamber are legendary.”

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“Spread by you, no doubt,” said Grunwald, laughing as he shook his head. The

knight gave him a look of feigned hurt.

“We shall see,” he said, his eyes bright with passion.

For the better part of the day the group marched, winding their way down lower

as the valley began to spread out before them. Eldanair returned some hours later,

silent and ghostlike, and Annaliese told them that he had been laying some sort of

traps for their pursuers. They heard witness of one of these traps as the sun began to

dip low towards the mountains behind them, a clatter of stones and a strangled cry,

though what manner of trap the elf had constructed was unknown.

Through the night they continued their trek, and sign of their pursuers could be

seen by all—torches bright and flaming in the darkness followed their path

unerringly, despite all the efforts of Eldanair to throw them off the scent.

They ate in silence as they walked, chewing the hard, salted meat. It was

strangely filling sustenance, but none of the group was at ease as the hour grew late.

The air was freezing, and they struggled through a snowstorm, each step agonising

and laboured. At last the storm passed by them, and then they could see the stars once

more, millions of tiny lights that pierced the heavens.

Still the enemy came after them—if anything, they seemed to be getting closer.

“Don’t they need rest too?” grumbled one of Karl’s warriors. The group was

slowed by the knights, whose heavy armour was more of a hindrance than a help on

the long march. Still, not one of the knights would have considered stripping off and

abandoning their armour, and no one mentioned the idea.

They were weary and aching as the first light of dawn began to seep across the

skies. They stopped for a short break, sitting down on the rocks gratefully, passing

the water-skins around between them.

“Where is the elf?” said Karl, and the others glanced around, realising that he was

nowhere to be seen. Annaliese frowned and stood up, turning fully around, concern

clear on her face.

“Never know with one of them,” said Thorrik. “Probably left us to fend for

ourselves while he is making a run for it.”

“He would not abandon us,” said Annaliese fiercely.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” said the dwarf matter-of-factly. “It’s in their nature

to be deceitful. No understanding of honour, elves.”

“Thorrik, hold your tongue,” said the witch hunter, while Annaliese glared at the

dwarf hotly. The ironbreaker merely shrugged his shoulders.

“I’m sure he is fine,” said Grunwald to the girl. “And it does us no good to wait

here for his return. We must push on.”

Grunwald marched at Karl’s side as the group resumed its march.

“You really think the elf will come back?” said Karl. “I think there is something

in what the dwarf said, you know.”

Grunwald looked over at the knight. “He’ll be back.”

“So certain?”

Grunwald sighed. “If it were just you, me, your knights and the dwarf, then no, I

don’t think he would be back. But he will not abandon Annaliese.”

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They walked for some minutes in silence. Glancing over at the knight, Grunwald

saw the warrior’s face was dark.

Where was the elf?

Eldanair crouched low behind the rocks, all but invisible in the darkness. His face

was hard as he listened to the sounds of the pursuit drawing closer. At last he rose

from his position, aiming swiftly.

The first arrow slammed through the left eye socket of one of the foul beasts led

by the goblin, and it fell to the ground heavily, stubby legs twitching.

The creatures seemed able to follow a scent in the manner of hunting hounds their

nostrils wide and flaring as they snuffled along the ground. No matter what efforts

the elf took to conceal the trail, these creatures led the greenskins unerringly, and so

they had to die.

The goblin screeched loudly and released the chain of the other creature, and it

began to bound up the rocks towards Eldanair, its jaw hanging open widely and a

feral roar emitting from its throat.

The goblin screeched again, no doubt calling for aid, and launched an arrow from

its short bow towards the elf. Eldanair didn’t flinch as the arrow shattered against

rocks at his feet. Aiming carefully, he loosed his own arrow. It thudded into the

cheek of the ravening beast leaping up the rocks, though it did not slow its frantic

approach.

He sent another arrow, this one passing between its gaping jaws and cutting

through the back of its cavernous mouth. Still it came on, and another arrow whistled

through the air towards Eldanair. He swayed to the side and it hissed past his ear. A

pair or heavy-set orcs appeared, stamping down the trail behind the goblin, roaring

and bellowing as they sighted the elf.

A final arrow sank into the bulbous head of the creature as it leapt from rock to

rock towards Eldanair, though again it did not slow the blood-frenzied creature.

Eldanair drew his long-bladed sword and waited for the monster to leap. Spittle

flying from its expansive maw, the creature bunched its legs and propelled itself at

him, thousands of curving teeth exposed within its widespread mouth. The stink of

rancid meat and what smelled like rotting fungus reached his nose, and he almost

gagged. As the creature snapped at him, he slashed a long cut down its thick-hide.

Bunching its legs again, it leapt at his throat. Eldanair stepped neatly to the side

and scored a deep wound up its side as it hurtled past him. Growling and barking

madly like a hound, its jaws snapped shut at his trailing black hair as it soared out

into empty air. For a moment it seemed to hang in the open expanse, legs kicking

madly, before it plummeted two hundred feet down into the darkness, still growling

and yelping.

There was an anguished scream of hatred, and Eldanair felt a sharp pain at his

neck as the arrow sliced past him, scoring a stinging wound. He grimaced as he felt

hot blood on his neck, and he leapt away from the orcs closing on him, jumping

lightly from rock to rock.

He rounded a massive boulder and jumped, clearing an area of untouched snow

some six feet across. Landing in a roll, he spun as he came up to one knee, an arrow

nocked to his bowstring. As the orcs rounded the bend he loosed, the arrow thudding

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into the first orc’s chest. Without thought it tore the arrow from its flesh, hurling it to

the side, and with a roar threw itself towards the elf, its cleaver high.

The two orcs surged forwards, but the ground suddenly gave way beneath them.

With great care, Eldanair had constructed the light platform of gorse and sticks,

before covering it with grass and snow. The orcs bellowed as their weight collapsed

the flimsy structure, and they slipped down, disappearing into the gloom. Four

seconds later there was a distant clatter of metal as the bodies struck the sharp rocks

far below.

Eldanair was off again, racing through the snow, a ghostly apparition that plagued

the greenskins for the rest of the night. Several more died from his cunningly laid

traps and snares. Tripping a concealed line of twine, sharpened stakes of wood swung

around on a taut green branch to slam into the chest of one orc. Two hours later

several more died as Eldanair caused an avalanche of rock to fall upon them, forcing

the survivors to find a different route.

An hour before dawn, Eldanair killed another two, rising from beneath the snow

to launch a volley of arrows into them, fleeing again as the survivors charged at him.

They were more wary of him now, though, and checked their pursuit quickly.

These attacks were not without risk though, and as dawn rose he limped back to

his companions, a black-feathered arrow embedded deep in his side.

“Eldanair!” called Annaliese as she sighted the elf, and the girl ran to him,

catching the exhausted elf in her arms. She forced him to sit, and stripped off his

clothes around the wound. He saw the young human knight scowling. The wound

was ugly and red, and Annaliese bathed it with water, clearing away the excess blood

from his skin.

He would have pulled the arrow loose himself, but the goblins used wickedly

barbed arrow tips that would rip at his skin as he tried to pull it loose. This was no

doubt what the humans were discussing as they looked upon his wound. One of them,

the ugly, brutish, black-clad one called Grunwald made a pushing motion.

“Yes,” said Eldanair in the language of the elves, nodding at the man. He nodded

back, understanding, and offered Eldanair a piece of leather to bite upon. The elf

looked at the leather strip in scorn, and shook his head. Shrugging, Grunwald took of

his hat, and wiped the back of his hand across his brow.

Placing one hand on the elf’s shoulder, the witch hunter got a good grip with his

other hand on the feathered shaft of the arrow. Without ceremony, he pushed hard

upon the arrow, pushing its head deeper into his flesh. Blood welled from the wound,

and Annaliese’s face was pale. Eldanair winced against the pain but did not cry out.

Grunwald pushed harder, and at last the cruelly barbed arrowhead burst from his

back. Swiftly the witch hunter pushed the arrow through the elf’s flesh, wrapping his

hand around the arrowhead and pulling the length of the shaft through the wound.

Eldanair passed out briefly, and in that time the wound was cleaned as best it

could be, and bound with cloth. When he awoke, he hissed in pain, probing at the

dressing with his long, pale finger. Nodding his thanks, he pushed himself to his feet,

and indicated that he was ready to continue.

He was tougher than he looked, thought Grunwald.

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For a time, it seemed as though they had left their pursuers behind, and the group

began to think they had finally outrun them. They were nearing the lands of the

Empire, the ground levelling out beneath them, leaving the high mountains behind.

They were still high, and the wind was icy cold, but they could see the landscape

beginning to change. Trees, albeit small and tough, were more frequent here, and the

group felt almost deliriously buoyant. Still, they had not slept for days, and the

exhausting race through the mountains was taking its toll. One knight almost stepped

off a rocky precipice, his face ashen, and he had to be pulled back from the brink. He

had not even registered the danger.

“We need to find a place to rest,” said Karl, voicing the exhaustion of the group.

“Up on the rock face,” said Thorrik, pointing. There was a series of heavy

overhangs a few hundred feet up a scree-covered ridge. “There might be caves

there,” he said. “Or at least protection from the wind.”

“There is no escape route up there,” said Karl. “We will have our backs against

the wall when the enemy comes at us.”

Thorrik waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve had enough of running,” he said.

“Better to be warm and rested and face the enemy than to continue on and be too

weak to lift a blade when they come.”

“I thought the dwarfs were hardy folk,” said Karl, making Thorrik scowl deeply.

“I could march for another week if need be,” said the dwarf, “but I don’t think

any of you beardlings will last another hour.”

There was truth in what the dwarf said, and Grunwald knew it.

“I think the dwarf speaks true,” he said. Annaliese nodded her head, too tired to

speak. Finally, Karl nodded his assent, and the dwarf led the way up the slope,

carefully studying the rock face.

“I would expect there to be caves there,” he said, indicating a little further around

the ridge. Grunwald trusted him—the dwarfs certainly seemed to have a deep

understanding of the mountains and the rocks.

He was exhausted almost beyond words, and at that moment he almost didn’t

care if the greenskins pursued them still—all he could think about was rest.

Wincing as he held the wound at his side, Eldanair placed a hand on Grunwald’s

shoulder. The witch hunter saw a dark patch upon the elf’s tunic where the blood

from the wound had soaked through the bandages, but it was not this that the elf drew

his attention to. He raised his hand, pointing into the distance behind them.

There they could clearly see their pursuers, still doggedly following their trail.

Grunwald swore.

They continued to climb the slope, until they reached the overhanging rock face

that leant out above them, giving them a modicum of protection. Thorrik was still

convinced that there would be caves further around, and so they made their way

around the cliff face, keeping a wary watch on the approaching greenskins.

“Do you think they have seen us?” said Annaliese, her face drawn.

“Most certainly,” said Grunwald. The reflections of the setting sun off the

knights’ armour would be seen for miles, as red as fresh blood.

“Ah!” came Thorrik’s voice, filled with satisfaction. He stood before a yawning

cave-mouth, the interior dark and expansive. A flight of small bats burst out. The

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days had blurred together into one nightmarish march, and he flopped to the ground,

as tired as he had ever been.

Eldanair said something curt, eyeing the cave with distrust, sniffing at the air.

There was a faint odour emanating from within, something almost imperceptible.

Perhaps it was rotting meat, Grunwald thought. Yes, that was it—the cave had

probably been the refuge for some wild animal; wolves or a bear.

“How long?” he asked Karl.

“Two hours before they reach us, I’d say,” replied the preceptor.

“Wake me when they come,” said Grunwald, and promptly fell asleep on the

rock.

It was dark when he was shaken awake. He saw Annaliese’s face hovering above

him.

“They come?” he said, and the girl nodded her head. She looked determined and

ready for battle, for all that she was exhausted.

He stretched sore and tired muscles as he rose to his feet. He saw Karl staring

down into the valley and joined the knight.

“Have you had any rest?” he asked.

“A little,” said the preceptor. His skin was drawn and pale—indeed it must have

been agony to have trekked so far in his full suit of armour, wounded as he was.

“So, what’s the plan?” Grunwald said.

“The plan? We hold them here, or we die,” replied the preceptor, his voice

emotionless with exhaustion.

“Good plan,” replied Grunwald, which got a weary smile. They waited half an

hour as the enemy gathered below. There were almost sixty of them—a force that

they had little hope of besting, and the mood was grim.

Annaliese came to join them as they sat watching the orcs’ preparations.

“My stomach is churning,” admitted the girl.

“The hours before battle are always the worst,” agreed Karl, smiling at the girl.

“It gets to the point when you just wish they would come at us and get it over with. It

never goes, no matter how many battles you fight in. Stick with me and you’ll be

alright.”

“I know I will be alright,” said Annaliese with conviction. “I have faith. Sigmar

would not lead me to the north only to have me die on some snow-swept

mountainside.”

“The gods work in mysterious ways,” said Grunwald.

“Maybe I should stick near you,” said Karl, winking at the girl. “Maybe your god

will protect me too.”

“Do that,” said the girl as she rose to her feet. “I’ll protect you.”

Karl laughed and winked at Grunwald behind Annaliese’s back, and whistled

through his teeth as she walked away.

“Gods above, she is some woman,” he said.

It took the best part of an hour for the orcs and goblins to ready themselves for battle,

as the last of their number arrived. There were almost a hundred of them gathered on

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the rocky plateau below them now. The largest of the orcs was clearly displeased

with the delay, and his bellows and roars echoed up the slope, along with the clashing

of weapons, and groans of pain as the target of his wrath was cut down and thrown

over the huge bonfire the orcs had set blazing.

“Maybe they will kill each other and forget about us,” ventured Karl.

When they came, there was little warning. Drums began booming through the

mountains, and the entire host of greenskins let out a war cry before racing straight

up the rock-strewn slope. There was no strategy to their advance, they merely

attacked in one surging wave. There was little need for strategy—they would charge

up the hill, some would die, and then they would slaughter us all, thought Grunwald.

But he would be damned if he didn’t exact a high toll on the greenskinned

bastards.

“Sigmar, give me the strength to kill in your name,” he whispered to himself,

wishing that his faith was as strong as Annaliese’s seemed to be.

He listened for a response from the god, some sign that his words were heard—a

flash of light, a warmth in his heart, a shooting star, anything. But there was nothing,

just the savage roars of the enemy as they surged up through the night, intent on

slaughter.

The long night of bloodshed had begun.

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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Under Karl’s instruction, dozens of flaming brands had been scattered around the

perimeter of the cave mouth, held upright by piles of rocks. Larger stones and

boulders had been rolled to form a crude, arcing wall, and it was here that the knights

made their stand.

Annaliese was at the apex of the defensive position, standing tall, her hammer

ready in her hands, the elf at her side. As the greenskins began to race up the steep

slope he pulled himself onto the rocks and began to fire, his white fletched arrows

slicing through the darkness.

Thorrik stood on the rock wall, hurling abuse at the approaching enemy in the

dwarf tongue, his words scathing and hate-filled. He seemed unfazed about the sheer

number of the foe, and Grunwald wondered if he welcomed a noble death in battle.

He himself didn’t think there was anything noble about death, however it was

achieved. Death was cold and dirty, full of pain and regret.

A heroic death in battle? He almost laughed at the notion. It sounded fine in

grand speeches by commanders and leaders of men, and when surrounded by friends

and family, an ale in hand, far from the true ravages of war. Death wasn’t noble. No

one who had smelt the aftermath of a battle, the stink of blood and faeces, of flesh

and spilt brains, could say there was anything noble about it. No one who had heard

the screams of a man as he took three days to die from a gut wound, or the terrified

pleas of a soldier begging the chirurgeons not to amputate his legs could think there

was anything glorious about battle.

And yet here he stood, his crossbow bolts stuck into the ground beside him for

ease of loading, awaiting his own “glorious” death against innumerable foes. He

stood behind the low boulders, and fired into the mass of greenskins, his first shot

taking one in the shoulder. Swiftly he reached for another bolt. Without a miracle,

they would all die here, but there would be no one to record their deaths. It was not

that Grunwald feared death—far from it—but he did not welcome it like some last

great achievement. No, he would die kicking and spitting, refusing Morr’s grasp as

long as he was able.

Karl walked within the perimeter of the crude defensive wall, shouting orders and

encouraging his men with the virtues and strength of the goddess Myrmidia. The

knights stood grim and weary, waiting for the enemy to reach their lines.

They didn’t have long to wait.

The first orcs were cut down mercilessly as they scrambled over the boulders,

their necks slashed open and their limbs hacked from their bodies. Thorrik stood

resolute and fearless on the wall, his axe carving a bloody swathe around him as he

hacked the blade down onto the greenskins’ heads, splitting through helmets and

skulls alike.

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Annaliese called on Sigmar as a greenskin vaulted the boulders, landing before

her with a massive blade in each hand. She almost smashed its head from its

shoulders with her attack, the orc’s skull pulverised to mush.

Grunwald fired another crossbow bolt into the enemy at close range, punching a

burly greenskin off the rock wall, falling amongst his comrades pushing forward

from behind. Dropping the black-framed heavy crossbow to the ground, he drew his

pistols, and another orc died as its head was shattered by lead shot. Another orc

lurched towards him from the left, and his other pistol swung around and boomed,

and the creature fell back, blood spraying out behind it.

Holstering the pistols, the witch hunter drew his mace in his right hand and a

hunting knife in his left. The face of an orc was crushed with a heavy blow of his

flanged mace, the sound of metal shattering bone sickening to his ears. Eldanair

continued firing his arrows at close range, the shafts sinking deep into thickly

muscled green flesh—indeed he fought with such grace and fluidity that you would

not have known he carried an injury except for the growing patch of blood on his

tunic where the arrow had struck him the previous night.

A massive greenskin, its flesh almost black, roared and jumped heavily down off

the rock wall, the ground thumping beneath it. Apart from its brutal face, it was

completely ensconced in thick metal armour plates, and it carried a giant barbed

blade in its hands, a weapon nearly as tall as the creature’s seven feet of height.

Grunwald yelled a warning as the monstrous creature stalked towards Annaliese,

the witch hunter struggling to defend himself against a pair of snickering, spear-

wielding goblins.

Eldanair, hearing his shout, swung neatly around and fired—the arrow punched

through the metal plating of the creature’s chest, sinking deep, and it turned its

attention to the elf. Standing his ground, the elf fired again, his shot punching

through the metal at the orc’s throat, but then it was on him, swinging its weapon in a

lethal arc.

Eldanair ducked beneath the blow, stepping neatly to the side, but the massive orc

anticipated the move and its iron-encased fist swung out in a wild roundhouse punch

that almost decapitated the elf. He was thrown through the air to smash against the

inside of the rock wall, where he slumped to the ground lifelessly.

“Eldanair!” shouted Annaliese desperately. She smashed her hammer into the

side of the orc’s brutish helmet, shattering one of the horns protruding from it, and

sending the beast reeling. It regained its balance and swung towards her, snarling as it

cracked its neck from side to side.

It towered over the girl, each of its arms the same diameter as her entire body, but

she stood defiant and unafraid. With a roar, it hurled itself at her.

Three armoured shapes intercepted the massive orc, as Karl and a pair of his

knights raced in to cover the breach in the defence. One of them died instantly as the

massive cleaver of the orc carved down through his shoulder with a squeal of metal,

the blade cutting all the way through to the hip. The two parts of the knight fell to the

ground amid a torrent of blood, even as Karl drove his blade into the orc’s chest, and

his comrade smashed his own blade down onto the beast’s arms.

Covered in blood, Karl turned from the dead monster to see if Annaliese was

hurt, but the girl was looking towards the fallen figure of Eldanair. Her hammer sang

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through the air as she hurled herself through the melee towards the elf. Swearing,

Karl was a step behind her, desperately fending off attacks thrown towards the girl.

He slammed his shield into the face of an orc as it slipped to one knee in a pool of

blood, and lunged to intercept a blow from a cleaver that would have killed

Annaliese from behind.

The girl threw herself to the ground at the elf’s side, checking for a pulse, as Karl

stood defensively over her, his sword flashing out at any greenskin that drew near.

Grunwald rammed his knife up into the throat of another foe, and heaved with all

his strength to knock the dying creature to the side, where it flopped onto the ground.

A fist cracked against his chest, and he saw a blade flashing towards his throat, but it

was intercepted at the last moment by an axe.

Nodding his thanks to Thorrik, he swung back into the attack, which was now

devolving into little more than a deadly brawl, as more greenskins vaulted the

boulders. They would be surrounded within minutes, and then they would be

massacred.

“Pull back to the cave!” came Karl’s shout, and Grunwald realised that the knight

too had seen the danger.

“Come, Annaliese,” shouted the preceptor.

“He lives! We must take him with us!” shot back the girl, and she began trying to

drag the elf back from the battle. Grunwald ducked through the fray to aid her. A

blade hacked into his shoulder and he winced, stumbling. The killing strike did not

come, however, and he saw a knight surge past him, ramming his sword through the

orc’s throat, the blade sliding in deep. Before he could offer his thanks, the knight

was impaled upon a barbed spear from behind, lifted up into the air by the strength of

his killer.

Grunwald half ran, half stumbled through the battle to Annaliese’s side. He

gripped one of the elf’s legs and began to drag him back, Karl walking backwards

before them, protecting them as best he could.

“Thorrik!” shouted Grunwald as he saw the dwarf still battling furiously on the

stone wall. “We need you!”

