01 - Empire in Chaos (22 page)

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 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.

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 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.

“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.”