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.
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.
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.
“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.
“Yes,” said the witch hunter, looking at the motionless girl bleeding on the
floor. “She
was
.”
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.