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 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?”
“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 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.
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.