Karl was deflecting blows aimed at him with his now battered shield, but it was

clear the knight was tiring.

“Knights of the Blazing Sun!” he roared. “Back to the cave!”

A blow smashed into his shield, knocking the preceptor back a step, though his

return blow ripped the throat from the savage greenskin, who died with dark blood

bubbling from its throat.

Then Thorrik was at his side, lending the strength of his arm, and they fought a

retreat inside the dark cave mouth. The entrance was wide, but it narrowed sharply.

They would make their stand here, and fight to the last.

The echoing of the feral roars of the greenskins reverberated around the cave,

bouncing off the sloping, natural walls.

Dropping Eldanair’s leg to the ground, Grunwald leapt back into the fight. But

just as any forlorn hope of victory seemed to fade, the orcs began to pull back. Their

faces were fearful, and they seemed indecisive and unsure of themselves.

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A massive greenskin roared its fury, and violently shoved the orcs forward, but

they resisted. Alone the orc chieftain stomped forwards, and its warriors edged

forwards at his back.

Karl and Thorrik stepped out to meet the orc head on. The monster swung a pair

of huge cleavers, and Karl was knocked to his knees from the power behind the

blows. Thorrik lashed out at the orc’s legs, but his blow was deflected and the orc

kicked out, knocking the dwarf back.

A shot rang out and smoke spewed from the barrel of Grunwald’s pistol. The orc

staggered back, blood pumping from its neck, and Karl and Thorrik surged forward.

A blow from the chieftain sent the preceptor reeling, but Thorrik’s blade found its

mark, sinking deep into the greenskin’s groin. It roared in fury and slammed a

cleaver down onto the dwarf’s shoulder, bashing the super-hard gromril metal out of

shape, driving the dwarf to one knee. Surging upright, Thorrik’s axe hammered up

into the orc’s chin. The giant orc staggered, and his warriors faltered.

Karl’s blade buried itself in the chieftain’s chest, and the massive orc fell. With

one downward sweep of his axe, Thorrik decapitated the beast and raised the severed

head above his own, roaring his defiance to the horde of greenskins. Their will to

fight was broken, and they turned as one and fled from the cave.

It was then that Grunwald once again noticed the stench on the air. He had

thought it was rotting carrion at first, and there certainly was something akin to that

deeper within the darkness, but there was something else, something that niggled at

the edge of his mind.

The power of Chaos.

“There is something here,” he said, his voice deep and sepulchral in the sudden

silence.

As ancient as the mountains themselves it awoke in the depths of cave, roused from

slumber by the sound of steel on steel, the screams of the dying, and the delicious

taste of blood on the air. It had once been a normal creature, but it had long ago been

twisted and corrupted by one of the great gods of Chaos, and its nature altered. For

millennia it had slumbered, waking occasionally to kill and feed. It had grown

powerful and strong over the years, and its furred hide was stronger than steel.

It felt the presence of the great god, the feathered lord that had given it strength,

and it could feel that the power of Chaos was strong—far stronger than it had ever

experienced before. The creature could taste the coiling winds of magic on its long

tongue, and it breathed in deeply, inhaling the luxurious scent deep into its lungs.

It was called many things—among the dwarfs it was known as the Dum Thaggor,

though the mountain kin had no records of it having awoken for countless centuries,

and its existence was all but forgotten. Before the coming of Sigmar, in the times

before the Empire, the local tribesman had dubbed it Tefalbar, while to the orcs and

goblins it had no name, but they believed it was some primal aspect of one of their

deities, and left it offerings of corpses and gold.

The sounds of battle came again, echoing down through the darkness, and the

mighty creature lifted itself up on massive clawed feet. Lips drew back from its huge

jaws, exposing a fearsome array of teeth, and eyes and smaller mouths pushed

through the flesh of its muzzle, rippling the skin, blinking soundlessly open before

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merging back into the living flesh once more. Its own eyes blinked, irises black and

ringed with flickering blue flame.

Lifting itself onto its hind legs it roared, the sound deafening and making the air

ripple with change. It dropped down to all fours, and began climbing up to face the

intruders of its realm, claws ripping great chunks of rock from the cave walls as it

ascended towards the surface.

“What in the name of Sigmar was that?” said Annaliese, her face pale as the sound of

the ungodly roar echoed through the cave.

“Something that the greenskins feared to face,” said Karl, turning around warily

with his sword in his hand, looking into the darkness surrounding them. The other

knights too circled warily, licking their lips in uncertainty. “I don’t think this is the

safest of caves to rest in,” the preceptor added.

“You don’t think?” snapped Grunwald.

“How is the elf?” said Karl.

“Not fit to travel,” said Annaliese. Eldanair had regained consciousness, but was

clearly unable to stand.

“Perfect,” said Karl. “So we just sit here and wait for the beast of the underworld

to appear then?”

“I will not leave Eldanair here,” snapped Annaliese, “and it lessens you to even

think it.”

Karl swallowed hard, but had the grace to look shamefaced. “I’m sorry,” he said,

“I spoke out of anger.”

“Of course we cannot leave him. But could we not carry him?”

“The orcs have set up camp below,” said one of the knights, walking back into

the cave. “They have sentries watching the entrance.”

“Well I guess that answers that,” said Karl.

“Have you ever heard of any beast haunting this area?” Grunwald asked Thorrik.

The dwarf shook his head. “But I do not know this place, manling, and do not

know its local legends.”

“Let’s get a fire banked,” suggested Grunwald. “If it is any natural beast, it will

fear the flames.”

“There wasn’t anything natural about the sound of that roar,” muttered Karl, but

the preceptor organised his men swiftly to do as the witch hunter said. Doing

something was better than just sitting waiting for whatever was coming for them.

They smelt it before they saw it. It stank of rotting meat, but there was the

nauseating, cloying vapour of Chaos hanging about it. The stench was strong, and as

one they rose from their seats around the bonfire, drawing weapons. Grunwald felt

his stomach clench, and tasted bile upon his tongue.

“Gods, what an unholy stink,” said Karl, spitting, and Grunwald knew that the

power of Chaos was clawing at all of them. He alone amongst them had often faced

the minions of the dark gods and felt this sickening, corrupting essence of Chaos. “I

can feel it… twisting inside me.”

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“Speak aloud the prayers of your order,” said Grunwald to the knights. “Your

faith will be your shield.”

As one the knights began reciting a prayer in the language of the men to the south

of the Empire, from where the faith of Myrmidia originated. Grunwald began

speaking a prayer of Sigmar aloud, and Annaliese joined him, their voices speaking

together. Eldanair was clearly distressed, and he tried to rise to his feet, but sank back

to the ground, sweat appearing on his forehead. Only Thorrik seemed unaffected,

standing still and grim, awaiting whatever drew near.

The air seemed to shimmer as if with heat, though they could see coiling shapes

writhing in the corner of their eyes, ghostly figures that lunged at them with

widespread mouths and clawed, long-limbed arms. The knights spun left and right to

face these daemons, but when they looked straight at them there was nothing there.

Disturbing and ethereal, these images seemed unable to harm them, for they turned to

smoke as they reached forward, though strange cackling screeches and giggles could

be heard all around them.

The warriors closed together in a circle around the fire facing outwards, their eyes

darting back and forth at the maddening images surrounding them.

“They are nothing,” said Grunwald, trying not to be distracted by these

apparitions. “Creatures of shadow—they cannot harm us.”

Still, it was impossible to ignore the shifting shapes that writhed, blurring and

mutating just beyond their vision. But they were merely heralds of the beast that

came forward out of the shadows. Indeed even as they watched, more of the wisp-

like spirit-creatures were exhaled from the giant beast, flowing from its nostrils to

encircle the group.

The ground shook as it stepped forth, and it rose up on its hind legs, standing

almost twenty feet tall. It was covered in thick, matted black fur, though its

underbelly was furless, the heavily scarred skin an icy blue colour. It raised its legs

high into the air, each tipped with long scythe-like talons, and bony spikes and

protrusions extended from its forelegs, gleaming and deadly. Its head may once have

been that of a bear, but it had grown and mutated out of all proportion, spikes of dark

bone erupting from its brow like a crown, and immense curving tusks protruded from

its slavering maw.

It opened its jaws, which seemed to have a double set of hinged joints so that they

opened far wider than any natural creature’s, and when it roared the air shimmered

before it, and the warriors staggered, nausea washing over them, and their vision

wavering. Spines jutted from its chin, and as the monster bellowed, Grunwald could

see that blue fire flared from deep within it. Its eyes too, small and round, were

rimmed with this fire, which was blotted out for a moment as they blinked shut, four

eyelids closing over each of the hateful orbs.

It roared again, and several of the knights staggered to their knees, grabbing at

their heads. Grunwald too felt light-headed, as if he had drunk too much wine or

imbibed noxious, mind-altering fumes. The shadow-spirits circling around the group

closed in, as if feeding on this confusion, fear and disorientation. They began to

circle madly, creating sickening patterns with their ethereal bodies, forming hateful,

ruinous symbols, and mesmerising shapes.

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“Begone, foul beast of Chaos!” roared Grunwald, breaking the spell abruptly. He

levelled one of his precious wheel-lock pistols at the towering monster, and the sound

of it as it fired cut through the ghostly whispering of the dim manifestations of

Chaos.

The shot impacted with the beast’s cheek, but it ricocheted off its flesh as if it had

struck stone, leaving not a mark or a weal. The creature drew in a deep, rattling

breath, and the spirit creatures were sucked back through the beast’s nostrils,

disappearing in an instant. However, they were not gone—they could be seen within

the beast’s flesh now, pushing against the skin of its chest and belly, forming mouths

and eyes and clawed limbs in its flesh.

It dropped to all fours, and charged at the group, the stone cracking beneath the

impact of its massive clawed paws. Grunwald leapt to the side of the monstrosity,

firing his other pistol as it closed the distance with sickening swiftness. The shot took

it behind its left foreleg, but again he may as well have been firing on stone, and the

lead shot dropped to the ground, flattened, as if it had been fired against a wall of

stone.

One knight was too slow to react, and the beast drove a tusk through his body, the

thick bony spur punching through the metal of his breastplate and out the other side.

He was lifted high into the air, and hot blood splattered into the roaring fire, making

it spit furiously. The beast shook its head, hurling the dead knight far across the

cavern to smash into the wall before sliding to the ground.

Karl roared a battle cry as he drove his sword at the flank of the beast, and his

knights too surged towards its rear, swords slicing through the air. They clanged off

the beast’s haunches. Redoubling their effort they attacked again, but the beast

seemed impervious to harm.

The beast swung around, tusks knocking two men flying, and another was

swatted to the ground beneath a sweeping foreleg. The monstrous creature reared up

onto its hind legs as it turned on the fallen knight, lifting him towards its maw. With

one savage bite, the warrior was bitten in half as the other knights fell back from the

monster, rising panic on their faces.

Thinking quickly, Grunwald lifted a burning brand from the fire and hurled it end

over end towards the beast. It struck the creature in the small of its back, and the

thick fur caught fire instantly. The stink of burning hair filled the cavern, and the

monster dropped back to all fours, snarling fiercely, thick rivulets of blood and saliva

dripping to the ground. The flames on its back rose for a moment, but then changed

hue from orange to blue, then to purple, and then they faded altogether.

Thorrik and Annaliese charged at the beast. Thorrik swung with all his strength,

but his blow rebounded. Annaliese smashed her hammer into the creature’s leg, and

it seemed to feel some pain, though it was far from truly injured. It swung around

viciously, talons lashing out. The blow caught Thorrik in the chest, the span of the

beast’s paw reaching from his neck to his groin, and he was sent flying. He took the

brunt of the blow, but Annaliese too was sent hurtling backwards, striking her head

hard against a rocky outcrop, and she fell limp to the ground.

“Annaliese!” shouted Karl, and he charged back at the beast, and Grunwald

joined him, screaming a prayer to Sigmar. With his mace held in two hands the witch

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hunter attacked, and he grunted as put all his weight behind the blow. It was like

striking a castle wall, and he staggered back, the blow jarring all the way up his arms.

The creature rounded on him, and he hurled a vial of sanctified water into its

face. The glass shattered on impact, showering the contents over one side of the

beast’s face. The flesh blistered and sizzled as it burnt, and he saw one of the

creature’s eyes dissolve in a liquefied mess of tissue.

The beast roared in pain, and staggered, shaking its head. It crushed a knight

underfoot as it stepped backward, and lashed out blindly at another, the knight barely

avoiding the slashing paw.

“Got any more of that stuff?” shouted Karl.

“No,” replied Grunwald. His other vials on his person were shattered from the

fight against the greenskins.

“This is it then,” said Karl, as he stared up at the monstrous beast that was clearly

readying itself for another charge.

“Looks like it,” replied Grunwald.

The beast exhaled, and the ghostly creatures surged around them. One of them

reached for Grunwald but pulled its hand back as if burnt, and it was then that he

realised the pendant hung around his neck was glowing faintly.

He gripped the pendant tightly in his hand, and prepared himself for death.

Thorrik blinked his eyes and pushed himself to his knees. It felt like several ribs were

broken, but he ignored the pain. His axe was gone. He glanced around and saw the

witch hunter hurl the vial into the beast’s face, saw it reel backwards, and heard the

swift exchange between the two humans.

His eyes locked on something propped against the cavern wall, something he had

placed there before the fight against the greenskins outside. An object wrapped in

oilskin.

He flicked his gaze back to the beast, and saw a pair of knights reel back from it,

their weapons useless. One of them died a second later, ripped in two as it was caught

in the massive paws of the Chaos-warped beast. His gaze flicked back to the ancient

heirloom he had carried across the Empire and back, and he swore as he realised

what he needed to do.

He scrambled across the cavern floor towards it, and lifted it in his hands,

discarding his shield. Whispering the forgiveness of the ancestors, he ripped the

oilskin from the shape and held the ancient warrior heirloom Karagaz reverently in

his hands, awe upon his face.

It was a beautiful, immaculate, rune-inscribed war axe, forged six generations

past by the finest war-smiths of Zhufbar, and inscribed by the runesmith Beorik

Silverfist. It was a double-headed axe, its thick haft inscribed with runes of power

and inlaid with gold and gromril. The axe blades themselves were forged in the

likeness of twin dragonheads, and they gleamed in the firelight. Never would such a

weapon need sharpening, and never would the axe blades tarnish or chip.

Many were the old tales of beasts of the deep that were immune to all but the

strike of a rune weapon, mighty wyrms of the dark places and dragons of the

treacherous elves.

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With a heavy heart he lifted the revered blade, turning it before him, and his eyes

fell on the massive beast of Chaos. The monster dropped to its four legs and charged

at the few remaining standing humans, and Thorrik felt the fire in his belly become a

roaring inferno of rage.

Crying out to Grimnir, Thorrik charged at the beast, swinging the gleaming rune-

axe back over his shoulder as he ran. The runic script up its haft blazed into light,

white hot and eager, and with one mighty blow, Thorrik severed one of the beast’s

back legs. Hot blood sprayed from the wound, and spirit-wraiths poured from the

wound, their emaciated, ghostly faces twisted in pain and fear. They faded into

nothingness as they dissipated into the air, and the monstrous beast collapsed to the

ground, a piercing roar of pain bursting from its throat.

Chanting the war cries of his clan and hold, Thorrik stepped closer to the

thrashing beast, and hacked deep into its neck. Then he stood back away from the

mortally wounded monster, still chanting, and watched as the life slipped from it.

Blood boiled and spat upon the stone cavern floor, pouring from its wounds as it

continued to thrash madly. Claws ripped up great rents in the stone, and more spirit

shapes poured from the wound at its neck, screaming faintly and disappearing into

the air.

The beast’s flesh rippled as uncontrollable mutation went through it, and spiked

bones burst through the skin over its backbone, twisting and coiling together. A

gaping mouth complete with teeth and a pair of whip-like tongues opened up on the

flank of the dying beast, and one of its forelegs melted to become a grotesque,

bloated flipper that slapped against the stone floor, splattering bubbling blood. The

blue skin on its chest peeled away to expose ribs and pulsing organs covered in a film

of blue fire, and this fire rose up high as the beast let out a final dying roar,

spiderwebs of mutating flesh spreading across its face.

At last it was silent, and the blue flames died away. All that was left was a foul

lump of rancid smelling meat and fur, a sickening corpse that spoke of the horrid

touch of Chaos.

“Burn it,” said Grunwald, his voice hoarse, and he joined the others in stacking

wood around the foul creature before hurling flaming brands upon it.

With his heart heavy, Thorrik stomped away from the others and began to

meticulously clean the powerful rune-axe, his face grim.

To use this weapon, the heirloom that he had sworn and failed to deliver to its

one and only living rightful owner, was a sacrilege that he would be forced to atone

for. He polished the weapon in silence until, at last satisfied, he rewrapped it in oiled

leathers, binding it tightly with knotted twine. Then he placed it back against the cave

wall, and drew his pipe.

Surrounded by smoke, he sat in silence, brooding and lost in his own dark

thoughts.

As the first rays of dawn pierced the cave mouth, the knights ventured cautiously

outside. The orcs and goblins had gone, leaving behind crude totems perhaps to

honour the beast of the cave. Their dead were left where they had fallen, and the

cawing of carrion birds was loud in the morning’s silence as they fought over the

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richest pickings. Many of the knights’ corpses had been mutilated almost beyond

recognition.

Exhausted and bone-tired, Karl ordered his templars to scout the area, and they

found another cave, thankfully free of the sickening stench of Chaos. There they

transferred their dead and their wounded. Those who had perished were laid to rest at

the back of the cave, their hands grasping their swords, and the wounds of the injured

were tended. Then the group rested, falling into a dreamless, healing sleep, the watch

rotated every three hours.

Thorrik couldn’t sleep, and he sat in the cave mouth smoking his pipe as he

watched the passage of the sun overhead. Finally even he succumbed to his

weariness, and he slept.

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BOOK THREE

The great city of Praag, in the lands of our Kislevite allies, has been taken by the

foe. It is as if history is repeating itself, and the world is beset as it was during the

Great War. Then, Magnus the Pious rode forth and confronted the enemy at the

gates of Kislev, but alas, I cannot do the same—for the shadow of the enemy

reaches far, and its vanguard cuts ever deeper into our lands.

Half of Talabecland has fallen to the foe—even the mighty Talabec has proved

to be an ineffective barrier against their hatred and power. The ranks of

Talabecland are supported by the armies of Reikland and Stirland, but still the

enemy is barely held at bay.

However, if the Ostermark falls to the enemy then all will be lost.

Bechafen still holds out against the hordes of Chaos surging southwards, but

its days are numbered, and almost all of the Ostermark has fallen to the enemy.

The last Imperial armies there are desperately holding back the tide from sweeping

behind our defences in Talabecland, but I fear they cannot resist for long.

If the enemy bursts through these lines and descends on our rear in

Talabecland, then it will only be a matter of time before the war comes to Altdorf

itself. I dread to think what would happen if our shining capital fell to the infernal

enemy. The resolve of our armies would be shattered.

I cannot allow such a thing to come to pass, and as such the Ostermark must

hold, at any cost. I have dispatched the Reiksmarshal, Kurt Helborg, and a full

demi-legion of Reiksguard knights to lead the Order of the Griffon to bolster that

region. This weakens Reikland considerably and was met with much opposition,

but I feel that it is necessary. I just pray that the Ostermark can hold until their

arrival, for alone they will not hold against the Raven Host forces there.

And for all this, I know that what we suffer now is but the opening phase of the

long war to come—the Raven Host has not yet unleashed its full strength against

us. They seem determined to destroy Kislev utterly, so that when they do send their

full strength against us, they would not have the threat of an enemy upon their

rear.

But hope is not lost I have ordered armies to push north into the lands of

Kislev. They march on Praag, for if we can reclaim that city of the damned, then

the forays of the enemy will become stalled. I pray that by making a positive,

aggressive move we will take the enemy by surprise and weaken him at his heart.

There was dissent amongst my Electors at the decision, but the weight of their

counsel was with me—the result of many months of negotiations.

It is a dangerous gambit, for marching north leaves our own lands less well

defended, and the wolf is already in our midst. However, I feel that it is a necessary

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risk, and our only chance of success. I pray that my instincts prove to be the right

course of action—there shall be none left alive to denounce me should it fail.

I go to Talabecland myself now, so as to be seen to be fighting on the front line.

The resolve of our armies is a fragile thing, the gap between victory and defeat

narrow. Joining the fight personally will make a more forceful statement to the

soldiers and commanders of the Empire than months of politicking here in Altdorf.

I pray that the Ostermark holds, for the balance of the war hangs on it being

able to weather the storm of Chaos until the Reiksmarshal arrives to bolster their

strength.

May Sigmar be with us in these dark times. I truly fear the End Times draw

near.

K.F.

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CHAPTER NINETEEN

Udo Grunwald stood over the twisted corpse. It was emaciated far beyond human

endurance, and its ribs pushed against its grey, dead skin. Once it may have been

human, but its shape was mutated and contorted, its flesh altered so that it truly could

not have been called so when it died.

Its hands were no longer those of a man, but more closely resembled the hunting

talons of a great bird of prey. In death, those talons had clenched tightly, the thick

black claws digging into its own flesh. The skin of the talons and forearms were

yellow and scaled like a bird’s, but there was also other evidence of foul, Chaotic

mutation—soft, downy black feathers had burst through the flesh of the creature’s

neck, forming a strange collar, and a bony spur of bone had split through the skin at

the base of the creature’s neck, extending up along the skull like a sharp ridge.

