01 - Empire in Chaos (18 page)

“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.”

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 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.

“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.

“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 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.