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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.