But it was the creature’s face that was truly horrific, all the more so for it was

almost perfectly human. The corpse’s face was drawn in a horrid expression of what

might have been ecstasy, or glee—a smile that was chilling and horrific. Its eyes

were wide and staring, the pupils and irises completely white. When the girl

Annaliese saw the face of the corpse she backed away quickly, horror on her face,

and Grunwald guessed that she had seen similar corpses before, just as he had.

“How long ago did it die do you think?” asked Karl. Grunwald shrugged his

shoulders.

“Hard to say. The carrion-eaters won’t touch them. Very wise.”

It was easy to see what had killed the plague victim. Its arms were covered in

sword cuts, and there was a deep gash in the figure’s head, but from his own

experience Grunwald knew that these alone would not have stopped the foul

creature—but the sword still protruding from its heart had done the job.

The witch hunter rose to his feet. They stood in the centre of a small village,

thirteen hard days’ march from the base of the Worlds Edge Mountains. He didn’t

know the name of the place, nor even if it had a name, for it was little more than a

group of five shabby buildings. The plague had originated in the north, it was said, so

it was not surprising that small villages like this had suffered such a fate. It was

happening all across the Empire—people got sick, withering and falling into a

comatose state before dying, at which time some foul sorcerous power makes them

rise up to kill those tending them.

In grim silence the group left the village. It seemed; that all of the Ostermark had

suffered a similar, or worse, fate. They passed dozens of villages and small towns,

once thriving communities now reduced to smoking ruins. Evidence of war was

everywhere, from the skeletal corpses to broken swords, armour and arrows that they

trod into the ground beneath their feet. Some were laid low by plague, others by

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violence and war, while others were remarkably untouched, but their inhabitants

nowhere to be found.

The Ostermark was the most north-eastern state of the Empire, bordering allied

Kislev to the north and the towering heights of the Worlds Edge Mountains to the

east. While much of the Empire was swathed in forests, much of the Ostermark was

high moorland or marshes, dangerous and bleak countryside dotted with villages and

fortified road warden stations. And now, thought Grunwald, its people had been

massacred.

Cut off from the Empire since they boarded the dwarf steam engine in Black Fire

Pass, they had received no word of the progression of the war, and for all Grunwald

knew, they were now in enemy territory, behind the Chaos lines sweeping down from

the icy north.

As they skirted the smouldering remains of yet another village, he made the sign

of Sigmar to ward off the Ruinous Powers. In silence they marched past a massive

pile of skulls arranged carefully one on top of another to form a pyramid some fifteen

feet in height. Each skull had been scorched in fire, and was bereft of skin or hair,

and a blue mark had been daubed onto the forehead—a stylised, wide, staring azure

eye.

As they passed, a cloud of ravens and crows launched themselves from its peak,

cawing loudly as they began to circle around it, almost protectively. Other groups of

birds could be seen rising in the distance, circling “My clan is fighting north of

Bechafen,” said Thorrik. “And so that is where I go. I will continue on to the north,

with or without you.”

“And if there is nothing left of Bechafen?” snapped Karl.

“Then I will join my ancestors,” said Thorrik.

“If the Empire forces pulled back from the Ostermark, your clan would have

retreated with them,” said Grunwald.

“Aye, that is true, but we don’t know that Bechafen has fallen.”

“Look around you dwarf!” snapped Karl. “We have seen no life since leaving the

foothills of the mountains. Thirteen days and not a living human soul! And yet we

have seen what, a dozen villages and towns sacked by the enemy? Bechafen is over a

hundred miles to the north! If the enemy are laying waste to the land this far south,

Bechafen is no more.”

“Be that as it may, without solid proof that my clan is no longer there, that is

where I go.”

“Then you are a stubborn fool,” said Karl. “Bechafen is where my knights and I

were due as well, but to head on blindly is folly. We must seek the armies of the

Empire. I say we cut to the west and head towards Talabecland, or to the Stir.” The

dwarf did not respond.

“I too will head on to Bechafen with Thorrik,” said Annaliese, breaking the tense

silence.

“What?” said Karl. “Has everyone lost their sense?”

“Why would you wish to head there?” said Grunwald. The girl’s eyes were clear,

fearless and confident.

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“Sigmar sent me to the north,” she said with a shrug. “And Bechafen is to the

north.”

“Karl speaks the truth, girl,” said Grunwald. “Bechafen is most likely no more.

The Reiksmarshal would surely have pulled back the forces of the north to face the

enemy on more favourable territory.”

“And give up this land that Sigmar united to the ravages of the enemy? This land

we stand upon is the Empire. It must not be handed over to the enemy without a

fight.”

“The fight has been going on here for centuries,” said Grunwald. “And it would

be folly to throw away the armies of the Empire in a fruitless war on terrain already

lost.”

“Surely running away like a dog with its tail between its legs will only strengthen

the foe,” said the girl, her eyes blazing with passion.

“You know nothing of what you speak,” said Grunwald, losing patience. “You

are a farm girl playing at war, but you know nothing of it. To go north blindly will

lead to nothing.”

“I’m sure the thousands who have already been killed in the Ostermark, their

villages destroyed, would be filled with pride to see the armies of the Empire fleeing

before the enemy,” said Annaliese scathingly.

“Villages can be rebuilt,” snapped Grunwald. “But if the Empire itself is

shattered, there will be nobody to rebuild them.”

A shout came from up ahead, interrupting the argument, and Grunwald swung his

gaze around to see the pale-skinned figure of Eldanair, his grey cloak whipping

around him, gesturing to the east. “I see nothing,” said Karl.

“Wait,” said Grunwald, shielding his eyes against the glare. “There,” he said,

seeing the flash of metal in the distance.

“I see it,” said Annaliese. “Riders?”

“Could be the enemy,” said Karl. At a shout from him, the Knights of the Blazing

Sun drew their weapons and formed up around the preceptor.

Closer the riders came, a group of around a dozen or so men riding in loose

formation. As they sighted the knights, they altered their direction and turned towards

them, cantering swiftly across the open ground.

Eldanair stood with an arrow nocked and readied, but as the horsemen drew

nearer Grunwald saw the tension leave his body, and his bowstring slacken.

“Outriders,” said Grunwald finally, relief in his voice.

They were young men bedecked in gleaming breastplates, plumes of feathers

bobbing from their conical helmets. They rode swift unarmoured steeds, and as they

drew near, the knights sheathed their swords. The young warriors wore braces of

expensive pistols over their torsos, and light cavalry sabres were strapped at their

sides. Their leader was a grizzled, bearded warrior who held a strange, multi-

barrelled handgun loosely in one hand, its ornate butt resting on his thigh.

Karl stepped forward, his hand raised as the horsemen wheeled warily around the

motionless figure of Eldanair. They drew their steeds to a halt before the preceptor.

“Hail, warriors of the Empire!” called Karl, and the leader of the horsemen

dismounted to greet him. He was a stocky man, and he nodded curtly to the knight,

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still holding his ornate weapon in one hand. He seemed ungainly walking on the

ground—truly, he was more suited to life in the saddle.

“And to you, preceptor,” replied the warrior, his accent thick. “I am surprised to

see you here, in this forsaken land. The Raven Host controls the Ostermark.”

“We travel from Kadrin,” replied Karl. “Seeking to join the templars of the

Blazing Sun in the north—the temple of Myrmidia in Bechafen.”

“Bechafen has fallen to the enemy,” replied the outrider grimly.

“The foe has crossed the Talabec, then?” asked Karl.

“It has,” replied the veteran outrider.

“And my brother templars?”

“They are falling back to Talabecland with the remainder of the armies of the

Ostermark. Our forces gather there in strength, at Zurin and Unterbaum.”

“Unterbaum… the foe has pushed so deep into the Empire?” Grunwald was

aghast—things were clearly much worse than he would have predicted.

“Yes, witch hunter,” said the outrider, turning his gaze towards Grunwald. His

eyes flicked back towards Karl. “Your order are amongst the last to leave the

Ostermark they are part of the army not a day’s march from here to the west.”

“Less than a day’s march away?” said Karl, his eyes brightening. The outrider

nodded.

“An army accompanied by the Elector of the Ostermark himself. It marches for

Talabecland, heading for Hazelhof.”

“Hazelhof?” said Grunwald, not recognising the name.

“A small village at the foot of the Kolsa Hills. It is of little consequence, yet the

enemy seems intent on controlling the area—agents of the Order of the Griffon are

trying to ascertain what it is they seek. We are to liberate the area.”

“So you are the rearguard,” said Grunwald. The outrider nodded.

“The enemy chases us, like rabid hounds. And they are closing in on the elector’s

army—I fear it will not make Talabecland without battle. And it must hold,

regardless of the odds. It seems that the enemy are moving against us in force—if the

elector’s army breaks, then the enemy will be able to move into Talabecland

unopposed, and strike against the flanks of the armies there. It would be disastrous.”

“What of the dwarfs stationed at Bechafen?” said Thorrik. The outrider gazed at

the dwarf for a moment.

“I know nothing of them,” admitted the outrider. Thorrik grunted, and walked

away.

“A day’s march,” said Karl thoughtfully. “Tell me, man, what of the enemy?

Where are their armies?”

The outrider sighed. “They are all around,” he said. “Vanguard forces push

deeper into Talabecland already, and I have heard that Ostland too is overrun.”

“The armies of Chaos from the north, the green tide of Orcs from the east…”

Grunwald shook his head.

The outrider frowned. “Enemies from the east?”

Karl waved a hand, dismissing the question.

“We must away,” he said. “Knights of Myrmidia! Ready yourselves! We march!”

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“I will leave one of my men with you, to guide you to the Elector’s army,” said

the outrider. “Helmut!” he shouted, and a young noble, probably no more than

fourteen years of age, saluted sloppily. “You will guide these templars and their

companions to the army of the Elector count. Be wary of the enemy.”

Karl nodded in thanks, and extended his hand to the outrider. “Preceptor Karl

Heiden is my name,” he said as he clasped hands with the older warrior.

“Klaus Midders,” said the outrider. “I pray to Sigmar that we shall meet again.”

“Indeed. Ride well, Klaus Midders,” said Karl. The outrider hoisted himself

easily into the saddle.

Eldanair shouted again, and several of the pistolier’s horses snorted and tossed

their heads.

The outrider Klaus pulled a brass eyeglass from a pouch at his side and extended

it, looking to the east where Eldanair was pointing.

“An enemy rider, alone on the rise to the east,” he said after a minute. “He’s

motionless—watching us. They are closer than anticipated. The elector must be

warned.”

With quick, sharp orders, the outrider organised his pistoliers. Two of them he

sent directly back to the army, carrying messages he swiftly penned and sealed with

his ornate signet ring. They galloped off to the west, riding hard.

Leaving just the young pistolier Helmut as their guide, the outrider wheeled his

steed and with a wave, led his soldiers in a trot towards the lone enemy horseman.

“Thorrik,” said Grunwald, walking away from the others to speak to the

ironbreaker, who was sat on a stone smoking. “Will you join us heading east?”

The dwarf sighed and puffed on his pipe. “I have been gone from my clan too

long,” he said at last. “I am eager to return to my people. But it seems that there is

nothing at Bechafen now. Aye, I will come with you, manling. If nothing else, I

should be able to learn where Clan Barad fights.”

Grunwald slapped the dwarf on the shoulder. “I am sorry that it seems your

people are not there,” the witch hunter said. “Though I am glad you’re still travelling

with us.”

The dwarf nodded to him, his eyes glittering with rare humour. “Aye,” he said.

“For a manling you are not half bad.”

“Well, young man,” said Karl to the solitary pistolier. “Lead on.”

The moorland they travelled over was bleak and eerie and thick fogs surrounded

them often, wet and cloying, making their progress difficult. Strange lights seemed to

shimmer in the distance at times, and the silence then was even more profound, the

fog muffling even the rattle of Thorrik’s armour so that it seemed dull and distant.

They travelled as swiftly as they were able. The young pistolier was clearly in

awe of the knights, as well he would be, thought Grunwald. The pistolkorps was an

organisation that many noble lords sent their sons to join, and it was generally

regarded as a place where a young man could earn his spurs in battle. From the

pistolkorps many of the men went on to join one of the knightly orders, the templars

of the Blazing Sun amongst them. Still, Grunwald found the upper-class bearing of

the boy irritating, and though he regarded the knights with the utmost respect, his

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disdain for him and Annaliese was palpable. As for Thorrik and Eldanair, the boy did

not so much as glance in their direction.

“That was a sloppy salute you gave your commanding officer, boy,” he said after

an hour’s hard march.

The pistolier looked down at Grunwald arrogantly.

“I am the son of a baron. Klaus Midders is a lowborn—a mere drill instructor.”

“I too am a mere lowborn,” said Grunwald dangerously. The pistolier flushed an

angry red, and opened his mouth to say something. He caught himself, his eyes

flicking to the pendant hanging around the witch hunter’s neck, and closed his

mouth. “Very wise,” said Grunwald.

“You are of the church of Sigmar, therefore your low birth is of lesser

importance,” said the pistolier sullenly.

“Helmut!” said Karl sharply. The young pistolier straightened instantly, snapping

off a sharp salute to the preceptor. “Ride ahead and ensure the way is clear.” The boy

nodded and dug his heels into his steed. Karl smirked. “Why bait the boy,

Grunwald?”

“I don’t like his type.”

“He’s a spoilt brat—there are thousands of them. Never going to get ahead in the

world if that is the way you treat all of your betters.”

“Do I look like I have any interest in getting ahead by toadying myself to the likes

of his breed?”

“His breed. Ouch. I am of noble birth myself, you know.”

“There are two types of nobleman, Karl. And you are not his kind.”

The preceptor laughed. “Perhaps. It will be beaten out of him if he is chosen to

join the templars of the Blazing Sun.”

“If he lives that long,” said Grunwald. He felt suddenly rather petty for his

actions, and stalked further ahead, walking alone.

Karl dropped back alongside Annaliese, glancing in irritation at the tall figure of

Eldanair ghosting her footsteps.

“Nothing like a walk in the countryside, eh?” he said lightly as the girl smiled at

him. She laughed at his levity, and Karl smiled broadly.

“And how is the maiden of Sigmar today?” he said.

She scowled at him, though her eyes laughed at his quip. “I wish you would not

call me that,” she said.

“I apologise,” he said, bowing and sweeping his hand before him. “I see you are

still practising at swordplay with the elf before the dawn of each day.”

“Eldanair is a fine teacher,” she said.

“A marvel, I’m sure,” said Karl. “Your timing and balance is improved. You

move well. I would suggest a blade over that hammer, as it would complement your

speed more, but I don’t think that anything I say could convince you not to use it.”

Annaliese smiled. “You know me too well.”

Not nearly enough, he thought.

The army of Wolfram Hertwig, Elector Count of the Ostermark, was encamped at

Seuthes, a village some ninety miles south-west of the capital of the state, Bechafen.

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Five miles out from the Empire army they were challenged by swarthy men

appearing out of the mist with arrows aimed at them. They wore no uniform and had

appeared silently and with great stealth—most likely militia scouts, thought

Grunwald. Not part of the formal state army, but employed in times of war. At other

times they might have made their way hunting, either game or bounties. Their leader,

a hulking scout called Dietrich with arms as thick as Grunwald’s thighs, was taken by

surprise as Eldanair rose up like a wraith behind him and placed a blade to his throat.

Her hands raised, Annaliese stepped forward speaking and signing to Eldanair

that these were friends, and the elf somewhat reluctantly removed his blade. Dietrich

frowned, unnerved that the elf had managed to sneak up on him, rubbing at his neck.

Escorted by these scouts, they were taken down to the army, the last fighting

force remaining within the state. From the high moors, the land dropped away

sharply, and the village could be seen below. Thousands of tents were picketed in the

snow-covered fields beyond, and makeshift defences and emplacement were being

hastily dug. Several great cannons, mighty war machines crafted in far away Nuln,

were being heaved into place, and engineers were pacing out distances to ensure they

knew how much powder to load.

“Looks like the elector has chosen to make his stand here,” said Grunwald.

“Why not keep the army moving towards the east?” questioned Karl. “Get closer

to reinforcements?” The scout leader, Dietrich, answered him. “The forces of the

Raven Host are massing along the border of Talabecland and the Ostermark. If we

had kept moving, then we might well have ended up caught between two enemy

armies. Better to turn and face one than fight a battle on two fronts.”

“The enemy controls the border?” asked Karl. Dietrich nodded.

“The curs are gathering in strength. We fight ’em here, or we fight ’em

somewhere else,” he said, shrugging. “I reckon this elector’s got some sense at

least—this ’aint a bad place to make our stand.”

He was a simple, down to earth and direct man, with none of the pomposity that

often surrounded the military. Grunwald liked him.

It was a good place to face the enemy, he decided. Down the steep, rough incline

the enemy would descend, down into the dip. Ice covered the murky pools in this

natural marsh, and the enemy would be slowed as it pushed through it, all the while

being targeted by the Empire bows and handguns.

Having struggled though the mire, the foe would then be forced to climb a steady

slope of clear land towards the Empire forces. It would be long and tiring and the icy

ground would likely be thick with the dead.

The state soldiers working to ready the defences wore the purple and yellow

liveries of the Ostermark, though there were many pockets bedecked in the yellow

and red of Talabecland, and the men heaving the cannon into place wore the black of

Nuln.

It was a hive of activity, as the Empire forces readied themselves for battle.

“Still, if we can trust the word of those uptight pistolier bastards, then we are

gonna be in for one hell of a fight,” said Dietrich. “Messages came in about an hour

ago, just before we headed out. They say the army heading our way spreads from one

horizon to the other.”

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“Sounds like great odds,” said Karl sarcastically. “We might as well start the

victory celebrations early.”

“Still, I don’t trust the word of a pistolier further than I can piss,” added Dietrich.

“Excusing me language,” he added, tipping his hat in the direction of Annaliese. She

laughed, finding the sight of the massive scout looking abashed comical.

“I’ve heard far worse in my time, Dietrich,” she assured him. “And I’ll hear far

worse yet, I’m sure.”

Grunwald calculated quickly as they descended towards the village. He guessed

there must have been around three thousand soldiers camped here, judging from the

number of tents and lean-tos erected on the far field. Not a large force by any stretch,

and if the reports of the pistoliers were correct, they would find themselves heavily

outnumbered in the forthcoming battle. Still, that was a concern that he had no power

to affect, and so he pushed it from his mind.

“Your elf there,” said Dietrich, nodding towards Eldanair, who was walking

nearby, his face pale and expressionless.

“He’s not my elf,” said Grunwald.

“Whatever. I’ll be leading the boys back out before dawn,” continued Dietrich,

“and if he’s willing, I’d like to have him along. Certainly showed me up earlier,” he

added, rubbing at his neck where the elf’s slim blade had been placed, right alongside

the artery.

Grunwald shrugged. “As I said, he isn’t my man. And I don’t think he would be

interested in being hired. But, if he’s willing, it’s his own business.”

“Fair enough,” said Dietrich. He looked over at the elf. “He speaks Reikspiel?”

“No,” answered Grunwald.

“Ah,” replied Dietrich. “That might make things tricky, then.”

“She seems to have the knack of talking with him though,” Grunwald said,

jabbing a black-gloved thumb in Annaliese’s direction.

“Preceptor!” called one of the knights, a young man from Reikland.

“What is it Jarek?” said Karl.

“Look,” said the young knight eagerly, pointing down into an open field to the

south of the village. Squinting his eyes against the glare of the snow, Karl could see

two blocks of knights wheeling and charging across the open field, practising their

movement as a cohesive unit. The banners held aloft by one knight within each of the

regiments was unmistakable. Karl laughed out loud.

“Templars of Myrmidia! Finally!” he said. “And if the goddess is looking

favourably upon us, they may even have some spare warhorses. Come!” he called.

“Let us rejoin our temple!”

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CHAPTER TWENTY

Grunwald strode through the village with Annaliese and Eldanair. Soldiers hefting

powder kegs and lead shot gave them long looks before returning to their work,

muttering amongst themselves. Eldanair had drawn his hood down low over his face

once more, but no doubt rumour of the elf had already circulated amongst the

soldiers—word travelled fast within an army.

Karl and his knights had made their way towards the templars of their order, and

Thorrik had left to speak to one of the Imperial commanders—he knew several of

them, having been stationed around Bechafen for years, fighting alongside many of

these same warriors.

“There are many here who are not soldiers,” commented Annaliese.

“There are,” said Grunwald. The streets were filled with desperate looking

people, families clearly dispossessed by the wars and following close to the army for

protection. “But the outcome of the coming battle will effect them as much as it will

the soldiers on the field.”

Many of the ragged, dirty people were clearly trying to eke out an existence as

camp followers, cooking and cleaning for the soldiers in return for food. Others

prostituted themselves, their wives or their daughters to feed their families, and had a

haunted look in their eyes.

Grunwald stared through the crowd of ragged, homeless Ostermarkers, and many

turned away from his gaze, recognising him for what he was and fearing drawing

attention to themselves. He narrowed his eyes, scanning the faces, more out of habit

than any thought of possible threat. They moved through the crowd, passing crippled,

malformed beggars and hastily erected stalls.

Grunwald ignored the begging hands held out towards him, pushing through the

crowd of wretches and cripples. On top of a barrel a near naked flagellant screamed

and ranted of redemption and death as he slowly pushed metal pokers through his

own flesh. Few paid any heed at his crazed words, and dozens of the spikes already

pierced the skin of his forearms, chest and thighs. As they walked past, the flagellant

pointed at Annaliese and began screeching at the top of his lungs.

“The great comet will come again! From the heavens shall He hurl it, and the

world will be engulfed in darkness and flame! The End Times! These are the End

Times!”

Annaliese’s face was pale, and Grunwald held her by her upper arm, guiding her

away from the ranting madman. Something caught Grunwald’s attention, a cry from

somewhere nearby, and he stalked towards the sound, releasing the girl.

“Get yer blessings! Authentic fetishes of Morr! Icons of the long sleep!” came the

shout, and Grunwald followed it, Annaliese and Eldanair close on his heels, until

they came upon a tiny, rat-like man with long black hair trailing from his scabrous

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scalp. He held a long stick hung with all manner of deathly images and icons:

representations of skulls carved with Morr’s sign, miniature hourglasses filled with

sand, dried black roses and other minor fetishes and phylacteries.

The black haired man fell silent as he saw Grunwald stalking towards him, and

his eyes flicked back and forth, as if seeking an escape route.

“Priest of Morr, are you?” the witch hunter snarled, grabbing a hold of the man’s

shirtfront.

“No, sir,” stammered the man. Grunwald fingered through the man’s items with

one black-gloved hand, his scarred and brutal face hard.

“Any individual who is not a priest of Morr and identified as selling such items

may be seen by some as a purveyor of necromantic curios,” the witch hunter said, his

voice low and deadly. A space developed around them as other citizens backed away

from the scene, and the rat-like man visibly paled, his eyes widening.

“N… no sir! I am not… I would never,” he stammered.

“One suspected of necromantic practices faces death by burning,” continued

Grunwald. He pulled the staff from the man’s hand violently, and hurled it to the

ground, where he crushed several of the miniature icons beneath his heel, while the

man quivered before him.

“You are not such a man, though are you,” said Grunwald, no question in his

voice. “You are merely an opportunistic wretch, seeking to earn a few coins through

the fear of others. Correct?”

The man nodded his head quickly.

“Show me what you have earned,” said Grunwald. The man looked at him with

wild eyes. “Empty out your pouches,” the witch hunter urged. The man fumbled at

his belt, and emptied the contents of a pouch into one of his hands. Grunwald cuffed

the man suddenly, hard on the back his head, and he fell to his knees. “All of it,” the

witch hunter said with snarl. His hands shaking, the man pulled a hidden pouch out

from beneath his shirt and emptied it upon the ground. Grunwald pushed the coins

around with the toe of one boot, counting. There was more here than a soldier earned

in half a year. He frowned and nodded his head slowly, his eyebrows raised.

“A good little income,” he said. Then his face hardened once more and he leant

down to stare the terrified man in the face. “I want you to take every coin here to the

surgeon’s tent that has been set up in the town square. Speak to the headman there,

and tell him you wish to make a donation. Tell him you wish to help see the soldiers

who’ll be injured and slain in the battle tomorrow cared for. The donation is to go

towards that—to help the men that will tomorrow walk out onto the field of battle

and die so that the likes of you may live. I will check at the surgery myself within the

hour, and ensure that every last one of these coins has been delivered. If it has not,

then you are a dead man. Run away now, little man,” snarled Grunwald, “before I

change my mind and burn you here and now.”

The terrified man scrabbled in dirt, picking up his coins, and fled, his face drawn

and pale. Grunwald turned around, smirking, to find Annaliese glaring at him.

“What?” he said.

“Was that really necessary?” she said scathingly. Grunwald frowned, not

understanding.

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“He was selling fake blessings of the god of death the day before battle. He was

taking money from scared soldiers and citizens, making himself wealthy from their

fear.”

“Did you really need to threaten him so?” she said.

“It would have been well within my writ as witch hunter to see the man dead for

holding items such as these,” he said, indicating toward the fallen staff of trinkets and

protective charms.

“Merciful Udo, that is what they should call you,” said Annaliese, her voice

mocking.

Losing patience, Grunwald swung around and pointed a finger at her. His brutal

face was flushed and angry, making the scars stand out in stark relief against his

ruddy skin.

“Yes, damn you, I am merciful,” he said. “More than you know.”

The crowd parted and a pair of flagellating doomsayers drew near them,

whipping themselves with long leather flails that had nails embedded in their tips.

One of them had pushed fishhooks through the skin of his cheeks, and they wore

pages of holy Sigmarite script upon their bare flesh, held in place with long nails that

had been hammered into their bones.

They stared up from their self-mutilation and saw Grunwald and Annaliese. One

of them bared his yellow teeth, and gargled something incoherent, drool and foam

dripping from his lips. The other dropped to his knees and reached for the girl,

grabbing her by her robe, grinning up at her insanely. The witch hunter placed his

boot on the side of the flagellant’s neck and pushed him away, into the muddy slush

of melted snow.

Giving the witch hunter a dark look, Annaliese dropped to her haunches to help

the man back to his feet, ignoring the wet and the mud that stained her robe.

Grunwald’s face was thunderous as he stared at the girl. She had no idea of the

depths of his mercy.

The witch hunter sighed, and turned away, walking through the crowd as

something attracted his interest. He purchased a strip of cooking meat from a dirt-

covered vendor, the spit roasted animal making his mouth water. It looked like a dog,

but at the moment he didn’t really care, his hunger overcoming any delicate

sensibilities.

As he looked around, his eyes locked onto those of a man in the crowd, standing

no more than ten paces from the witch hunter. The man’s eyes were different

colours—his left was a dark brown but his right was a startling, brilliant blue.

Grunwald saw this stranger’s face clearly for a second. It was heavily lined, and

the man wore a dark, sour expression. He leant heavily on a tall staff that seemed to

be hung with feathers, and Grunwald felt that time halted for a moment as he held the

gaze of the man.

His years as a witch hunter had taught him to trust his instincts, and he knew with

certainty that something about this man was wrong. Grunwald’s eye twitched, and he

reached for one of his pistols.

“Sigmar be praised!” came the shout behind him, and the witch hunter flicked his

gaze around to see the flagellant prostrate himself before Annaliese. By the time he

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swung his gaze back around to the mysterious figure in the crowd, he was gone. He

pulled a pistol from its holster and took a step into the crowd, pushing people out of

his way roughly, trying to sight the man.

“Our lord Sigmar with us!” came another shout, and Grunwald was suddenly

fighting against a surge of people moving towards Annaliese, and he swore, violently

knocking people out of his path. But the man that he knew with dread was an agent

of the enemy was long gone, and he turned to witness the commotion.

Grunwald swore again as he saw what was transpiring, and began to move back

towards the girl. The flagellant’s companion stared at the girl with wide eyes.

“Sigmar is with us in this girl! The maiden of Sigmar comes to fight the enemy!”

the fanatic shouted at the top of his lungs, and more people crowded in. The second

flagellant threw himself to the ground beside his companion, and Annaliese turned

around frantically through the press, looking for aid.

“What have you done?” Grunwald said as he closed on her.

“Nothing!” she said quickly. “I helped him to his feet—nothing more!”

“I felt Sigmar’s divinity within her,” said the prostrate flagellant, grabbing at

Grunwald’s boot. “We are blessed by her presence!”

A pair of purple and yellow liveried soldiers stepped forwards and unsheathed

their swords. They dropped to their knees before her, holding their weapons before

them like an offering.

“Give us Sigmar’s blessing, holy maiden!” one of them said. Within moments,

there was a cluster of soldiers crowding around her, and Grunwald swore.

The face of the man in the crowd lingered in his mind. Yes, he was certain of it—

there was an enemy within the Empire camp.

The ground was trampled to muddy slush beneath Grunwald’s feet, and the smell of

meat cooking over fires made his mouth water. He pushed such thoughts from his

mind, and concentrated on not losing sight of the purple and yellow liveried pageboy

as he darted through the bustling crowd of Ostermark soldiers, leading him towards

the impressive, opulent tent in the centre of the army encampment.

The boy, who couldn’t have been more than eleven, had approached him as he sat

warming himself by a fire. He had been lost amongst his own thoughts when he had

appeared, requesting Grunwald’s presence within the command tent of the Empire

army.

“What do they want with me?” he had asked, but the boy had shrugged. Placing

his broad brimmed hat on his shaved head, Grunwald had stood, and let the boy lead

the way.

The tent was large, and a guard of soldiers stood to attention at its entrance,

halberds upright in their hands. Banners of purple and yellow fluttered, and the boy

led the witch hunter past the guards, whose eyes did not so much as flicker in his

direction. A soldier barred their way. The boy nodded to the guard, and then ran off

into the press of soldiers once more.

“Name?” said the soldier.

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“Udo Grunwald, witch hunter,” he replied. The guard nodded in response, and

motioning for silence, led him into the tent. The flap was dropped behind him, and it

took a moment for Grunwald’s eyes to adjust to the light within.

Lanterns hung from the poles of the tent, casting their yellow light across the

interior, and Grunwald saw that there were around a dozen soldiers there, gathered

around a table where a map was spread. Karl stood alongside a clearly more senior

member of the Blazing Sun, his ornate helmet held under one arm. The preceptor

inclined his head slightly to the witch hunter.

A middle-aged man dominated the room, his beardless chin cupped in one hand.

A huge ring of gold was worn over the leather of one glove, and his clothes were of

rich purple and yellow silk, though he wore little in the way of adornment other than

the imposing ring.

A sword was strapped at his side, its scabbard beautifully ornate, and its hilt gold

and magnificently inlaid. Grunwald realised this was one of the famed Runefangs—

awesomely powerful magical swords forged by the dwarfs and borne by the elector

counts. It was a potent symbol of their office, and they were amongst the most

treasured objects in all the Empire.

Grunwald stared at the Elector Count of the Ostermark, Wolfram Hertwig. He

had never been so close to such a highly ranked noble.

The other men within the tent were grizzled veterans, clearly the elector’s most

senior aides and military commanders. They talked in low tones, and Grunwald saw

the elector count sigh and shake his head. It looked like the man had not slept in

days.

Looking up, the count saw Grunwald standing in the shadows. His eyes were

strong, and his face clearly bore the mark of nobility, but it was not the soft features

common in upper classes of the southern states—this was a man of war.

“Who is this?” the elector said simply, his voice carrying a hint of the Ostermark

accent slightly harsher than those of other states and some of his words sounding

slightly Kislevite in their pronunciation. Long had the ties between the Ostermark

and Kislev been strong.

“This is the witch hunter you sent for, my lord,” replied the guard at the witch

hunter’s side. “Udo Grunwald.”

“Come forward so I can see you,” ordered the elector count.

Grunwald saluted sharply and stepped into the circle of light. The elector counts

were the most powerful men in the Empire, and at their word armies marched—they

paid allegiance to the Emperor Karl Franz, an elector himself, but on the whole their

rule was autonomous. They held the power of life and death, and the Elector of the

Ostermark was said to be a hard and demanding, though fair, ruler. He held out his

hand, and Grunwald crossed the tent and dropped to one knee before the man, lightly

kissing the massive golden ring of office.

“Rise.”

“How may I be of service, my lord?” said Grunwald. Though he had never been

comfortable around nobility, neither was he one to be cowed by any man, and his

voice was strong and confident.

“I understand that you travel with a girl. A true paragon of Sigmar, so it is said.”

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“So some would call her, my lord. She is in my charge.”

“The young preceptor here claims her to be quite the warrior,” said the elector,

nodding his head towards Karl. Grunwald followed his gaze and stared at the knight

for a moment, his face hard.

“And I have heard she has already made quite an impression with the soldiers,”

said the elector evenly.

Grunwald’s jaw twitched. “A misunderstanding, my lord.”

“Oh?” said the elector count. “How so?”

“She is not endorsed by the Temple of Sigmar,” he said, choosing his words

carefully. “She has not had any training, and is ill-equipped to act as Sigmar’s

emissary.”

The elector took a long swig from a silver goblet that would have cost more

money than Grunwald had ever seen. The noble savoured the drink, licking his lips.

“Let me be open, witch hunter. We have no priests with us. The last of them fell

against the enemy. And now, the day before battle this girl appears. The Maiden of

Sigmar, I believe is what the men are calling her.”

Grunwald’s gaze flickered to Karl, who had the grace to flush and look down.

“She is but a simple farm girl. Nothing more,” said Grunwald.

“To be frank, I do not care if she is a copper-coin whore or the Queen of

Bretonnia. What I do care about is the fighting spirit of my soldiers. And they see her

as the Maiden of Sigmar, rightly or wrongly—it matters not to me. All I care about is

the men believing they can win the fight tomorrow, and that Sigmar is with us.”

“I understand, my lord,” said Grunwald.

“Good. I am sure you will do the right thing, then. Ensure that the girl is seen by

the soldiers. Let her walk amongst them. Let them have hope. And tomorrow on the

field of battle, make sure she stands amongst the soldiers. Make sure she stands firm

against the enemy. Protect her well—I will give orders that she is to be guarded as if

she were the Emperor himself.”

“She has never stood on the field of battle before, my lord,” said Grunwald.

“That matters not at all—she doesn’t have to fight in the front ranks. She just has

to be seen,” said the elector. Then he sighed, and looked hard into Grunwald’s eyes.

“You were a soldier before you became a witch hunter, is that not so?”

“That is so, my lord,” said Grunwald in reply.

“I too am a soldier. And I do not exaggerate when I say that if we falter

tomorrow, then the fate of the Empire hangs in the balance.”

“My lord?” said Grunwald, furrowing his brow, unable to see how this battle

would effect the outcome of the war.

“Talabecland is a state under siege, witch hunter. It is attacked relentlessly from

Ostland, which is under the control of the enemy. Our forces there are almost

overwhelmed as they are. If we fail here, then this army facing us will march

uncontested into Talabecland…”

“And strike against the rear of our forces already engaged there,” finished

Grunwald, understanding.

“Indeed,” said the elector. “Talabecland will not be able to sustain a war on two

fronts.”

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Grunwald nodded his head, his face dark.

“I think you understand the importance of the girl now, witch hunter. If she can

strengthen the resolve of the soldiers, then we would be negligent, nay seditious, not

to make use of that.”

“I understand, my lord.”

“Good. That is all.” The elector returned to his discussion of troop dispositions

and enemy movements. Grunwald made no move to leave, and the guard that had

announced him tapped him on the shoulder, indicating for him to back away. He

ignored the man and cleared his throat, stroking his long, silver-streaked moustache.

The elector looked up, clearly surprised that he was still here.

“Was there something else, witch hunter?”

“Yes, my lord. I spotted someone amongst the citizens today—I believe it was an

agent of the enemy, sir.”

There was muttering amongst the advisors. The elector raised a hand for silence.

“Explain yourself, witch hunter.”

“I saw the man only briefly, my lord, but I am certain that he was a witch—a

magos, a sorcerer.”

“And you were not able to… apprehend this individual?”

“No, sir. He disappeared into the press. I have been scouring the area for any sign

of him, but have thus far been unable to relocate him.”

The elector pinched the base of his nose between his eyes with his fingers as if

trying to alleviate a headache.

“I see,” he said finally. “Speak to Captain Heldemund there on your way out,” he

said, motioning towards the soldier at Grunwald’s side. “He will give you whatever

men you need. Find him, witch hunter. An enemy launching an attack from within

our camp is the last thing we need.”

Grunwald saluted and bowed low before retreating from the tent.

Stepping out into the cool air, he let out a long breath. He made his needs clear to

the captain, and organised to meet the men that would be at his disposal in an hour’s

time. Then, shaking his head and swearing quietly to himself, he stamped back

through the snow to find Annaliese.

He found her seated outside a tent, dipping bread into a thick broth. Eldanair sat with

her, though the elf did not touch any of the human food. Soldiers whispered and

stared at the girl, though she seemed oblivious to the attention. She smiled at

Grunwald as he approached, her cheeks stuffed with food.

“You should try this,” she said after swallowing her mouthful. Grunwald looked

around, feeling prying eyes and ears all around him.

“Come with me,” he said harshly, and turned and stalked away through the press.

People scrambled out of his way, and he pushed away those that were too slow for

his liking. Annaliese ran after him, licking her fingers.

“What is it?” she said. The witch hunter ignored her, and walked into an open

tent. A soldier lying on his back upon a simple unrolled pallet looked up from where

he was in surprise.

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“Get out,” Grunwald snarled. The soldier blinked, registering the witch hunter’s

dark garb, then scrambled to his feet and left the tent. Grunwald pulled the tent flap

down behind him.

“What is the matter with you?” said Annaliese.

“Your reputation proceeds you,” Grunwald said.

“I don’t understand.”

“The Maiden of Sigmar,” snarled Grunwald.

“It’s just something stupid that Karl has taken to calling me,” she said.

“Well, it has drawn the attention of the Elector Count of the Ostermark.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Grunwald, his voice low and dangerous, “that he wants you to

live up to the name. It means you are to become the religious talisman of his army.”

“I know I am no priestess,” said Annaliese hotly. “And I have never claimed to

be one.”

“It doesn’t matter what you claim to be, girl!” he barked. “What matters is what

you appear to be! Tomorrow, the enemy will be upon us. And this army believes that

Sigmar is with you—and so long as you stand in the battle-lines, their faith is strong.

And so, you will stand in the battle lines, and you will not falter.”

“Is this what Sigmar has sent me here to do?” she said, her face pale.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Grunwald. “You are here, and you now have a duty to

do.”

“Why are you so angry? I didn’t ask for this?”

“I am angry because you have never stepped foot on a true battlefield, but now

you must—and you must appear strong and confident.”

“You do not think I am ready for this.”

“I know you are not,” said Grunwald. “Priests of Sigmar train from childhood to

face the enemy without showing fear. Only the strongest are chosen to represent

Sigmar—if one of them allows fear to overcome him and he runs, the morale of the

men would be shattered.”

“You think I will run?”

“I would not blame you if you did. But that cannot now be allowed to happen.

And if for a second it looks like it will, I will kill you myself and claim that you are a

witch. Better that than let the soldiers see their Maiden of Sigmar run.”

Karl smiled as he saw Annaliese approach through the press of soldiers. He had

been dutifully oiling and shining his armour and weapons in anticipation of the

coming battle, enjoying the camaraderie of being back amongst his order. He stood to

greet the girl, his eyes lingering on her shapely form, and he shook his head at her

beauty.

“Annaliese, you are a vision…” he began. She interrupted him by smashing her

fist into his jaw, and his head rocked backwards from the sudden blow. Her eyes

were blazing with simmering anger as he stared at her in shock and surprise, and not

a small amount of pain. There was fear in her eyes as well, he noted.

“Why did you damn well come up with that stupid name?” she snarled.

He tongued the inside of his mouth, and spat blood onto the ground. The girl

could punch, he would give her that.

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“What are you talking about?” he said, bemused.

“The Maiden of Sigmar!” she spat.

“Ah,” said Karl.

“You are a self-centred fool, Karl Heiden.” Bristling with anger, Annaliese turned

on her heel and stormed away from him. He rubbed at his jaw, and watched her go.

He felt the amused gaze of his knights around him, and he coughed self-consciously.

For a moment he stood immobile, caught between going after the girl or leaving her

be.

The sun was just beginning to set, and he opted for the latter. He had no wish to

be shamed by her again today.

Tomorrow I will seek her out and set things right, he thought. Tonight I will

drink.

Grunwald frowned deeply as he scanned the faces of the Empire citizens arrayed

before him. He stared at each in turn before he shook his head to the sergeant, and the

people were escorted away. With the men at his disposal he had been rounding up the

hundreds of dispossessed, desperate people all afternoon. So far his search for the

man he had seen amongst the crowd had proved fruitless.

He sighed heavily. It was to be a long night then, for he would allow himself no

rest until the witch was discovered.

Hours later Annaliese found the preceptor. Everywhere she went she was hailed by

the soldiers who looked at her with hopeful eyes. She found it exhausting.

He was sitting away from his comrades, and it was clear he had been drinking.

She hesitated for a moment. She had wished to speak to him, but seeing him morose

and drunk, she decided against it, and turned away. Before she could slip away he

spotted her, and she cursed inwardly.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his words slurred. “You are right. I am a fool.”

“Yes you are,” she said, moving to sit down beside him. She pulled her legs up to

her chest, hugging herself for warmth and rested her chin on her knees, staring into

the fire.

He fumbled around, rising unsteadily and placed a blanket around her shoulders.

She smiled her thanks.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” she said at last.

Karl rubbed his jaw. “It was a fine punch,” he said with a grimace. She laughed.

He offered her his bottle but she got a whiff of the strong fumes and pulled back from

it. “How can you drink that poison?”

“A soldier takes what he can get,” he said, his voice heavy, and she suddenly

realised just how drunk he was. A warning bell inside her rang, and she decided she

wanted to get away.

“I think I will turn in,” she said. “Tomorrow will likely be a long day.”

“It will,” said the knight, staring into the smouldering flames.

“Don’t drink any more tonight, alright? Goodnight, Karl,” said Annaliese, putting

her hand lightly on his shoulder as she rose.

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He grabbed her trailing hand and stood, his face flushed. With one hand around

her slim waist, he pulled her roughly in close to him, and kissed her passionately. She

struggled against him, and he held her tighter, until she pushed back away from him

violently, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Go to sleep, Karl. You’ve drunk too much,” she said softly, though there was a

hard edge to her words.

“Just the right amount,” he said, his words slurring slightly. She took another step

back and the knight’s face flushed with anger.

“Damn it woman! What’s the matter with you?” He stood over her, a full head-

and-a-half taller than her and easily twice her weight. He reached for her again, and

she punched him in the face, her fist cracking sharply against his cheek.

He reeled backwards in shock and surprise, blinking his eyes. When his eyes

cleared, they were filled with anger and lust.

With a snarl he stepped in close, grabbing her wrists as she tried to strike him

once more. He held her as easily as a child, and he closed his eyes, the smell of her

hair intoxicating him.

The next moment he felt a sharp, cold point against his neck, and his eyes flicked

open. Eldanair stood at his side, the tip of his slim blade touching his neck. A tiny

bead of blood ran down the silver edge of the knife.

Karl let out a dry laugh, and pushed Annaliese away from him. The elf stepped

away from the knight, his blade still raised, stepping protectively towards Annaliese.

“I see,” said Karl, nodding his head and laughing softly to himself. “I see what’s

going on here.”

“There is nothing going on here except you being a lecherous drunkard,” snarled

Annaliese.

“You refuse me because you already have a lover,” said Karl stabbing a finger at

Annaliese.

“You are a fool,” she snapped. “You see nothing.”

“Oh no, I see it all now, Maiden of Sigmar,” he said mockingly. “You’ve been

parading yourself as some virtuous, devout woman, and all the time you have been

rutting with this one. Not even a true man!”

“You go too far, Karl,” said Annaliese dangerously.

“Was she good?” the preceptor asked the elf, speaking loudly and slowly as if he

were deaf rather than did not understand Reikspiel. The elf regarded him coldly, no

emotion showing on his face. The knight made a crude gesture, and Annaliese

stepped towards him, her fists clenched.

He blinked then, as if realising his actions, and he wiped a hand across his brow,

swaying slightly. He half-fell, half-sat back down and reached for his bottle, taking a

long swig.

Annaliese and Eldanair stood there still.

“What?” Karl said eventually. “Was there something else?”

Annaliese shook her head in disgust.

“You were a man I regarded with high esteem, Karl Heiden. It seems I was

wrong to have thought so highly of you,” she spat, before turning on her heel and

storming off into the night, Eldanair following.

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Karl took another long swig from his bottle, staring into the fire. He gulped down

the last of it and threw it onto the flames. He swung around to see if Annaliese had

gone. She had.

“Well that went well,” he said to himself.

A moment later, he was on his knees, emptying the contents of his stomach onto

the ground. He heaved and brought up everything, until he finally sat gasping, and

wiped at his face.

He stood unsteadily and walked to a barrel of water nearby, plunging his hands

into it. Ice had begun to form on its surface and it cracked beneath his fingers. He

washed his face in the freezing water. Scooping water, he drank deep, until his

fingers were numb. More sober now, he thought back over the last half an hour.

“You are a fool,” he said to himself, realising the damage he had done. But then

the image of Eldanair’s face popped into his mind, and once again he felt anger, hot

and fierce.

Curse them both, he thought, and staggered back towards his tent.

Dietrich crept forward in the snow, worming his way through the darkness. His every

sense was alert; he saw the silent form of an owl as it passed overhead and could

smell the unmistakable stench of burning flesh on the wind. The glow of fires lit up

the perfect darkness of the night over the hillock just ahead.

The elector had hand-picked a group of scouts and sent them out earlier to judge

the strength of the enemy and gauge its approach.

The elf was somewhere up ahead, an invisible ghost in the darkness. They were

in awe of his skills. They had moved out as the silver moon had reached its zenith

overhead, moving swiftly into the night toward the enemy. Dietrich knew that he

would never have dared to approach had the elf not been leading them—dozens of

times through the night they had been saved by the elf, who urged them down into

the snow. Moments later, enemies had passed by them, moving through the darkness

with no torches to light their way.

They took two of these enemy bands, their shafts hurling the warriors from their

horses, leaving none alive. The elf had led them through the enemy patrols and they

climbed up a hillock to overlook the enemy encampment.

Dietrich crawled on, ignoring the biting cold. He almost cried out when Eldanair

appeared before him like a phantom, a finger placed on his lips. Dietrich quickly

signalled for his men to freeze, and they sank into the snow, motionless at his

command. The elf disappeared up ahead, and Dietrich lay there unmoving for long

minutes, wondering what was going on. Had they been discovered? No, there had

been no warning shouts, or sounds of alarm.

A moment later the elf was back, beckoning him forwards. Edging around an

ancient rock, Dietrich came upon the first corpse. The body of the enemy warrior was

huge, and his powerful arms were covered in golden torcs. Countless rings of metal

pierced the flesh of his bearded face, and he wore a circular black iron breastplate

over his heavily muscled torso. A helmet lay in the snow beside him, tall horns cut

from an animal that Dietrich did not recognise rising from it.

He saw Eldanair rise to his feet like a shadow behind another sentry and clamp

his hand across the man’s mouth and nose. A blade flashed in the night as he stabbed

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through the heavy fur cloak of the enemy warrior, again and again. The hulking

figure was easily twice the weight of the elf, but he was dead in seconds, and the elf

lowered the body into the snow.

Dietrich inched through the snow to the elf’s side, and his eyes widened as he

overlooked the enemy encampment.

The size of the army was immense. Campfires spread as far as the eye could see.

There must have been tens of thousands of enemy warriors here. And not just men—

chained in long pickets were massive hounds covered in thick fur, beasts almost the

size of ponies. They lay sprawled on top of each other as they slept, jaws hanging

open to show huge fangs and lolling tongues. Further away from the encamped

warriors were other, larger shapes. Their forms were hidden in darkness, but they

were huge, easily the size of the largest bears that Dietrich had even heard of, but he

instinctively knew that these were not natural creatures. No, their shapes were

perverted and mutated from decades of exposure to the warping effects of Chaos.

Eldanair got his attention with a light touch on his shoulder, and pointed into the

distance, to the north. At first Dietrich could see nothing, squinting over the glowing

remains of five thousand fires, but at last he saw movement. Mounted figures were

riding across the open land away from the camp.

There must have been around three hundred of them, riding for the north. Heavy

chariots pulled by midnight steeds rolled out amongst the mounted warriors, snow

kicking up behind their metal-studded wheels.

Dietrich knew that this was vital information that he needed to get back to his

commander, for it certainly appeared as though the enemy was sending a fast moving

force to circumvent the Empire line—and quite possibly attack it from an unexpected

angle once battle was met. He knew that such a move could tip the balance of the

battle.

Taking one last look over the enemy encampment estimating their number, he

began to crawl backwards down the hillock away from the enemy. Once in open

ground, the scouts began to move as swiftly as it was safe to do, dogging the enemy

horsemen. They would follow them for a few hours to gauge their direction before

turning back towards the Empire lines.

It was dawn, and Grunwald, sitting just outside his tent, was stripping down and

meticulously cleaning his weapons. They were laid out on an unrolled sheet of

leather, and he polished and oiled the mechanisms of first his wheel-lock pistols, then

his heavy, black metal crossbow. The barrels of the guns he cleaned out with a fine

cloth and a ramming rod, gazing along the barrels to ensure not a speck of dust or dirt

was within.

He was angry, and the simple act of maintaining his weapons calmed him

somewhat. His night’s work of scouring the citizenry had garnered nothing, and the

dull thumping of a pressure headache made him even more irritable and tense.

He was angry with himself for taking his eyes off the man, and was frustrated that

he had been unable to discover his whereabouts. He had even begun to doubt

himself—perhaps the man had been nothing more than a frightened peddler—but he

knew deep inside that he was not. The fact that the man had clearly hidden himself

was evidence enough of his guilt.

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Annaliese found him there, and sat alongside him in silence as he worked. The

witch hunter enjoyed the quietness of early morning, and made no effort to talk to the

girl, and he was glad when she too seemed content to remain in silence. “I am scared

about the battle,” she said at last.

“It’s only normal,” he replied, blowing an errant speck of dust out of the wheel-

mechanism of one of his guns.

“You don’t seem too worried.”

“It would be a fool indeed who didn’t have some fear in him on the day of a

battle,” said Grunwald, casting his careful gaze over his weapon, turning it in his

hands, seeking any fault or tarnish. “Either that, or a madman.” Finding no defects,

he turned his attention to the black metal bolts of his crossbow, studying the tip of the

first. Satisfied, he lifted the bolt and stared along its length, ensuring that it was

perfectly straight, with no deviation in it that would effect his aim.

“I am neither a fool nor a madman,” continued Grunwald. “And so, I fear the

coming battle. But it is what that fear does to you that is the important thing. Either

you master it, and use it to your advantage, or you let it master you. Let it master you

and it will grow and grow within you, until you are nothing but a slave to it.”

“Use fear to your advantage?” said Annaliese, furrowing her brow. “How is fear

an advantage?”

“Fear keeps us alive. It is fear that tells us not to walk on the cliff edge in a

billowing gale.”

“But only a fool would do that.”

“Or a madman. But another example—if controlled, fear lends you strength,

speed and crystal clear clarity of mind. If it is left unchecked and controls you, it will

work against you—cause you to react slowly, if at all.”

Annaliese nodded. “I remember being out hunting with my father once. We were

surprised by a bear. I froze—unable to run, to shoot, to do anything but stare at it. It

would have killed me had my father not been there.” Annaliese’s eyes were glazed

over as she remembered. She looked up at the witch hunter, snapping herself out of

her reverie. “What happens if I freeze up today?”

“Then you will die,” said Grunwald simply. “My advice? Don’t freeze up.” He

lifted one of his pistols quickly, testing the wheel-lock mechanism. “It doesn’t matter

if you are scared—you just must ensure that the Maiden of Sigmar does not show it.”

Thorrik appeared from amidst the bustle of soldiers busying themselves before

battle, stamping heavily to get the snow off his boots. His face was thunderous, and

he sat down heavily and pulled his dragon-headed pipe from a pouch.

Grunwald raised a questioning eyebrow to the dwarf.

“North!” Thorrik spluttered. “My clan has gone to the north!”

“North? We are in the north,” said Grunwald.

“Kislev! They have marched into Kislev with an army from Reikland!”

“Kislev? But the war is here, in the Empire. What the hell are armies doing

marching there?”

“Seems that this so-called Raven Host is massing north of Kislev. What is here

already is only its vanguard. Your Emperor has sent an army into Kislev to fight it

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and my kinsmen have marched with them!” The dwarf harrumphed loudly, and

began muttering to himself in his own language.

“So, if we survive the day, you will march northwards then? What, to the city of

Kislev itself?”

The dwarf snorted. “Further than that—the army marches on Praag.”

Grunwald’s eyes widened. Praag was far to the north of the Kislev, thousands of

miles north of their current position. It would take weeks, months to travel there. He

whistled in awe.

“Ah well,” said Thorrik. “We have this battle to get through first. You will be

fighting too I hear, lass?”

“I will,” said Annaliese.

“I will be in the front ranks. That’s where an ironbreaker fights. I just hope you

humans will stand firm alongside me.”

“We will,” said Annaliese with grim determination. “We have to.”

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The clear blue morning sky was slowly overtaken by the relentless, brooding dark

clouds clawing their way across the heavens. Shadow engulfed the Empire lines and

Grunwald shivered as the temperature dropped. He was alert and wary for the

reappearance of the magos he had seen in the crowd the previous day, certain that he

would rear his head before the day was out.

Lightning crackled through the heavy clouds, rippling back and forth with intense

flashes, accompanied by the relentless dull rumble of thunder. Bright bolts seared

down to the ground beyond the crest of the moorland, jagged lines of power and light

that were followed a second later by deafening booms that made the knights’ horses

whinny in fear.

The storm was moving forwards like a living malevolent being, and it seemed to

carry with it powerful, hateful emotions that promised death and destruction.

Grunwald noted that Annaliese was breathing heavily, her face pale, as she

watched the cloudbank rolling towards them.

It was like a black mountain spur, its tip heading inexorably in their direction—a

thick wedge of darkness that slid ever closer. The apex of this elemental force halted

above the crest of the high moorland, just beyond the shadowed village, as if it had

hit an invisible barrier. The weight of the clouds built and they darkened so that they

were now almost black and began spilling around the sides of the village like a pair

of giant horns, surrounding it menacingly.

A great shadow of darkness that seemed to ride before the cloud mass detached

itself from the storm and flew low towards the village. Grunwald saw that it was a

mass of black-feathered birds, thousands of them flying together, and they filled the

air with their raucous cries. Diving low, they flew over the heads of the Empire

soldiers, their harsh cawing a deafening chorus and the beating of their wings

disorienting. As a single living mass flying as one, the ravens blocked out the sky

completely, and they flew low enough that men were forced to duck their heads, and

many of those who did not wear helmets suffered cuts from stabbing black beaks and

lashing talons. The living mass wheeled again, a maddening maelstrom of black

feathers, and dozens of soldiers fired crossbows and handguns into the mass before

their sergeants restored order with harshly barked commands.

Scores of ravens fell to the ground, their wings shattered by bolt and lead shot,

their bodies broken and flightless. They flapped on the ground uselessly, feathers

drifting down in their wake, wings hanging limp behind them. One struck Annaliese

as it fell, and she cried out in shock. It cawed deafeningly and its long beak and

talons lashed out, drawing blood on her neck before she managed to frantically hurl

the creature to the ground before her. It flopped around in a circle, its left wing and

leg a bloody ruin, and it fixed Annaliese fiercely with one beady eye. Anger burnt

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within the shiny orb, simmering rage and malevolence projected from the raven that

was as large as a small dog. Up close Grunwald could see that its feathers were not

truly black, but rather a shimmer of colours could be seen on them, like the rainbow

of oil on water.

It cawed and opened its beak aggressively towards Grunwald as he stepped

towards the dying creature. He killed it beneath his heavy black boot, crushing its

fragile bones and silencing its raucous, disturbing cries.

The ravens overhead circled once more before screaming back overhead, flying

low over the land towards the rise of moorland. Like a flowing carpet of black

feathers the fell birds of the enemy flowed up the rising, rocky earth and disappeared

over the crest of the moors.

At that moment, the first dark figures could be seen at the crest of the highlands,

standing dark and motionless, silhouetted against the flashes of lightning behind

them. They stood immobile, like ancient statues of long-dead, infernal warrior-gods,

a line of them that spread along the crest, dark, imposing and deadly.

It was as if the ravens had metamorphosed into these terrible warriors. Grunwald

wondered if they would turn back into the hateful carrion birds at the battle’s end to

pick over the corpses and pluck at their eyes.

The horned helms of the motionless warriors of Chaos could be seen clearly

against the backdrop of flashing light. Huge standards were held before them, and

although the images upon the human-skin banners should have been hidden in

shadow, they could be seen clearly—twisting, blasphemous glyph-shapes of blue fire

that flickered with cold light of their own.

A ripple of fear ran through the Empire line as the soldiers saw the warriors of the

Chaos gods.

The warriors were massive, each easily a head taller than any man of the Empire.

They were raised as brutal fighters from birth, the weak amongst them ruthlessly

culled. They were taught to hold a sword or axe from the moment they could stand,

and before they had reached eight summers they were already seasoned killers,

preying on those weaker than them and offering up their souls to the dark gods of

Chaos.

Only the strongest and fiercest of them reached adulthood, and every one had

proven himself before their daemonic gods.

But as nine bolts of lighting struck the earth below the ridge simultaneously, the

figures that had been mere silhouettes were thrown into sharp focus, and the sense of

terror and pervading doom amongst the Empire lines was redoubled. For these were

not average warriors of Chaos, but the chosen elite of the Raven Host.

Each warrior was fully armoured in dark metal, and wore an enclosed helmet

tipped with curving, daemonic horns. In the centre of every helmet was a glowing

blue gem fashioned in the shape of an unblinking eye. They hefted brutal killing

weapons—swords, axes and heavy spiked mauls—that a normal man would be

unable to lift in two hands, let alone one as many of these warriors seemed to do

effortlessly. Many bore tall shields tipped with spikes and barbs, and each of these

also had an unblinking blue eye on its centre. Cloaks of raven feathers were thrown

over the massive shoulders of these elite warriors, the chosen of Tzeentch, and they

surveyed the village and meagre lines of quaking Empire soldiers unmoving.

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To either side of the motionless chosen warriors more of the enemy appeared, and

massive stakes of metal were driven into the ground along the ridge. Each of these

was easily fifteen feet high, and upon each was spitted a man wearing the purple and

yellow of Ostermark—clearly Empire soldiers slain in an earlier confrontation,

perhaps in the fall of Bechafen itself.

No, not slain in an earlier battle, Grunwald realised—a great groan of horror rose

up amongst the Empire ranks as they saw that these soldiers were not dead at all. The

impaled figures twitched and flailed in agony, kept alive and in torment by the fell

magics of the enemy. The moans and cries of the tormented men of the Ostermark

echoed down from the ridge to the village, and Annaliese covered her mouth as she

heard their agonised, desperate wailing.

A thousand stakes were raised along the ridge, and larger ones too were hefted

into position with ropes and chains—each of these had five or more soldiers impaled

on them. Ravens landed on many of these tortured men, tearing strips of flesh from

them and pecking at their faces—but not one of them was dead.

“Why don’t they attack?” said Annaliese, her voice strained.

“They are trying to scare us,” said Grunwald.

“It’s working,” said Annaliese. She swallowed with difficulty, her mouth and

throat dry.

“Or they are waiting for something,” said the witch hunter. He craned his neck,

looking back to where the citizens crowded, back behind the lines of soldiers. His

gaze passed over the mass of desperate humanity, but he did not see the face he

sought—the heavily lined face of the witch he knew was lurking back there

somewhere.

Karl sat astride a massive destrier, glad at last to be back in the saddle. He felt the

horse beneath him trembling with fear and anticipation. Leaning forward he patted it

heavily on its neck, talking in gentle, comforting tones. He knew how it felt.

The knights’ steeds stamped their hooves, ears flat against their heads. They were

uneasy and tense. Such was generally the way before a battle, but the fear that

washed down over the Empire lines was almost like a living thing. It washed around

them, making men sweat despite the icy chill. The sky continued to darken, the

massing cloudbanks encircling the village almost completely.

Karl wished the enemy would just advance, so this waiting would end. Battle

would be met, and then the killing would start, and he could lose himself in the

melee.

He tried to push away the thoughts of the previous night’s encounter with

Annaliese, but her shocked and angry face kept appearing in his mind’s eye, the look

of fear as he had pulled her roughly to him haunted him. He gritted his teeth and

shoved the image to the back of his mind, but it kept rearing up within him, taunting

and painful.

He felt shame tear at him. What had he been thinking, he wondered? What evil

had overtaken his senses?

She had brought it on herself, said a dark voice within him. She had tempted him

for weeks, with her seductive looks and luscious eyes. She had led him on, making

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him think that there was something between them. But all the time she had been

laughing at him, her and that cursed elf.

Karl closed his eyes against the maddening thoughts, striving to drive them from

his mind. Had the enemy infected him with some vile sorcery? No, he answered—

this was but jealousy and desire, very human emotions, and they had been enflamed

by drink.

What a fool he had been! He had blown his chance with the girl, and he had no

one to blame but himself.

It mattered little now though, he thought darkly, as he gazed up at the enemy

standing motionless along the ridge of moorland. Soon, he would lose himself amid

the cacophony of battle, and it would not matter anymore.

Feathers sticking up from soft caps bobbed up and down as Karl watched around

two thousand archers, handgunners and crossbowmen moving lightly forwards,

angling their lines opposite the marshy dip at the foot of the moorland crest.

Phalanxes of state soldiers marched forwards more slowly behind them,

halberdiers and swordsmen, their wildly fluttering banners flying. In the centre of the

line were the greatswords, a block of hard-bitten soldiers with massive two-handed

blades resting on their right shoulders. Great plumes topped their conical helmets,

and they stepped forwards in perfect unison, for they were the elite foot troops of the

army, its most seasoned and veteran soldiers.

Light cavalry hung back from the main line, and further regiments of spears,

halberds and pikes stood motionless along the edge of the village. An unruly rabble

of refugees was arrayed; thousands of desperate survivors from outlying villages and

towns that followed the army. They stood watching over the battlefield from

whatever vantage point they could find, waiting to see the outcome. Karl knew that if

the day were lost, then they would all be slaughtered.

The Empire commanders had tried to force these stragglers to leave the area, but

it was an impossible task. In truth, Karl could understand that they did not wish to be

away from the army and the protection it gave them. Though how long that

protection would last would soon be determined.

Karl wondered where Annaliese was. He turned in the saddle, looking across at

the soldiers’ frightened faces. He spotted the witch hunter Udo Grunwald first—he

was hard to miss standing amongst the soldiery, wearing his trademark heavy black

greatcoat and wide-brimmed hat. He stood with a small group of soldiers to the rear

of the gathered forces. He seemed to be looking for someone, staring around him.

Karl’s eyes widened as he recognised Annaliese standing alongside the witch

hunter. She wore a close-fitting sallet helmet, though her face was bare, and her head

was held high as she stared fiercely across the battlefield towards the motionless

enemy. Her hammer was held in one hand, and she wore a circular shield upon her

arm. Plates of armour protected her arms and shoulders, and the hem of her long

chainmail coat could be seen beneath her red and cream travel-worn robe.

She was a shining, radiant light amongst the soldiers. The Maiden of Sigmar she

was, and truly she looked the part as she waited fearlessly for the battle to

commence. He stared at her in open awe and admiration. Then the shame of his

actions pounded in at him, and he turned away, cursing himself.

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“Why don’t they damn well come?” growled Thorrik, stamping his feet, trying to get

some feeling back into his cold toes. He stood in the front rank of a phalanx of

halberdiers, the other soldiers towering above him. The men around him were silent,

their faces grim. Further along the line, the purple and yellow standard of the

Ostermark whipped loudly in the rising winds.

At last there was movement from the ridge, as warriors lowered their heads and

moved respectfully out of the way of a giant figure upon a snorting black steed. The

figure wore ornate, fluted armour of gold, and its gleaming helmet was topped with

coiling horns that twisted around each other. An eye of blue fire the size of a man’s

torso hung in the air between these horns, the flames burning fiercely with unholy

light. A large black pupil hung within the centre of the burning blue iris, and as

another bolt of lightning slammed into the earth before the Chaos lord, this pupil

contracted sharply so that it was little more than a vertical black slit, like the pupil of

a serpent.

The fell steed stamped its hooves, and its eyes blazed with pale fire. It was

armoured with ornate, fluted gold barding in the same manner as its lord, and a

similar array of twisting horns coiled from its head.

The massive warrior wore a long cloak of feathers, and it billowed behind him

like a death-shroud. He hefted a huge bladed glaive one handed over his head as his

infernal steed reared up on its hind legs, and lightning arced down from the heavens

once again, striking this long weapon. Electricity coursed over the figure, crackling

over its armour before it earthed itself into the ground beneath the daemon-steed’s

hooves.

The sound of the lightning bolt striking reached the Empire lines a second later,

and it sounded like the earth had been split down the middle. Horses reared and

screamed in fear, and the knights struggled to bring them back under control.

The last electric flickers of lightning coalesced across the Chaos lord, and he

began to speak. His words were those of a daemon, and they rolled out before him

like a deafening wave, reaching the ears of every man standing upon the field of

battle, as if the fell lord of Chaos screamed in their ears.

It sounded as though there were a thousand roaring voices bellowing as one, and

the Empire soldiers around Thorrik took an involuntary step backwards as the wall of

sound struck them. There were screams and roars of fury and pain in that voice, and

the cries of tortured souls.

The words were alien and meaningless to the men of the Empire, but great was

their power. There were moans of fear amongst the soldiers around Thorrik, and

several fell to their knees, covering their ears in a futile attempt to block out the

horrendous din. Thorrik himself gritted his teeth and gripped the shaft of his axe

tightly, grimly weathering the storm of screaming, incoherent words.

Grunwald felt the power of the words of Chaos battering against his sanity, and he

resisted their power. Annaliese at his side grasped her pendant of Sigmar and began

mouthing words of prayer, her face defiant. The witch hunter felt the building of

power, and clenched his teeth as he felt the electric tang of magic charge the air.

A regiment of soldiers standing some fifty paces ahead of his own position were

suddenly engulfed in a blurring maelstrom as the fabric of reality was shredded.

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A hundred men fell to the ground as a surging wave of daemonic energy

enveloped them, screaming and roaring. They convulsed madly and those nearby

backed away, horror on their faces. The men began to writhe, screaming, and their

flesh seemed to ripple and contort. Bones bulged beneath flesh as they grew

uncontrollably, bursting through skin to form giant pointed growths. Spinal columns

became twisted and erupted from men’s backs, spikes of bone growing from

vertebrae and impaling other wildly mutating men. Feathers sprouted along the

forearms of some, bloody and covered with mucous, and tentacles burst from the

chests of others, reaching to the sky like questing leeches.

Mouths were forced open far beyond their natural limits, and massive tusks of

bone burst from jawbones. Other men were drawn together, their flesh merging, and

eyeballs weeping blood opened up in their skin alongside fang-filled mouths that

screamed in agony.

Thunder rumbled overhead as the soldiers’ flesh mutated and altered

maddeningly, as if the fell daemonic gods of Chaos were pleased.

Screaming and bellowing in pain and anger, the monstrous spawn-creatures

created from the flesh of the Empire soldiers lashed out around them with barbed

limbs and powerful claws, snapping bones and ripping their erstwhile comrades

apart. Mouths filled with rows of teeth snapped out, locking onto arms and necks,

crushing and killing. Upon legs broken and malformed, the spawn crawled and

staggered, reaching towards the soldiers of the Ostermark with flipper-like

appendages and whipping, worm-like tentacles.

The soldiers fell back from these monstrosities that were moments before their

friends and comrades, and scores of them were killed beneath the ripping jaws and

flailing limbs of the spawn. Grunwald stepped out from the line of soldiers he had

chosen to accompany him in his hunt for the witch. He turned around on the spot, his

eyes flicking around.

At last he locked onto a dark figure standing in a crooked eyrie on top of one of

the village buildings. A strange rotating metal globe turned on top of the building, a

mechanical, clockwork contraption that showed the position of the moons and

passage of the sun. The figure of the man he had been searching for all night was

standing there, his staff raised above his head as he mouthed an incantation.

As the attention of the entire army was directed at the enemy lined against the sky

and the monstrous, horrific creatures that were causing havoc, no one had looked

back and seen this dire figure.

Suffer not the witch to live was one of the mantras of the witch hunters, and

Grunwald had no intention of letting this one live any longer.

With a barked order for the soldiers around him to fall in behind, he began

running towards the building, keeping his eyes on the morbid figure. He roared as he

ran, ordering the terrified crowd of citizens out of his way. They melted back as he

ran, soldiers running at his heels.

Still, the press of people was too great for a path to be cleared before him, and he

bashed people out of his way in his eagerness to close in on the enemy. People fell

screaming to the ground, only to be trampled beneath the press.

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“There! Go!” shouted Grunwald, directing the soldiers towards the building, and

he hefted his crossbow to his shoulder, taking aim at the witch who was still

incanting on top of the eyrie.

The black bolt sliced through the air, thudding into the wooden banister an inch

from the magos. The figure jerked, his incantation interrupted and stared down at

Grunwald with hate-filled eyes.

Snarling, the witch thrust his staff in Grunwald’s direction, and a searing burst of

blue flame shot down towards him. The witch hunter gripped his icon of Sigmar

tightly, mouthing a prayer and bracing himself. He felt the icon heat up in his hand as

the hellfire roared towards him. Daemonic faces could be seen within the licking

flames, snarling and hissing. People screamed and ran, and the flames burst around

him like a raging inferno.

But they did not touch him. Instead they washed harmlessly around him, as if

they had struck a physical barrier. He could see the malevolent forms of daemons as

they clawed at him, and they hissed and spat as they were denied. Still the blue

flames pushed in at him, and he dropped to one knee as he felt the wave of evil

energy beating at him. The temperature rose sharply as the flames burst around

Grunwald, and steam rose from his damp clothes. His face was hot from the raging

conflagration just feet from him, and he shielded his eyes against it, but it did not

touch his skin and a second later it was gone. He stood in a tight circle of melting

snow, though all around him the ground was scorched and blackened from the fire.

Feeling a presence behind him, Grunwald turned to see Annaliese standing there,

her hammer held high. Wrapped around her wrist was a chain from which hung her

pendant of Sigmar, and it seemed to glow with fading light. Her eyes were locked

onto the fell sorcerer, and truly she looked like the Maiden of Sigmar that people

were claiming her to be. Grunwald wondered briefly if it had been her faith or his

own that had protected him from the enemy magic, but it mattered not—all that

mattered was that the witch was alive—and he needed to die.

Grunwald saw that the panicked masses had halted in their mindless flight,

turning to look upon Annaliese with awe-struck eyes.

“The Maiden of Sigmar!” someone shouted, and he felt the raw power of their

belief.

“Stay back here!” shouted Grunwald to the girl as he saw the dark shape of the

enemy sorcerer snarl and abandon his post. His heart burning with hot fury and

anger, the witch hunter began to run once more towards the building, pushing

through the motionless crowd who were staring at Annaliese in awe.

His soldiers were waiting for him, though they had taken up positions around the

building so that the sorcerer could not escape. The building looked like some kind of

warehouse, its upper levels converted to a rich abode. At Grunwald’s nod, one of the

soldiers, a veteran warrior built like an ox, kicked a side door in, the wood around the

frame splintering.

Before he could shout a warning, the soldier had thundered inside the darkened

warehouse, his momentum carrying him forward. A light flared, and coruscating

energy enveloped the man, crackling through the colour spectrum as it washed over

his skin. He fell to the ground, twitching and convulsing and bulges appeared beneath

his clothing as his flesh mutated.

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One of Grunwald’s pistols boomed, the shot slamming into the soldier’s head and

ending his torment, but still the body shuddered and contorted with malign magic.

The soldier’s face bulged as fingers pushed impossibly from within. A pale talon

ripped a hole through his skin, and long, multi-jointed fingers struggled to tear the

flesh away. Like a suit of fine clothes being ripped open, the man’s skin was torn

from the crown of his head to his sternum, the steel of his breastplate melting and

bubbling away as if it had been subjected to an inferno. The body of the soldier was

ripped opened before the horrified eyes of his comrades, and the mutilated, perverted

corpse thrashed around on the ground as the foul daemonic entity pulled itself from

within.

The air was filled with the stink of ozone and cauterised flesh, and the infernal

being rose from the still convulsing corpse like a demented newborn, its pinkish flesh

covered in blood and mucous.

It was crouched, and its eyes blinked open as it unfolded its long, gangly arms. It

seemed to have no head, or rather its head was squashed into its chest, and its yellow

irises were filled with insanity and unholy, manic energy. Worm-like protuberances

appeared in its flesh and they waved around blindly foul and disturbing.

A long slash of a mouth that almost bisected its torso split open, exposing

thousands of tiny, coral-like teeth, each one covered in miniscule barbs. It exhaled, a

long throaty breath, and a bluish mist of magical energy coiled from within the foul

creature, and a demented giggle from the pit of hell erupted from the creature’s lips.

Like a discarded flesh-shell, the split corpse of the soldier that had birthed this foul

daemon still twitched upon the ground at its feet.

With a snarl, Grunwald stepped forward and slammed the sole of his boot into the

creature’s face. He connected solidly, his whole weight behind the blow, and the

creature was thrown backwards. It rolled, cackling hysterically, and scrambled about

on the floor, gangly arms shaking above it.

“Cleanse this place in the name of Sigmar!” Grunwald roared, surging inside the

warehouse, the soldiers a step behind him.

He heard a muttered incantation in the tainted dark tongue of Chaos, and threw

himself into a roll as an arc of purple light reached towards him from the wooden

staircase that climbed up to the second level and beyond. It impacted with the

wooden table beside him, and its form was instantly altered almost beyond

recognition, the curving wooden legs twisting, barbs and spines erupting through the

woodgrain. Its solid surface sagged inwards like melting wax before bursting into

green flames.

A blue fireball roared past Grunwald as he rose to his feet, hurled by the cackling

daemonic creature that had fashioned it out of the air above its head. There was a

desperate screaming behind him as the flames caught several soldiers, but Grunwald

did not turn. With pistol in one hand and his flanged mace in the other, he leapt

towards the fell being. The pistol boomed, taking the creature in one of its wild eyes,

and it stumbled backwards, blue smoke coiling from the wound. It began to melt, its

unnatural form turning to viscous liquid as it died.

Leaping over the vanquished daemon, he surged up the staircase, taking them

three at a time. He could see the magos now, backing higher away from him, blue

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fire streaming from his eyeballs. He had a smile on his face, and Grunwald snarled as

he closed in on the hated foe.

Something grabbed his leg as he leapt up the stairs, and he fell heavily, face first

into the solid wood. He felt claws bite through his thick leather trousers, and turned

around kicking at whatever held him. It was a smaller version of the creature he had

just killed, though its flesh was blue-tinged and it wore a frowning expression rather

than manic glee upon its face.

Further down the stairs a soldier was battling against another of the blue-tinged

daemons that had birthed from the dying corpse of the first infernal being, and

Grunwald saw him fall screaming to his knees as the creature clasped its long fingers

around his face. Smoke and the stink of burning flesh rose from beneath its grasp

before another purple and yellow liveried warrior clove his sword down through the

creature’s head.

Grunwald kicked again at the monstrosity clinging to him, and its claws bit

deeper, piercing his skin. Its fanged maw opened wide to close around his leg, but

then a spear tip emerged from between its eyes, and it was lifted up and away from

him by one of the soldiers. A blast of blue fire consumed the man, melting his flesh

to the bone.

Grunwald rose on one knee, his hand reaching into his boot. The magos stood at

the top of the warehouse stairs facing him.

“Feel the power of Tzeentch, pitiful mortal,” said the magos as he lowered his

staff towards Grunwald, but the witch hunter’s hand flashed out and a dagger struck

the man in his throat. He dropped his staff and clutched at the blade. Blood bubbled

between his fingers and he stumbled forwards, falling heavily down the stairs.

As the figure rolled past, Grunwald kicked him hard, smashing the magos

through the banister to fall ten feet to the hardwood floor below.

“Grab him!” he ordered, and three men leapt upon the fallen magos. “Hold him

tight,” said the witch hunter as he stalked down the stairs, each boot fall echoing

loudly now that all was silent bar the witch’s gargled gasps.

He stepped over bubbling masses of ichor, all that remained of the daemons

summoned by the man. Unrolling a leather package he wore at his belt, Grunwald

selected an implement from amongst his myriad tools, and knelt down alongside the

magos. He held the pair of black iron pliers before the witch’s face, enjoying the look

of pain and fear there now that the blue fire had left the orbs.

“Open his mouth,” he ordered a soldier standing nearby, whose face was pale.

The man nodded, and knelt down alongside the witch hunter, forcing the magos’

jaws open.

Grunwald grabbed the man’s tongue with his pliers and pulled it out as far as he

was able. Then he brandished a knife before him.

“You shall not speak your foul incantations as you burn,” he said, and began to

cut. He prayed to Sigmar that this was the only enemy within their midst.

Outside, the hideous sound of the daemonic voice had died, to be replaced by the

resounding beat of a thousand enemy drums.

The ground reverberated as the Raven Host advanced.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

As if the magos’ first horrific incantation had been the signal to attack, the enemy

marched down from the highlands to battle. While the Empire commanders sought to

regain some order to their battle line and more of the mewling monstrosities spawned

of Chaos magic from the flesh of Empire soldiers were slain, the enemy closed

towards the village.

The chosen warriors of the Chaos host remained motionless on the ridge, but

thousands of warriors descended around them, screaming praises to their gods and

their war-drums pounding.

Dressed in furs and hefting weapons of dark steel, the marauders surged down the

slope, a sea of warriors, their huge muscles daubed with swirling, tribal war paint.

Some amongst them bore the favour of the gods, their flesh having been blessed by

change—arms altered in form, muscles and bones warped into brutal killing

appendages, or thick tusks jutting from their jaws. These warriors were revered as

mighty champions, for the touch of the gods upon them was clear.

They screamed as they raced down from the high land into the mire at its base,

and into the range of the guns of the Empire. As they surged into the ice-covered

marsh, plunging thigh deep into the icy waters, the first cannon shots boomed. Smoke

and flame burst from the barrels of the mighty weapons of Nuln, and cannonballs

smashed into the first ranks of the marauders, ripping limbs from bodies.

The massive balls of steel and iron skidded off the ground and bounced through

the massing warriors, tearing through legs and bodies, crushing everything in their

path. Under the watchful gaze of their lord and his elite chosen warriors, the

marauders continued on, uncaring of their losses, scrambling through the mire over

their dying companions.

Scores were drowned in the icy, reed-choked waters, and soon the marsh was

thick with the dead.

Though a section of the Empire line was in chaos, as the blood-frenzied mutated

spawn continued to lay around them causing havoc, the other sections of the army

were unscathed, and they advanced upon the enemy struggling through the morass in

the dip below the moorland.

At a shouted signal hundreds of arrows were nocked to strings and crossbows

readied. Handguns already primed were lifted to take aim.

With a shout, the barrage began, and the sky was darkened further as the first

flights of arrows arced high into the air. Before they had even struck home, a second

barrage of arrows was launched. They fell amongst the warriors of Chaos, and scores

of men were struck. The shafts thudded into their bodies, piercing chests and necks,

driving through thighs and heavily muscled arms. Men stumbled and were trampled

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into the marsh, but the survivors toiled on, and they reached the rising banks of the

morass, struggling onto solid, snow-covered land.

The handguns and crossbows of the Empire spoke then, and great swathes of

battlefield were obscured by the smoke of the guns firing. The crack of the handguns

echoed sharply off the higher slopes, and hundreds of warriors fell as the wall of lead

shot struck. The powerful weapons punched through shields and helmets as if they

were made of paper, and more enemies were laid low as crossbow bolts drove

through flesh. The cannons boomed again and they tore through the line of

marauders.

Thousands of men were killed in the first moments of battle, but it was just the

beginning of the slaughter that was to come.

Surrounded by a circle of soldiers, Grunwald stalked out into the open, kicking the

staggering, bloody figure of the enemy magos before him. The crowd were pushed

out of the way with halberds and spears, and he came to a halt in their midst. The

sorcerer was on his knees, his chin and front soaked in blood, and he made pathetic

sounds of agony, his tongueless mouth wide and dripping with gore.

One of the soldiers stepped forward at Grunwald’s order, and upended a small

barrel of oil over the witch, who screamed incoherently. Another handed Grunwald a

lit lantern, and he held it high above his head.

“Witness the fate of those who consort with diabolic powers!” he shouted,

turning on the spot so that all could hear his words. “Such is the fate of all who

oppose our lord Sigmar! And such will be the fate of the enemy army this day!”

Grunwald brought the lantern smashing down to the ground at the feet of the oil-

drenched magos, and he was instantly engulfed in flames. His clothes and hair were

burnt from his body, and his flesh blackened and blistered as the searing heat of the

fire did its work.

Rising to his feet and with blood gushing from his mouth, the magos stumbled

towards the crowd but a solid strike from the shaft of a halberd smashed him back to

the ground. His tortured screams rose to the heavens, and the gathered citizens

cheered loudly, pounding the air with their fists as the enemy was burnt to death,

thrashing madly.

Within moments the life had departed from the witch, and he lay still.

With blood splashed across his face, Grunwald led the soldiers from the crowd.

As he broke from the heaving mass of humanity, he saw the lines of the Empire

soldiers and the swarming ranks of the enemy close.

Thorrik held his gromril shield before him as the barbarian hordes ran towards the

Empire line, screaming and roaring praises to their dark gods. At a barked order, the

halberdiers around him braced their long weapons, their deadly spiked ends extended

outwards towards the charging foe, a sea of metal that the enemy raced into.

The distance between the armies closed quickly, and Thorrik saw the faces of the

men he was about to kill.

They were fierce, many covered in tattoos and war paint, and they towered over

him just as they towered over the men of the Empire. They roared as they raced

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across the even ground, swinging massive war-axes and barbed swords back for

killing blows.

“For the Emperor Karl Franz!” shouted the sergeant of the regiment. “Now!”

The halberdiers took a step forward as one as the fur-cloaked northmen drew

close, thrusting the spiked points of their weapons into the foe. The enemy struck

with sickening force, and hundreds were impaled in the first onslaught as they ran

headlong onto the Empire soldiers’ weapons.

The men of the Ostermark were driven backwards by the sheer weight of the

enemy, and the screams of the dying and the clash of weapons was deafening. In

front of Thorrik, one bearded enemy warrior dropped to his knees as a halberd point

took him in the throat, blood gushing from the wound, and another roared through

clenched teeth as he died, spitted upon another of the long-hafted weapons. A

massive broadsword smashed down onto the haft of another halberd, which

splintered beneath the blow, and Thorrik stepped forward and swung his axe into the

midriff of the towering warrior, cutting him down before stepping back into line with

the Empire soldiers to either side of him.

The strength and weight of the enemy was immense, and they pushed forwards

relentlessly, drawing within striking range of the Empire line. Some halberds were

ripped from the hands of their owners as impaled enemies sank to the ground, while

others were smashed apart with heavy blows. The blood of the soldier to the left of

Thorrik splashed across the dwarf’s armour as a sword blade hacked into the side of

his head, the power of the blow ripping through the metal helmet and skull with ease.

To his right a soldier was cut down as a heavily muscled barbarian smashed his blade

down onto his collarbone, the blade driven deep into his flesh.

Thorrik’s axe blade slashed out, cutting the marauder’s neck open, and blood

pumped from the wound before he dropped and was trampled into the ground.

The second rank of Empire soldiers lifted their weapons high, and the axe-blades

of the halberds smashed down onto the heads and shoulders of the enemy, cleaving

through metal and crunching through bone. Arms holding shields aloft were broken

by the force of the powerful blows, but the enemy was amongst the soldiers of the

Empire now, and the killing began in earnest.

Fuelled with growing resentment as the men at his side were hacked down,

Thorrik hacked around him with fury. He chopped through one marauder’s forearm,

the severed limb dropping to the ground, still gripping a sword tightly. With his

reverse blow, Thorrik smashed the axe into the man’s face, and he was knocked

backwards, his skull cleaved.

Blows rained in against him, but Thorrik weathered them all with dwarfen

stoicism, growling with anger as each attack struck against his armour. His fury rose

with each impact, and he hacked around him madly, his wrath lending him strength.

Nevertheless, in a close quarters fight, the enemy were stronger, fiercer and had

less fear of death than the men of the Empire, and they began to drive the

Ostermarkers back. Scores of soldiers were dying, and Thorrik could sense that the

battle was shifting in the enemy’s favour.

“Knights of the Blazing Sun! Forward!”

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The resplendent line of knights kicked their steeds forward, and they began to

gallop across the open ground, their lances held upright. Karl rode in the lead, his

face grim beneath his helmet, as they rode towards the melee.

The ground thundered beneath their hooves, and the preceptor felt a savage joy to

be riding into battle once more—it had been too long. Hearing the pounding of

hooves as the heavily armoured knights moved across the battlefield, the enemy

turned to face this new threat, and a splinter force detached from the main force, its

line wheeling to take the charge of the knights.

That was what Karl had been hoping for, and he altered the angle of the knights’

approach, riding hard for the gap that was opening up in the enemy line.

The banner of the order whipped like the sails of a great ship in the wind, and

Karl rejoiced at the feeling of speed and power. It had been a great honour to be

placed in command of the regiment, for never had he led so many of his warrior

brethren into battle. The head of the temple of Bechafen had taken the remainder of

the knights to the north-east, for word had come in the early hours before dawn of a

fast moving enemy strike force that was seeking to outflank the Empire army, and he

had deemed the threat serious enough to ride out and meet it personally.

Turning his head to the side, he nodded to the knight riding beside him—the only

knight amongst the regiment who did not wear a full face, visored helm—and the

man lifted a horn to his lips and blew a series of long notes upon it. The sound blared

across the battlefield before them, and Karl began to lower his lance from its upright

position.

“Myrmidia, guide my lance,” he said, invoking the goddess of his order.

The warriors they were closing in on hurried to close the gap in their lines, but

Karl could see that they would be too slow to react. Still, they showed no fear,

moving eagerly towards the knights thundering across the field. As they pounded

ever nearer and the knights lowered and couched their lances, Karl picked out one

particular warrior as his target. The warrior had a swirling blue icon painted on the

left side of his face, and the same marking was painted upon his bare chest. In his left

arm the man hefted a brutal axe, but his right arm was what attracted Karl’s attention,

for it was far from human in nature. From beneath the warrior’s heavy metal shoulder

plate it emerged, the limb covered in dark feathers. There was an extra joint between

wrist and elbow, and the fingers had been reformed into the gripping talons of a great

bird, though they were a striking yellow in colour.

The knights thundered toward the enemy, and Karl lifted himself in the stirrups,

readying for the strike. The barbarian snarled up at him and ducked to the side but the

preceptor had fought for many years on horseback, and followed the man’s sudden

movement with his lance tip.

He took the marauder high in the chest, his twelve-foot lance driving through his

body and bursting from his back. A second man, close behind the first, was also

spitted on the lance, its length piercing his neck and killing him instantly.

Then the knights were amongst the enemy, riding hard through their midst, and

Karl released his grip on his lance to draw his broad-bladed sword. His steed lashed

out with flailing hooves, crushing skulls, and more were trampled beneath the weight

of the warhorse. Karl slashed with his sword as the knights ploughed through the

enemy formation, hacking down warriors as they sought to bring him down.

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Their charge began to slow, and he saw several knights fall as their steeds were

cut from beneath them. Horses screamed as axes and swords cleaved into their legs,

and another knight was felled as he was impaled on a long sword blade, lifted out of

the saddle by the shuddering blow.

Karl shouted, trying to maintain the momentum of the charge, urging his steed

and his warriors on. An enemy grabbed his armoured leg, he slashed down with his

sword, opening the man’s skull, and kicked his warhorse hard, driving the stallion on.

And then they were out of the frantic melee, bursting from the rear of the enemy

formation. Karl’s eyes widened as he saw what was waiting there and his steed

reared, whinnying in terror.

A spiked club almost the length of a wagon smashed into the head of Karl’s

steed, and blood splashed across the preceptor’s black and bronze armour. He saw

the ground come racing up towards him as his warhorse fell.

Annaliese stood watching the two forces embroiled in combat, their lines blurred

together in the nightmare of battle. Her breath had caught in her throat as she saw the

Knights of the Blazing Sun smash through the enemy lines, and she wondered briefly

if Karl was amongst them. Then they had disappeared, seemingly swallowed up by

the enemy, and she saw them no more.

Her breathing was heavy, and her heart was beating wildly within her. The

screams of the dying echoed dimly across the field, and the true horror of warfare

washed over her. Still, she tried to maintain an exterior of calm, knowing that the

soldiers around her were looking to her for strength.

The cannons continued their barrage, belching smoke and flame across the

battlefield, but she could see that the lines of archers and crossbowmen were pulling

back, jogging lightly towards the village, and putting more distance between them

and the enemy. The handgunners still stood in their serried ranks, each line kneeling

as they reloaded, allowing those behind to fire over their heads.

The secondary line of Empire soldiers was urged forwards, and they broke into a

run to aide the faltering battle line. Annaliese found herself running with the bustling

crowd of soldiers across the snow-covered field, her hands shaking as they clung to

the haft of her hammer and her shield. She felt heavy and constricted by the armour

she wore, the unfamiliar weight awkward and shifting as she ran.

Eldanair moved lightly at her side, launching arrows from his longbow as he

ghosted across the snow, his white fletched arrows arcing through the air to fall

amongst the dark ranks of the enemy. Even his presence did little to buoy her, but she

clenched her teeth and pushed her fear down, lest it overtake her. She wished that

Grunwald was with her, but she had not seen him since he had entered the building in

pursuit of the enemy magos. Where was he? she thought wildly.

Hooves flashed around Karl as horses reared and bucked. He pushed himself up out

of the mud and slush, his vision swimming before his eyes. His sight cleared as he

raised himself to one knee and he looked upon the monstrous creatures before him.

They stood over ten feet in height, and their hulking bodies were covered in fur

and scarred with battle-wounds and ritualised markings burnt into their flesh. Their

heads were heavy and bestial, and were supported by massive necks of rippling

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muscle. Steam snorted from their nostrils, and giant horns extended from either side

of their heads, just above bovine ears. Their eyes blazed with blood-frenzy and

hatred, and they carried immense weapons in their human-like, oversized hands. True

creatures of Chaos, they had emerged from the forests in the north to join the

slaughter.

Karl rose to his feet as one of the monsters leapt into the air. The beast brought its

massive axe smashing down onto one of the knights, splitting him from the shoulder

to the waist. The dead warrior slid from the saddle as his steed reared, ripping the axe

from the creature’s hands and it lashed out with a balled fist. The blow caught the

horse on the side of the head, and it collapsed to the ground, a tangled mess of limbs.

A knight urged his baulking steed forwards and drove the point of his sword deep

into the beast’s chest, and it bellowed in pain and outrage. It grabbed the knight

around the throat and lifted him from the saddle before slamming him forcibly into

the ground.

“Myrmidia!” shouted Karl, hefting his sword over his shoulder. He stumbled

forwards and brought it down into the beast’s neck, severing the arteries there. Blood

fountained from the wound, but the creature did not die. It shook its heavy head from

side to side, foam flying from thick lips, its red eyes focused on Karl.

With a snort it surged forwards and hooked one of its horns between his legs. In

one violent motion it flicked its head up and hurled him into the air, his arms and legs

flailing, He smashed into one of his fellow knights, and they both toppled to the

ground.

He came up groggily, and as a massive cleaver flashed downwards he threw

himself backwards. The blade smashed down into his fallen comrade, who was cut in

half by the blow, Karl staggered to his feet.

A riderless horse reared next to him and blindly he reached out and grabbed at the

reins. He caught hold of them, and swung himself up into the saddle. It was mayhem

all around him as his knights battled the bestial creatures vainly, being butchered by

the brutal monsters.

“Blazing Sun!” he cried, his voice cutting across the din of bellowing beasts and

screaming horses. “With me!” he shouted, and kicked the horse hard. It broke into a

run, and Karl raced free of the one-sided battle. “With me!” he roared again.

Less than a third of the Knights of the Blazing Sun rode clear, and they rode hard

back across the field. The battle-crazed minotaurs raced after then, bellowing in

anger and baying for blood.

The knights veered off to the south suddenly, leaving the way clear for the

handgunners. The first rank of guns barked and the soldiers dropped to their knees.

The second rank of handgunners fired, and they too dropped down to their knees,

frantically reloading their long weapons as the third rank opened fire.

As the smoke cleared, there were few of the minotaurs still standing, and those

that were staggered unsteadily, their bodies pierced dozens of times, blood seeping

from their wounds and matting their thick fur.

The knights, having wheeled around upon the open field, thundered back towards

the massive beasts, and the last of them were hacked down beneath their swords.

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Dietrich bit his lip, tense and alert. He knew that four miles to the south battle was

underway—he could hear the pounding of cannons—and he prayed for the men

there. But he had seen the scale of the army arrayed against the Empire, and he could

see little chance of victory.

Such a fickle thing, chance. He thought that somewhere in the heavens above

Ranald, the god of chance and trickery, was chuckling to himself, and Dietrich swore

that he would dedicate a year’s pay to the trickster’s acolytes if the god smiled upon

him today.

Luck was all that would save them, he thought. If the enemy cavalry took a wider

arc around the battlefield and attacked from the rear, then any chance of victory

would be dashed. If the oil of the engineers had soaked too deep, or the snow

deadened its effect, then hope was lost. If the enemy noticed something strange about

the snow ahead of them, if they noticed that the snow here was more melted than it

was elsewhere—an unexpected side-effect of the oil—then the ambush would fail

even before it had been launched. Ranald, he prayed, give us just this chance.

One of his men shouted, and he looked up.

“Dietrich! They come!”

The scout scrambled to the edge of the high ground, crawling forward to look

down into the narrow defile below. It was perhaps three hundred yards wide, and the

snow hid the cobbled road beneath.

In the distance to the north a shimmer of movement could be seen, and Dietrich’s

heart leapt. The enemy were on the road, riding hard in their direction.

“Thank you,” Dietrich muttered, casting his eyes to the sky.

He squirmed back away from the lip—scrambling and running down the slope on

the other side.

“Get them fires blazing, boys!” he shouted, and dozens of braziers were stoked.

Dietrich watched the sky carefully for any hint of smoke. He had instructed his men

to use only the driest tinder, for any hint of smoke in the sky might warn the enemy,

and they could easily avoid the trap if they suspected anything. Little smoke drifted

up from the braziers, and he let out a slow breath that he had not realised he had been

holding.

“They are getting close, sir!” came the shout from the lip, and Dietrich ordered

the braziers to be carried up the slope. Each was borne by a pair of men, the metal

urns carried on a pair of wooden poles.

One of the men slipped on his ascent and a brazier toppled sideways with a crash,

the burning embers falling into the deep snow. A cloud of steam rose where they fell,

and a sharp hissing filled the air. Smoke began to rise as the coals touched the wet

grass beneath the snow.

Dietrich swore and leapt through the drift, whipping the cloak from his shoulders.

He leapt at the steaming circle, throwing his worn cloak over it to dampen it. Leaping

to his feet, he stamped on the area until the coals had been put out, soaked by the

melting snows and driven into the moist earth. Standing back, Dietrich looked at his

blackened, muddy cloak and turned to the scout who had stumbled with a sour

expression.

“We get out of this, and I’ll be having your cloak,” he said.

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The other braziers were in position, just behind the lip of the hillock and Dietrich

took his position. The forty men lay unmoving, just behind the rise, and he prayed

that no enemy scouts had seen them. If the enemy just turned off the road and

travelled for a hundred yards along the higher, rougher ground, then this risk would

come to nothing.

But on they came, riding hard. In the lead were around two hundred and fifty

horsemen riding stout steppes ponies, hulking hounds of terrifying size loping

alongside them. The riders were cloaked in furs and carried spears. Their steeds were

swift—not as fast over a short distance as the big destriers that the Knights of the

Blazing Sun rode, but they could run for hours on end without tiring. Over a day, the

distance these horsemen could travel would far outstrip the noble templars.

Behind them came the heavy knights of Chaos. They rode midnight steeds that

stood easily twenty-five hands tall at the shoulder, massive beasts whose eyes blazed

with unholy light. The knights were ensconced in black armour, and they carried

deadly weapons of war. They each wore a flowing cloak of feathers, and an eye of

brilliant blue shone in the centre of their black helmets.

Alongside these dread warriors of Chaos rolled deathly chariots, barbed scythes

rotating on their steel-rimmed wheels. A pair of giant black steeds pulled each of

these heavy war machines, and fully armoured warriors stood on their armoured

platforms, nail-studded whips cracking.

There were no more than fifty of the monstrous knights of the enemy, but the

aura of terror they exuded was palpable.

“Stay on the road, stay on the road,” Dietrich willed them, every muscle tense.

Closer and closer they came, and he waited for the moment when they would spot

something amiss, something that would alert them to the ambush. But still they came,

registering no alarm or knowledge of the threat they were riding towards.

With a nod, Dietrich held his first arrow to one of the braziers, and the oil-soaked

rag tied around its tip lit instantly. Along the line of the hillock, fifty archers did

likewise.

“Now!” he shouted, and rose to one knee. He pulled his bowstring taut and loosed

in one smooth motion. The weight of the oil-soaked rag threw the balance off the

arrow, but he had compensated for this, and it flew true.

He heard yells from the enemy as they spotted the archers up on the ridge, but

they had come too far to avoid what was to come next.

Fifty arrows sliced through the air around the horsemen, and around a dozen of

them were struck. Other arrows sank into the flesh of their horses and the brutal

hounds, and they bucked and kicked in pain and fear, and filled the air with their

deep growls and yelps. But it was the arrows that struck the ground itself that did the

real damage.

Flames raced as the oil that had been doused across the area in the hours before

dawn caught. The flames burnt hot and fierce, and scores of men were thrown down

as their horses bolted, their tails and the long hair around their hooves catching fire.

The long shaggy fur of the hounds caught fire, and they barked and roared, and

snapped at anything nearby. Horses’ legs were crushed in their massive jaws, and

fallen men had their throats ripped out by the frenzied beasts. Other war hounds

ripped at each other, rolling over through the blaze, further spreading the fire.

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Sudden explosions erupted amongst the panicking horses, for along with the oil,

the engineers of the elector’s army had hidden a series of small wooden caskets

packed with black power just beneath the snow. As the oil caught and flames

whipped up the road to the north, it ignited these oil-soaked caskets and they

exploded outwards. Horses were thrown to the ground, and men screamed as their

flesh was seared by the detonations. One horse’s leg was blown off, and chunks of

flesh rained down upon the others.

Scores of them were killed in those first moments, but the destruction was not yet

complete. As expected, the horsemen who had not been engulfed in fire pulled back

away from the inferno, and it was then that the other group of scouts, positioned

further to the north, launched their attack. More flaming arrows arced down onto the

rear of the enemy column, and a second wall of fire reared up, blocking their retreat.

The horsemen and hounds milled in between the two barriers of fire, and they

were brutally cut down by wave after wave of arrows. Dietrich went through a full

quiver of arrows and moved onto his second, for the enemy had nowhere to run—the

ground was too steep and rough on either side of the road for them to climb, and their

passage forward and back was blocked by the fire which no horse would approach.

Dozens of men leapt from the backs of their horses and ran towards the scouts,

attempting to scramble up the steep ground, but they were sitting targets to the

archers, and they were mercilessly cut down, one by one.

The hounds, however, had no such trouble ascending the broken ground, and they

leapt up the precipice with frightening speed. They bore dozens of scouts to the

ground beneath their weight, jaws snapping, breaking limbs and ripping flesh. One

man was shaken like a rabbit in the jaws of a hulking beast, and his back broke with

an audible crack.

One of the monstrous war hounds leapt at Dietrich, jaws latching onto his

forearm and throwing him to the ground. Its growling filled his ears, and its hot

breath was on his face, and he cried out. He reversed his grip on the arrow in his free

hand and stabbed its point into the beast’s head, but felt the tip break against the

stone-like cranium of the monster. With one final, desperate stab, he pushed the

wooden arrow shaft through the creature’s eye, and it released him with a snarl.

Dietrich regained his feet, his arm a bloody ruin, and drew his hunting knife. He

leapt on the wounded war hound, and plunged his blade into its neck, time and time

again, until at last it was still.

The heavily armoured Chaos knights urged their infernal steeds on, and continued

to canter up the road, ignoring the mayhem around them. Chariots rumbled along

beside them, dozens of arrows stuck in their armoured sides.

Wincing at the pain in his arm, Dietrich aimed carefully and fired, watching as

his arrow cut through the smoke and fire and struck one of the knights high in the

neck. The warrior barely flinched, and the arrow fell harmlessly to the ground. The

scout swore.

And then the knights rode their horses straight through the flames as if they

mattered not at all.

Swearing again, he reached for his last oil-soaked arrow, and lit it from the

brazier. Drawing his string back hard, he fired the arrow straight up into the air.

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Seeing the arrow that symbolised that the ploy had failed, the Knights of the Blazing

Sun kicked their steeds forwards, and a hundred templars began galloping over the

rough moorland, three hundred yards further south, hidden from view from the road.

They rode towards the rise, and saw the enemy knights and chariots cantering

perpendicular to their position. They thundered down the clear slope before them,

lowering their lances. Their horn blared, and their steeds were urged faster, and they

smashed into the side of the enemy formation. Massive black armoured enemy

knights were ripped from their saddles, and horses screamed as they were knocked to

the ground by the force of the impact.

Spiked chariots, their wheels flaming with oil, tried to turn towards this sudden

threat, but they were unwieldy machines and the Blazing Sun templars were on them

in seconds. Lances smashed the warriors from their chariots, and the black, hellish

steeds reared and bucked. One of the chariots hit a stone as it turned, and as one of its

steeds collapsed screaming, a lance buried in its chest, the entire chariot flipped over,

throwing its occupants to the ground.

The knights of Chaos fought back ferociously, their massive weapons cutting the

Empire warriors from the saddle, cleaving through armour like paper. The impetus

was with the templars of Myrmidia and they ploughed through the thin Chaos line,

killing scores in that first charge. Almost half of their number had fallen, but they

wheeled around towards the surviving, feather-cloaked despoilers of the north.

The shock of the attack was now lost, and the two cavalry forces smashed

together as they both urged their horses into the charge. Within minutes, both forces

were all but decimated.

Thorrik hacked and cleaved as he stepped backwards, keeping pace with the

weakening Empire line. He hated the idea of giving anything to these enemies, but he

knew that if he stood his ground he would be surrounded in seconds and cut down.

How he wished he stood alongside doughty dwarf warriors rather than these

manlings!

He grunted as a sword smashed into his helmet. He battered the next attack away

with his shield, and carved his axe into the knee joint of an enemy, splintering the

bone and sending the warrior crashing to the ground. He disappeared amongst the

press, replaced by another pair as they shouldered their way through the fray.

Feeling the fragile courage of the Empire soldiers faltering, knowing that it would

shatter at any moment, Thorrik roared and surged forwards. If he was going to die

here then at least he would make a good account for himself, enough for him to be

welcomed in the halls of his ancestors. He powered into the first man, striking with

his shield rim and crushing the bones of his arm. He buried his axe into the neck of

the other, and hot blood pumped from the mortal wound.

He deflected another thrusting sword blade on his shield, but a powerful blow

from an axe connected with his side, and he stumbled. He could taste the sharp,

metallic bite of blood on his lips, and another blow struck him, a spiked hammer that

smashed into his left shoulder, bending the ancient metal out of shape. It could not

breach his thick plate armour, nor the fine-meshed chainmail underneath, but he felt

his bones crunch beneath the blow, and shooting pain ran down his arm.

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Thorrik hacked sideways, smashing the axe into the ribs of an enemy. The blade

of the weapon was lodged there for a moment, and as he struggled to pull it free, a

swinging shield knocked him back a step. He lost his grip on the axe, and was spun

around as a sword clipped his wounded shoulder.

Disoriented and in pain, Thorrik sank to his knees.

Annaliese’s heart was thumping wildly as she charged into combat at the head of the

Empire line. She swung at the head of a hulking bearded figure that towered above

her, but her blow was easily intercepted as the warrior stepped forward and lifted his

blade into the path of the descending hammer. He died as Eldanair’s sword speared

out, taking him in the throat, and then the lines of the Empire soldiers were blurred

with those of the enemy as the two sides smashed into each other.

Annaliese was knocked to the side as she took a blow on her shield, and she cried

out in fear, the battle a swirl of chaos all around her. The air was filled with screams

and shouts, the deafening sound of weapons clashing and the sickening sound of

swords cleaving through flesh and bone. She was bustled and knocked from every

direction, and frantically kept her shield up before her, her eyes wide and panicked.

She looked into the eyes of an Empire soldier, his face covered with blood, as he

fell at her knees, and a sudden calmness descended over her. Anger and a stubborn

refusal to let the enemy overpower her rose within her, and she lashed out, her

hammer slamming into the side of the face of one of her foes. The blow crushed bone

and dislocated the man’s jaw, sending him reeling, where he was impaled upon the

sword of another soldier.

“For Sigmar!” Annaliese screamed, and struck again, her blow this time turned

aside by a warrior’s shield. Nevertheless, another Empire soldier stepped forwards

and stabbed his sword into the neck of the marauder, the blade sliding easily through

flesh.

“Sigmar!” roared the soldiers around her, and they stabbed and blocked furiously,

blood splattering.

Dozens were hacked down beneath the brute power of the enemy, but the

Ostermarkers pushed forwards, cutting and hacking.

Eldanair spun, his long sword in one hand and a knife held in a downward

position in his other. He felled an enemy warrior with his flashing sword, the blade

cutting deep into his neck before he slashed his knife across the face of another, then

reversed the blow and stabbed the blade up into the man’s sternum as he reeled

backwards.

The elf spun neatly, blocking a thrust that would have impaled Annaliese, and

stabbed his knife into an eye socket. Another blow that would have killed the girl was

deflected by the shield of an Empire soldier who died in the next breath as a spiked

hammer pulverised his head.

Annaliese smashed her hammer into the arm of a tattooed berserker, his face

transformed into a hellish visage of hatred and frenzy, crushing the bone and

rendering the arm useless. Ignoring the pain, the berserker swung a mailed fist into

the girl’s head, knocking her to the ground. She ripped the helmet, which was dented

out of shape, off her head, and stared up at the manic killer looming over her.

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A sword cleaved down and split the berserker’s head open, and his hot blood

splashed over Annaliese’s face. She looked up into the face of her saviour, seeing

Karl Heiden’s eyes through the narrow slit in the black and gold helmet as his steed

reared, hooves flashing out. For a second their eyes met, and then the knight was

ploughing deeper into the enemy formation, hacking left and right.

Eldanair hefted her to her feet, and she wiped the blood from her hand to get a

better grip on her hammer. Then she surged forwards once again, hurtling back into

the fray.

Grunwald had seen no sign of Annaliese, but pushed on through the brutal melee,

battering his way into its midst, his eyes flashing around trying to find the girl.

Through the chaos around him, he saw a short figure fall to the ground, and broke

into a run, bashing a man out of his way with his shield and clubbing another to the

ground with his mace.

Then he was at the dwarf’s side, just as knights appeared all around, smashing

through the enemy lines. There was a moment’s respite in the wake of the thundering

knights, and Grunwald dropped to one knee beside the ironbreaker. He was amazed

at the amount of damage the dwarf seemed to have taken—his armour was dented

and pierced in a dozen places, and his helmet and shield bore testament to the number

of attacks that had been landed against him.

“Thorrik! Are you hurt?” he shouted over the din.

“I’m fine,” snarled the dwarf, and Grunwald tried to help him rise. He weighed a

ton—it would have been as futile to try to lift a mountain.

“Get off me, manling!” Thorrik thundered. The witch hunter saw that the dwarf’s

left arm was hanging limply at his side.

“It’s fine,” snarled the ironbreaker, seeing Grunwald’s eyes.

There was a ragged cheer, and Grunwald straightened up, looking around him.

He could see few enemies, and these were hacked to the ground as he watched,

pierced by dozens of swords and spears. A halberd smashed down into the back of a

wounded enemy marauder, felling him instantly. The ground was strewn with the

dead and dying, and the soldiers set about them, smashing their weapons into the

fallen bodies of the enemy.

The word passed quickly through the ranks, and there was the sound of Empire

horns blowing. The enemy was in flight!

Men cheered and held their weapons up high into the air in defiance.

“Victory!” shouted one soldier, but the witch hunter shook his head, his eyes

locked onto the dark ridge overlooking the battlefield.

High upon the moorland overlooking the field of carnage below, a doom-laden

pounding began. It reverberated down across the land like the heavy beating of a

daemonic heart as the massive, armoured sentinels who had been overseeing the

progress of the battle began to beat upon their shields with their weapons in perfect

unison, the sound potent and instilling fear in the bloodied Empire soldiers below.

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Mounted on the back of its snorting hell-steed, the flaming blue eye hanging in

the air above its head, the warlord of this massed host of Chaos lowered his long,

barbed glaive towards the weakened Empire lines.

To the beat of the reverberating sound of weapons upon shields, the elite warriors

of the Chaos forces, the chosen of the dark gods, began to march down to battle. And

as blue flames erupted all along the shaft of its ancient daemon-weapon, the warlord

of the host descended at their head.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The fear projected by the dark warriors, who had long sold their souls to the infernal

power of Chaos, was like a tidal wave, and it burst across the Empire lines, washing

over them in an all-consuming torrent. Men cried out in horror as they felt the icy

chill that came with the wave of fear, and weapons dropped from shaking hands as

they watched the hellish figures advancing down toward them.

Terror engulfed the Empire men and blue fire hurtled from the tip of the

warlord’s glaive. It smashed amongst the centre of the Ostermarkers, and men

screamed as their flesh was melted from their bones and their armour was twisted out

of shape. Terror turned to panic, blind and numbing, and the Empire line broke.

Men began to stream away from the advancing enemy, banners were dropped

into the mud and blood and slush, and templars were thrown as their steeds bucked

and kicked.

Grunwald knew then that all was lost, all hope of victory gone as the soldiers’

resolve was smashed like a fragile crystal beneath a hammer. Ranks turned away

from the hellish foe, and men pushed and shoved at each other in their urgency to

flee. All order was broken, and the panic turned into a rout.

Men were trodden into the ground underfoot in the frantic crush. Grunwald was

knocked to his knees, and feet trampled over him, kicking and lashing out in their

hurry to run before this infernal foe. He swore as he fought against the crowd, and he

lost his grip on his shield as heavy feet smashed down onto it.

He was struck in the head as he tried to rise, and was knocked down again. The

threat of being killed beneath the weight of the crush was very real, and he fought

like a cornered animal to rise above it.

He saw a flash of blonde hair and a panicked face, and he lifted himself up,

drawing one of his pistols.

Annaliese was carried along with the crowd, their fear fuelling her own, and her mind

was blank, her desperate need to get away overcoming all rational thought. Then she

saw Grunwald before her, saw the anger and strength in his face, and her whole

world became focused upon him. Her vision narrowed, and she stared down the black

barrel of the gun pointed in her direction.

The words of the witch hunter floated through her mind.

I will kill you myself…. Better that than let the soldiers see their Maiden of

Sigmar run.

She jerked to a halt, though she was knocked and pushed from behind.

It all came down to this moment, she thought. Let the fear overcome you now,

and if you survive, you will be running for your whole life, a slave to its whim.

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She had somehow lost her shield—she could not remember where, or how—and

she clasped her hand around the pendant of Sigmar still hanging from her wrist. She

held onto it like a talisman, like it would save her, something that would buoy her in

this sea of terror.

She turned around slowly, her head held high, standing against the terrified flow

of humanity surging around her. A shoulder struck her in the chest, and she almost

fell, but she forced herself upright. A hand clutched at her leg, and she looked down

to see the blood-splattered face of a soldier looking up at her with fearful hope in his

eyes. Then he was dead, dropping face-first into the mud, and she saw the pole

clutched in his other hand.

The banner was tattered and trod into the ground, covered with blood and mud

and grime. She reached for it, prying the dead soldier’s fingers loose from its grip,

straining with all her might to lift it. The press of bodies was too much and she cried

out in despair as the weight of failure fell on her as she realised it could not be done.

But then Grunwald was at her side, and between them they managed to lift the banner

up into the air.

It fluttered in the wind, rippling the heavy fabric, and then it streamed out over

the heads of the fleeing warriors. In the breeze, it seemed like the griffon emblazoned

on its surface was flying,

Grunwald felt a profound sense of awe as the banner was lifted high, and for a

moment it seemed as if a golden light surrounded Annaliese. She stood, strong and

defiant, the pole of the standard held in her hand.

“For Sigmar!” he roared at the top of his lungs as faces turned to his direction.

Men slowed in their rout as they saw the streaming banner of the Ostermark and saw

the battered and bloodied girl holding it aloft.

“The Maiden,” someone muttered and more men slowed, drawing to a halt as

they gazed in awe at the fluttering banner and the girl.

“For Sigmar!” Grunwald roared again, his voice cutting across the field.

Annaliese began to walk through the confused ranks of soldiers, her head held

high and the wind ruffling her blonde hair as she strode forward, the banner held up

above her head.

Like a ripple that spread across a lake from the tiniest pebble being thrown into

its centre, the mindless rout was stemmed. Seeing other soldiers turning to watch the

girl stride through the army, more and more warriors halted their flight and turned

back towards the foe.

“The Maiden of Sigmar!” someone bellowed, and the shout was repeated,

rippling along the lines and filling the hearts of the warriors with new hope.

Grunwald shook his head in disbelief as he followed in the wake of Annaliese.

Soldiers pressed tightly all around, pushing and shoving as they marched behind the

Maiden of Sigmar.

To the very front of the Empire army she walked, holding the banner aloft. A

clear path opened up before her, and she strode through it. Then, with no more men

before her she stared defiantly out across the open field, strewn with the dead,

towards the infernal ranks of dark warriors drawing ever nearer.

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She lifted her hammer high into the air.

“For Sigmar!” she shouted, and the entire army of the Empire echoed her.

Then, shouting her defiance, she broke into a run, heading straight for the heart of

the enemy lines. With a roar, the army of the Ostermark surged forward around her.

The men of the Empire fought with inspired, devout fury, but they were as children

against the massive armoured chosen warriors of the Dark Gods, and they were cut

down in their hundreds.

The soldiers formed a protective shield around Annaliese, desperate to ensure the

Maiden came to no harm, but they were fighting a losing battle.

One of them was cut down, his arm hacked off at the shoulder and he fell

screaming. Another was smashed in the face by a massive armoured gauntlet, and he

stumbled. A sword punched through his breastplate and he was lifted high into the air

before being hurled from the blade with a dismissive flick.

The chosen of Chaos were like demi gods of war, and they butchered their way

through the Empire lines. They strode into the breach before Annaliese, hacking

down Empire soldiers to the left and right. Grunwald pushed forward and smashed

his mace into the faceplate of the first, piercing the metal, but the warrior did not fall,

and he back-handed the witch hunter, sending him staggering back. Thorrik bellowed

a dwarfen war cry and smashed his axe into the warrior’s midriff, cleaving through

the thick metal and felling the mighty foe, but others laid into the soldiers

surrounding Annaliese, destroying and killing everything in their path.

Then the enemy lines parted, and the fell warlord of Chaos appeared, astride his

towering black infernal steed. The massive beast stamped its barbed hooves, smoke

rising from beneath them, and its eyes were lit with blue flame. Tusks emerged from

its equine mouth, and steam filled the air with each powerful exhalation.

The warlord was huge, and the blazing blue eye hanging in the air between the

curving horns of its helmet was locked on the defiant figure of Annaliese, holding the

banner in one hand and her hammer of Sigmar in the other. The lord of Chaos could

see that the resolve of the Empire army centred around the girl, and he approached

her with sickening finality, intending to break her and send her soul screaming to the

realms of Chaos.

The battle raged on around them, but Annaliese was suddenly oblivious to

anything but this awesome and terrible being.

Nausea and crippling sickness struck all who gazed upon the thrice-cursed figure.

Its features were hidden beneath a full-faced helm, though brilliant azure flames

blazed in its eye sockets, the startling colour reflected upon the shimmering surface

of the raven-feather cloak draped over the warlord’s broad shoulders.

In one huge, spiked gauntlet the dread lord held its spiked glaive, the haft easily

ten feet long and covered in bony spurs. It lifted its other gauntleted hand into the air,

and a crackling sphere of pale light appeared in its palm, blue sparks of electricity

flickering up its arm.

Nobody moved, entranced by the power of the devil before them, and Annaliese

lifted her head high, staring into the eyes of the enemy even as her soul cringed and

recoiled within her.

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The flaming blue eye of the gods that hung above the warlord’s head flicked to

the left as there was a sudden flash of movement at Annaliese’s side. Eldanair, his

movements swifter than the human eye, had nocked an arrow to the bow he had

unslung from his back, and drew back the string to fire. Faster even than the speed of

the elf, the warlord hurled the ball of light held in its hand, and it smashed Eldanair in

the chest, throwing him backwards, arcing electricity engulfing his body.

Annaliese cried out.

Thorrik stepped forth hefting his axe, but was smashed aside by the powerful

blow of a Chaos warrior, and Grunwald levelled his pistol at the warlord’s head, and

fired.

The blue eye of the gods flicked in his direction, and he felt his soul shrink. The

slitted iris of the daemonic eye widened slightly as it focused on the lead shot, and it

was halted a mere foot away from the warlord’s head, hovering impossibly in the air

before him.

The warlord swung his head in Grunwald’s direction, and the shot reversed its

direction. It smashed into the witch hunter’s shoulder and he fell with a shout of pain.

Then the dread lord of Chaos turned his eye back towards Annaliese, and he

spoke. His voice was that of a daemon, a thousand voices speaking within him, and

he spoke not in any tongue that would be understood by the soldiers of the Empire.

Nevertheless, his words were understood, as if reformed in the air, making them

comprehensible to all.

“I am but the herald of the Raven Host, its harbinger. Know before you die that

everything you have ever known will be smashed asunder, destroyed and forgotten.

Everyone you have ever known will be slaughtered and their souls tortured for all

eternity for daring to resist the great gods. And now, bitch of the weakling man-god

Sigmar,” he said, his voice full of madness and horror, “you shall die.”

The warlord guided his steed forwards, looming over Annaliese, and she could

feel the hot, foetid breath of the creature, smell the diabolic stink of its unnatural

presence. She lifted her hammer up into the air before her, a seemingly futile,

tokenistic show of defiance. She felt very small and utterly alone, and the voice of

the creature pounded in her mind.

Your soul shall be a delicate morsel for the Great Changer of Ways.

She felt the edges of her sanity begin to fray, and her heart was beating so hard in

her chest it blocked out all sound, blood pumping heavily in her head.

Any moment, she would be cut down, impaled upon the glaive wielded by this

fell lord of destruction, her bones smashed beneath the pawing hooves of his infernal

steed. Her soul would be ripped screaming from her shattered physical form and

enslaved to the daemon gods of Chaos, there to exist in an eternity of torment amidst

a roiling nightmare.

“Sigmar,” she whispered, her voice sounding tiny and insignificant against the

inferno of hateful sounds entering her head. She prayed that their bloodthirsty enemy

had been held at bay for long enough that the armies of the Emperor in Talabecland

would not be overwhelmed. She prayed that her sacrifice and the sacrifice of the

soldiers of the Ostermark was not in vain.

A thunderous din rose amongst the chaotic roar of battle raging around her, and

she raised her face to the heavens in despair as death drew near. The deafening

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rumble of thunder increased in intensity, and dimly she registered the sound of brass

horns blaring like infernal trumpets summoning her to hell.

The flaming blue eye flicked to the right, its slitted pupil contracting and

expanding, and Annaliese looked around her in confusion.

A living wall of knights appeared, smashing through the enemy ranks and

crushing the warriors of Chaos beneath them. She saw lances pierce chests daubed

with infernal symbols, and swords smash down through horned helmets. The knights

were armoured in gleaming silver, and mighty plumes of red and white rippled in the

air on their helms. They bore shields of white emblazoned with Imperial wreathed

skulls and crosses, the symbols of the Emperor himself. They ploughed through the

enemy, and Annaliese stared up at them in wonder and awe.

With a roar of denial and outrage, the lord of Chaos swung his glaive, the daemon

weapon wreathed in coalescing light as it ripped through the air, renting the fabric of

reality. The blade sheared through the chest of the first knight as if it were paper,

cleaving the warrior in two. With his return blow, the warlord thrust the blade of his

weapon deep into the armoured chest of another knight’s steed, lifting the screaming

beast high into the air and tossing it and its rider over his shoulder.

Annaliese stumbled as knights galloped past her in a blur and she expected to be

smashed to the ground and trampled at any moment. An arm steadied her, and she

saw Grunwald at her side, his arm a bloody ruin. She saw the witch hunter staring up

at the knights thundering around them in amazement, the pain of his wound

forgotten. It was as if they were cupped in the protective hands of Sigmar Himself as

they stood there unscathed by the mayhem around them.

The lord of Chaos roared again, the deafening sound filled with rage and

defiance, as his bodyguard was lost beneath the lances, swords and hooves of the

knights.

He speared his glaive through the lowered visor of another knight, punching him

from the saddle as the blade burst from the back of his skull, and swung the butt of

the weapon into the head of a steed, breaking its neck and sending its rider flying

through the air.

Lances pierced the body of the warlord and he staggered, but refused to fall.

Another pair of knights were hacked in two by the fell glaive. Swords struck his

ornate armour, sending the warlord reeling, and another knight was decapitated. The

flaming blue eye flicked left and right, seeking escape, but there was none to be had.

The damned warrior ripped the head from a knight’s shoulders with the flick of his

wrist, but the mighty warlord was at last driven to his knees as a sword blazing with

white light slashed across his chest, carving through armour and the mutated flesh

beneath.

His face lit with the cold blue light emanating from the daemonic eye, Kurt

Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard knights, dismounted and stood before the

broken enemy warlord. He glared down at the champion of the Raven Host in hatred

and loathing.

“Know that the Empire will resist you always,” he hissed. “Not until the last drop

of blood in the last soldier of this land is spilled shall you have victory.”

With a roar of fury, the Reiksmarshal thrust his glowing sword, the Runefang of

Solland, straight into the Chaos champion’s face. He drove the point through the eye

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socket of the warlord’s helmet with such force that it emerged hissing and spitting

from the back of the skull, shearing through his ornate, horned helmet. The

Reiksmarshal continued pushing the blade on until the hilt of the Runefang struck

bone.

With a sucking sound of displaced air the blue eye flickered and disappeared, and

the warlord of the Raven Host collapsed to the ground, dead.

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EPILOGUE

Led by the mighty charge of the Reiksguard knights, the Order of the Griffon

descended on the battlefield and smashed through the reeling enemy army with the

force of a battering ram. Thousands on both sides were killed in the slaughter, but at

last the field was clear of the foe.

“This is but the beginning,” said the Reiksmarshal Kurt Helborg, his carefully

weighted words echoing across the bloodied but triumphant army.

“The armies of the Raven Host are massing. They overrun Ostland and

Talabecland, and the Ostermark is in ruin. They march south, and push towards

Altdorf.”

There were mutterings of shock and fear amongst the soldiers, and the

Reiksmarshal raised his hand for silence.

“But there is still hope, even in this hour of darkness. Your victory this day shall

be a golden light in the grim night, an inspiration that speaks of the proud fighting

spirit of our nation. You have held this field—and if it were lost, then the ruin of the

Empire was assured. Unchecked, this horde would have marched through

Talabecland unmolested, and fallen on the flank of our armies there. In the

Emperor’s name, I thank you for your bravery and your resolve.”

The Reiksmarshal turned his mighty steed around, stalking back along in front of

the serried ranks of weary soldiers.

“Far to the north, the great city Praag has been taken by the enemy, just as it was

during the time of Magnus the Pious. But there is still hope.”

Not a sound came from the gathered army, for every soldier was intent on the

words of the Reiksmarshal.

“The Order of the Griffon marches to war. Even now in Kislev, in the frozen

north, our armies lay siege to Praag. They fight to reclaim it for the forces of order.

“Still there is hope!” he bellowed. “With brave soldiers like you men of the

Ostermark, the Empire will hold firm. In the name of our founder and patron god, I

swear this to you, soldiers of the Ostermark: we none of us shall rest until the forces

of destruction are shattered utterly!”

The Reiksmarshal’s strong voice rose to a roaring fury, and he bellowed his

words across the gathered army, his face set in determination and hatred.

“Together we will push them back to the north and reclaim Praag, but we shall

not be content with that. No, we shall hound them like rabid wolves, and hunt them

down wherever they seek to hide! We shall drive them back to the hell from whence

they came and pursue them still. Far to the north we shall march, taking the fight to

them directly, and we shall not rest until the Inevitable City itself lies in smoking

ruin! For Sigmar!”

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The roaring of the army was deafening, as men shouted their promise, praised

Sigmar and bashed the hafts of their weapons against the ground.

“Ever been to Praag, manling?” said Thorrik, looking up at Grunwald. The witch

hunter smiled wryly, fingering the pendant on his long black coat—a bronze emblem

representing the Order of the Griffon.

Annaliese turned away from the cheering, registering the empty space beside her.

She pushed her way through the cheering crowd and at last broke free of the press.

She saw the grey-cloaked figure of Eldanair walking away to the south-east.

Sensing her gaze upon him, he turned, and their eyes met.

She knew now what it was that the tattoo upon his cheek meant. Vengeance.

Perhaps regarding her as safe now, he was leaving to seek those that had killed his

kin, and it was a path he needed to walk alone.

Without further ceremony, Eldanair pulled his hood up over his head and walked

away.

Annaliese stared after him until the elf disappeared into the mist, fading away like

a wraith, a shadow warrior disappearing into the gloom.

Karl was filled with bitterness as he watched from a distance. Watching the elf

depart, the flames of hatred burnt fiercely in his icy blue eyes.

Scanning by Anakwanar Sek,

proofing by Red Dwarf,

formatting and additional

proofing by Undead.

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